Discover Top Posts Tagged with #jhope angst

Felitas Abyiosia, Abyios

Main Navigation

Parables of Divine Intercession Masterpost

Story playlist

Word count: Approx 28-30k

Summary:

God of Death! Hoseok x Coffin Builder! Reader

Rating: 18+, dark themes, nsfw, slow burn, enemies to lovers? Try avoiding being lovers at all costs. Soulmates/destined lovers. Grief. Explicit mentions of death. Mild blood and Gore. Eventual Smut. Taglist open!

A grumpy man surrounded by a cloud of gloom with questionable hobbies? Not exactly your idea of a dream boss–especially when he has access to cleavers on a daily basis and is an expert at using them. But with your parents' business practically in the underworld it’s so dead, you’d take any job you could get your hands on to try and save it. Even if it meant working for the mysterious butcher on the edge of town, who seems like he’d rather eat dirt than spend five minutes in the same room as you. Or conversely…In which the god of the dead is actively trying to run from his own fate, content with wallowing in his own grief and misery alone. Far too selfish and guilt-ridden to stand up and face his most deep-rooted fears: you.

A/N: Thanks you for y'alls feedback! A majority said to post it in multiple parts, otherwise this probably would have been way too long lol. I hope you enjoy part one! Part two will be up soon, don't worry haha. Happy Yule and Winter Solstice to all who celebrate! And happy holidays to those that don't. I know this time of year can be really rough (for myself included), so I am sending out all of the love to you.

And as always, if you see any typos, no you don't lol. My ghost reader will be getting back to me in a couple days to fix them, but I am too impatient.

Stay safe~

Delyn

_________________________________________

Sawdust showered down unto the back of your gloves, nestling down into the grooves of your face and perching on the edge of your goggles. If it wasn’t for the cloth wound over the lower half of your face, your lungs would be stuffed to the brim with it; becoming like a tree yourself with the callouses on your hands the bark to the wood that whittled its way in.

It was all you knew. The smell of it–rich and bitter, earthy and herbaceous–embedded in your skin. Leeching into your clothes and bed sheets until everything smelt like the very thing your hands were crafting at this very moment: coffins.

You glided the edge of the wood against the saw, the straight lines of each piece muscle memory. Cutting the wood was your main duty, your father’s hands much too unpredictable, having lost their steadiness to the sickness the job brings. It’s quite funny isn’t it? When one spends their life dedicated to caring for the dead, it is only a matter of time before the job takes them with it.

They call it Coffin’s Lung; the theory that those working with the wood and Treseyn inhale the debris and fumes, which in turn destroy them from the inside out. Almost all of your ancestors dealt with it in one way or another, some more severe than others, but each of them wearing the symptoms like a badge of honor until their final days. And you were almost certain your father was next.

With your mother long gone, and your uncle’s no where to be seen, your father had taken on all the responsibilities of the job entirely on his own, overworking himself into a speedy decline. You started working long before you should have–drawing the patterns on the slabs of wood, stoking the roaring flames, and cleaning out the ridges of blades sharp enough to slice your fingers clean off with one wrong move. Anything you could to help lesson his load. To slow his disease.

There wasn’t any ceremony or acknowledgment of you taking over the job: you just did. It started with you nudging his hands off the saw handles, elbowing him to the store front to handle a “difficult” customer, and putting him to bed early so you could sneak off to the workshop to pour more of yourself into the boxes and smelted orbs without making him feel guilty. You had no choice. It was either you stepped up and took over, or let your family's legacy fold under the current of shift in culture, succumbing to the seas of change that wash over history and smooth it into nothing. People that praised the coming of change encouraged others to follow suit; to adapt or be left behind.

You couldn’t stand it.

But no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t’ seem to keep up with them. With less hands came longer wait times. With longer wait time came disgruntled customers. And when it came to the death of their loved ones, there was only so long they would wait before they decided to leave Povendel and find someone else to give their money to. Times were changing, and more people were growing into newer traditions as newcomers settled in in droves, giving them other options if their beliefs weren’t cemented in tradition. It was all the ammunition some antique peddler needed to badger you into selling him the property so he could set up his own shop there.

With cost of supplies rising and your income diminishing, it was only a matter of time before you sank beneath his pressure. You debated renting out your bedroom and hunkering down in the shop, but you knew that as long as your father was alive he would never let you do such a thing. He would hobble in from the back and work until his legs gave out and his hand bled before he let that happen.

The only thing keeping you from having to give everything up was the monthly stipend from Povendel’s city council for keeping tradition alive, and your neighbors that stayed loyal to your family. They looked to you with such pity it made you sick.

“I can take it from here,” Your father’s gruff voice piped up from behind you, almost having to shout over the sound of the machine.

You leaned down to flip it off, tugging your mask down your chin and eyeing him carefully. “I’m not done yet. You can put it all together, but I’d rather stick my own hand in the hearth before letting you work the saw, old man.”

He chuckled, supporting half his weight on his cane to maneuver over to your side. “I’m not useless you know.”

“I never said you were.” Your stare was intense, a ghost of a smile curving your lips. “You do great work with a hammer and adhesive.”

Your father hesitated behind you, his smile soft. “I can do more than that.”

You sighed, pushing your stool back from the work station and standing to face him. “You can, but you shouldn’t. You need to take care of yourself now. I got this-” you gestured to the shop around you, “-covered.”

The old man didn’t say much else even though he looked as though he wanted to, settling down into the other workstation with a grunt, pulling goggles over his eyes and tinkering with the little pot that warmed the enchanted adhesive used to meld the coffins together. Tucking your chin back into the mask, you finished up the last few pieces of wood before the sun started making its way over the horizon, stacking them next to your father for easy access.

“I have to run a few errands today, and then I’m stopping by Taehyung’s place to give him a hand with something. I’ll be back by dinner, I promise.” You pressed a quick kiss to the top of his head, then untied the apron from your waist and flung it over the back of an empty chair. “If Arthur comes by again today, let me know and I’ll handle it when I get back.”

By the time you were dressed and bathed, the sun was waiting to greet you, as was the first morning townsfolk, moving in sleepy lines to their first destination. You had barely seconds to pull yourself together before your peace was stolen by the smell of sickeningly sweet oranges and old wet parchment.

“Ah, just who I was hoping to see this morning! How wonderful~”

Arthur stood proudly behind you, limbs long and thin like the lips that outlined his crooked smile, one of his authentic vases in the crook of his elbow (though if anyone asked you, it looked more like something one could find at any given tourist shop north in the Doeidyads).

The nicest look you could offer him was one of only mild disgust, all of the smiles you had to spare on him worn out and tossed aside a long time ago. “Morning Arthur. What is it you want to bother me with today?”

“I was just stopping by on my way to town, figured that I should check in on one of my favorite families in the region, perhaps even offer some assistance if it is needed…” He moved the vase from one arm to the other, and the more you looked at it, the more you confident you became in it’s lack of novelty. Perhaps he rolled it in the piles of soil down at the farms to make it look more rustic…

Your eyes flicked up from the vase to meet his, realizing he was awaiting an answer from you. His face always looked just as manufactured and artificial as the goods he carted around, and it made you shiver. “We are in need of nothing from you, thank you for the offer though.” Turning on your heel you started towards the town center, leaving any of his protests to settle with the dust you kicked up. It was where he belonged for being so incessant on taking ownership of the property.

Had you lied to your father? Sort of. Using the word “errands” was just a more...palatable way of saying you were groveling on people’s doorsteps for jobs. Shopping around for work instead of supplies is still shopping, right? If he knew what you were really doing, he would kick himself for not being more helpful, and you would never let him internalize your situation like that. Any chance would be only temporary after all–just a stepping stone until you had enough money to hire a helping hand. Just for a year or so and then things would be smooth sailing.

At least that’s what you tried to tell yourself.

Pulling your cloak tighter around your shoulders, you pushed forward to the small bakery that tilted at an angle, a stack of lopsided stone and smoke-stained plaster that smelt divine. This was your first stop every morning, for your father’s current partner Lucille ran the ovens, and if there was ever to be an open spot she would give it to you in a heartbeat. But of course, you weren’t anymore lucky today than you had been in the past two weeks.

Your fate was the same at the forge and crematory, and you were laughed out of the tavern the moment you opened your mouth, made to feel ashamed for thinking that anyone would want the same hands that handled their loved-ones ashes pouring their drinks and keeping their spirits merry. One woman sitting at the bar nearly burst into tears at the sight of you, having been one of your customers only a week prior, dooming your fate and proving the owner’s point instantly. Your job may be well respected and important, but that doesn’t negate the fact that you are often tied to some of your neighbors worst memories, leaving you isolated no matter how much you wished not to be.

With scattered hopes, you sulked to the one place you trusted more than any other: Taehyung’s little work shack just outside the main square. He didn’t have the means to hire you to work any kind of full time positions, but he never turned you away from freelance work, setting you to cleaning his tools and workstations or preparing any material’s he had just acquired from who knows where. A couple years prior he had gotten in the possession of a hoard of used wooden furniture and lumber from one of the witches in town, and you were the first person he called to aid him, filling both your pockets and schedule for days.

While a little too sly for his own good, Taehyung was a good friend–the kind that offered a helping hand on those nights that ran too late, when your hands couldn’t grip the wood and your head drooped dangerously close to the blades you worked with. You didn’t know where you’d be without him.

“Any luck today?” Taehyung chirped, waving you into the door with a flourish. His shop was warm, and smelt similar to yours: like wood, heat, and finish. In size it was rather narrow, like a tunnel sandwiched between a large home used as a dorm for young witches and a tea shop that wafted the scent of peppermint and lemongrass down the street. Unlike your shop though, Taehyung seemed to be allergic to any kind of organization, tools strewn on all surfaces and piles of saw dust heaped into corners, deep enough for you to swim in if you wanted to.

“No,” You answered, shuffling past him, defeated. “At this point I believe everyone in town has grown sick of seeing my face.”

Taehyung pursed his lips, chasing a thought that seemed to leave him the moment it came. He shrugged grabbing a set of gloves and tossing them into your hand. “Well I supposed you’re lucky that I have found myself in the position of needing an assistant this afternoon.”

You sighed in relief, snatching the gloves from the air and shoving your hands into them, the action second nature. “What kind of help?”

“I’ve been commissioned to build a set of nursery furniture. I’m starting with the dresser.” Taehyung moved deeper into the room, disappearing under the counter and bouncing back up with a set of blueprints. “My client still isn’t settled on the designs, so they’ve paid me to make a couple prototypes. Are you comfortable managing the table saw?”

You snorted, a real smile taking over your features. “Do you know who I am?.”

Taehyung held his hands up in defense, grinning. “I just wanted to check!”

_________________________________________

Sleep was a rare commodity to you. Your body sagged with fatigue over your shared breakfast with Lucille and your father. You covered up your exhaustion with pleasantries and kind smiles, slipped your aches away with idle chatter and sweet pastries. There just was no time between spending your nights and early mornings pressing someones husbands ashes into molds until they marbled with stone and glass to make Treseyn, or carving shapes with wood to make the cube shaped coffins to place the largest one in, leaving the small one for the families to take home and display on their mantle. It was rare (and quite frankly expensive) for someone to be buried with their body intact, so the elongated boxes of old were forgotten in favor of making their loved ones as easy for the god of the dead to carry back to the underworld as possible.

That is what the practice originated from, though whether or not everyone believed in that was mute. Your father did, as did his father before him, and you believed in him by proxy–just not with the same enthusiasm. You had never known a life without the gods, so to you they were mundane and casual, while your parents revered them with overflowing grace. To this day your father still kneels before his lavish altar to pray to Abyios, the god of the dead whom your family is most devoted to; as he is doing now.

Your father lights his long black candle, his head dipped and his mouth moving in silent prayer. Taking a large bite of some sort of plum pastry, you wondered what your father said to Abyios every morning and night. Did he praise him? Did he ask him for aid? The thought nearly drove you mad with bitterness.

Centuries of devotion from your family tree, and here you were, struggling to stay afloat, praying to a god that you’d been taught was on your side.

Maybe your father could sense your doubt, because he never let you help him with his devotion. You were lucky if he even let you watch through his bedroom door. It’s probably for the best, you mused, tearing off another bite of fluffy pastry and decadent cream. I would probably chew him out for leaving us behind and doom us for all eternity.

The image of you scolding a god filled you with guilt. There was enough people already trying to rid the town of their legacy, you didn’t have to become one of them just because your situation was unfavorable. You bid farewell to your father again, narrowly dodging another run in with Arthur and heading straight for Taehyung where you lost yourself in helping him map out cradles and chairs, and spent the morning sanding the first prototype to be stained and sealed. With a stack of finished blueprints under his belt, Taehyung treated you to lunch at the tavern to celebrate his preemptive victory.

Business was slow this early in the day for the tavern, which meant your food came fast and their drinks even faster, and you were thankful for the burn from the mulled fruits and warm spiked ciders that fended off the autumn chill. The laughter flowed just as easily, the conversation always smooth with Taehyung and his never ending supply of wild stories of the other townsfolk. After a rather riveting story of the Polette’s ever evolving affair, the two of you found yourself settled into a comfortable silence, giving you time to think of where you could go next in your search for a permanent job.

“How is your father doing?” Taehyung asked, the tone light but the intention heavier. He probably knew the answer.

You hummed to yourself, swirling the pomegranate beverage in your glass. “He’s...Still around.”

He frowned. “Is it that bad?”

“It’s getting worse by the day,” You admitted, your voice getting lower.

“I’m…” Taehyung swallowed, eyes searching your face for any sign of how you felt. “I’m sorry to hear that. How are you doing with it?”

You blinked, letting out a deep breath and forcing a tight-lipped smile. “Would it make me look terrible if I said I’m doing alright?”

“Not at all,” Taehyung rushed to reassure you.

“I know it sounds strange, but I work so closely with death that it is just...It is just a part of life to me. Of course I will grieve,” You stopped for a moment, covering up the way your breath hitched with a cough. “And I will miss him more than anything. But death does not scare me. If anything, it comforts me to know that when the day comes, I will be able to care for him still–that I will be able to catch him when he falls. It is just the end of this life, but the beginning of the next. It is peace.”

Taehyung blinked, shaking his head slowly. “I guess I should have expected such an answer from you. It is quite beautiful how you look at it.”

“Is that not how you view it?”

He scoffed, his face twisting into something soured. “Not at all, I’m terrified of it.”

You giggled at his dismay, earning a smile from him. “Well then I guess it’s my job to change that.”

Taehyung opened his mouth to respond but something over your shoulder caught his attention, a low groan slipping through his lips. “Speaking of things that scare me…”

Twisting in your chair, you tried to find what exactly he was referring to–or in this case who he was referring to.

The bell over the door signaled the arrival of a new patron, his frame thin and lanky, dark circles carved beneath his eyes and a frown set into his mouth that you had almost never seen him without, a living man looking more dead than alive. All sharp lines and flat expressions, his skin pulled tightly over the bone like a corpse but his complexion warm–not a warmth that invites one in, but a simmering heat that told people to ‘back off’ before they had even gotten a word in. The muscle’s of Hoseok’s arms tensed beneath the weight of a wide box in his hold, the only sign that his body had flowing blood and a beating heart. Taehyung cowered lower into his seat, and it seemed as though all noise in the restaurant ceased. You even found your own breathing grow shallow to keep it from being heard.

“Thank you for coming all this way,” The tavern owner rushed over to take the box from his hands, his brow already starting to sweat under the butcher’s unrelenting stare. “I’ll take this from you and-”

“I have a few others waiting out front,” Hoseok grunted, gesturing to the door with his chin. “Shall I bring them in?” While the question seemed polite, it’s delivery landed sharply between the ribs, his aim to never missing.

“No!” The owner visibly paled, shaking his head vehemently. “I will get my boys to do it. Would you like something to drink while you wait?”

Hoseok regarded him silently, the room waiting for his answer as it stayed under his command. He scanned the other patrons at the bar, the few townsfolk lingering around shrinking beneath him or avoiding looking at him entirely. No one dared make a sound. Funnily enough, the butcher skipped right over you as though you weren’t even there, even when he flicked over Taehyung, and the lone woman at the table to your right, not once did he acknowledge your existence in the room. You reassured yourself that it was just accidental.

“No, thank you. I should be going as soon as possible, I’m quite busy.” He turned to stalk out the door, grumbling out a quiet “Be quick.”

You couldn’t help but gape at the mysterious man lent up against the door, observing the way he tracked the teenage waiters as they scurried to and fro, lugging boxes of freshly carved meats and poultry into the kitchens. It was no common sight, seeing him away from his shop. He never made door deliveries, preferring to make his customers trek all the way across town and up the steep hillside to procure their food. The shop keeper must have worked some kind of miracle getting him to spend the time and money to come down here.

He must have felt your blatant stare boring into the side of his face, because for with a speed that you would have missed had you blinked, he looked at you. And when he did, the hair on the back of your neck stood tall, and a shiver ransacked your body from head to toe.

It was unclear whether he had felt the same thing or if he was simply tired of being gawked at by everyone in the tavern, for he slunk out the door with an inaudible scoff. But one thing was certain, and that was his presence had given you an idea. A stupid, reckless, and unthinkable idea.

“Thank gods he’s gone,” Taehyung seemed to reinflate himself with Hoseok’s departure, snatching the rest of his drink and downing it in one go. “He has always given me the chills. Blegh.” He shook his head as though ridding him of the remnants of Hoseok’s stare.

“Right…” You trailed off, only half listening. You couldn’t take your eyes off the spot he had just been standing in, his image burned into your memory, shining like a flaming talisman of naive hope.

Taehyung squinted at you. “The look you’re wearing spells trouble. Should I be worried?”

“No need to worry,” You reassured him, convincing no one. “I was just…”

“Just?” He prodded further.

Your tore your eyes from the door to look to Taehyung, feigning a relaxed smile. “Nothing. I was just lost in thought, that is all.”

“I see…” Taehyung’s lips pressed together, not convinced by your show of innocence. “Shall we get back to work then?”

You rose from your chair, swinging your cloak back onto your shoulders and tying it slowly, forcing your mind and body to slow down and remain inconspicuous. “I would love to, but I have a few errands to run.”

“Errands?”

“Yes,” You tugged your hood over your head. “Errands.”

_________________________________________

Iron. That’s what scent was searing the inside of your nose, you decided. Iron laced with frigid air of the no doubt countless incantations slathered on the walls of this...quaint establishment. It raised the hair on your arms to stand on end, pricking the skin with goosebumps and setting your teeth on edge. There was something about being in here that the warmth from the setting sun shining onto the window couldn’t fight off–be it the unforgiving temperatures, the aged shade of gray that stuck to every surface and washed it of color, or the man that looked down his nose at you with unabashed disinterest. Like you were nothing but another speck of dirt on his otherwise already soiled day.

Working with the dead should have prepared you for such a companion so stagnant and dull, but you couldn’t be more wrong. There was more life to be found in carefully crafted wooden boxes and the ashes of the dearly departed than there was about him. At least the lines of the wooden grains told stories, and the ashes compressed into sparkling orbs that spoke to you in sparkling tongues and hard truths. This man in front of you offered you nothing. No cleaver was needed for this butcher to kill the mood; his seemingly always affronted demeanor was sharp enough.

Time ticked by like molasses on a cold counter, each passing second of weighted silence making your confidence waver. You prided yourself on never judging a book by its cover (or in this case, dozens and dozens of negative or otherwise neutral at best reviews), though the sweat that had begun to accumulate on the back of your neck and the repeated lazy drag of his eyes over your hand written letter left an undeniable impression that his intimidation was deliberate.

“Do you have any questions about my experience that I can answer for you?” You offered hopefully, with an overly polite smile. It ached to hold it steady. Disingenuity has never looked good on you, ever.

Hoseok, the owner of the very shop you were sitting in, slid one long finger down your letter without so much as an audible sigh. Nothing. He was giving you absolutely nothing to go off of, and it was starting to get under your skin.

You swallowed down your festering discomfort and repositioned the smile that had started to slip. “I will be the first to admit that I am unfamiliar with the art of butchering, though I have worked the front of my family’s shop for well over a decade. I am more than qualified to handle customer affairs and other administrative tasks as you see fit.”

He spared you a direct glance, if only fleeting, then returned it to the same sheet of parchment. At this point, you had wondered if he was even reading it or if he was set on staring at the words until you retreated through the front door with your head hung in humiliation for even asking.

“And what kind of product do you sell?”

You blinked, surprised he even bothered to speak to you. Then you grit your teeth, your hypothesis proven immediately, for just exactly what your parents' business was known for was embedded within the first paragraph–which he’d have known if he was actually reading it. Does he really pay so little attention to the townspeople to not even know his own community? Or was he just that much of an asshole?

Clenching your jaw, your smile grew thin–much like your patience–letting the clear intended insult to your family’s legacy roll of your back. “Coffins and Treseyn.”

Hoseok hummed, looking at you fully this time with eyes as dead as his skills in etiquette, and you weren’t sure whether having his attention was better or worse. “Interesting.” He shifted in his cracked leather stool, laying the paper back down on the rickety round table you both were seated at. The ghost of a smirk on his lips told you he had already decided on your fate: and the prognosis wasn’t looking good. “Well, I’m afraid I am not-”

“I can learn! How to butcher I mean, if you’d teach me. I am quite familiar with sharp tools.” You cut him off abruptly.

“That won’t be necessary. I prefer to work the abattoir alone.”

“Preparing the orders for everyone in town and then some? I can only imagine that having someone to lend a hand getting rid of those mundane tasks up front would leave you with more time on your hands.” You were pushing your luck and you knew it, but you couldn’t leave here empty handed. You simply couldn’t. There was nowhere else to go.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, one brow moving up in a silent threat. “I have more than enough time. Are you insinuating that I do not know how to manage my own business?”

“Not at all,” You rushed to correct yourself, brushing your sweaty palms down the linen of your pants. Then an idea struck you, devious and undeniable to a man such as himself. “I was simply making an observation.”

“Oh yeah? And pray tell what exactly this...observation...entails?” He straightened up enough to prop his elbow on the arm of his chair, fingers rubbing over his chin, eyes pointed. Deadly. A shift from passivity to a clearly written warning on his features. You gulped, shoving on a mask of confidence that you prayed was convincing enough.

“That as affluent as you are with your money, you lack the rich personality needed to entertain your customers and could probably care less about pleasantries. After all, this entire conversation has been like pulling crooked teeth from a bouncing rabbit.” You forced out a laugh that was just as opulent as the smile you twisted your lips into. Enticing, yet wicked. Two could play this game. “My proposition would spare you of the need to speak to anyone ever again if you didn’t wish to. No more dreary comments on the weather, or standing there stuck listening to Mrs. Polette prattle on and on about her no good husband...Just you in your lovely abattoir alone with your own thoughts. Just like you said you preferred, correct?”

He stared, and you didn’t back down, fixing him with a look all your own. you needed this money–your family needed this money. For the first time in since you walked through those doors, you could swear you almost saw him feel something in those beady black eyes of his, but it vanished the moment you dared to entertain it.

“Like I said,” Hoseok stated dryly as he stood, pushing his chair back beneath the table. “I’m not currently looking to hire. Now if you will excuse me, I have work that needs to be done.”

Panic flickered across your features, rising from the booth to follow his long strides. And while you were not one to beg, you would if it meant securing an income. “Wait–Please, I need this job and I’ve already tired almost everyone else in Povendel-”

“Then look outside of Povendel if you are that desperate.” He cut back, cold and quick. “I am sure the dockyards up in the Doeidyads would be more than willing to find a spot for you.”

Your mouth hung open in blatant mortification. That was like signing your own death sentence–a fact you were more than privy to when dockyard workers made up the most of your family’s clientele. Perhaps he really was just an asshole like everyone had said.

“That is not an option. My father is sick, and I must stay close to-”

“What happened to being so graciously concerned about my time management, huh?” Hoseok’s fingers made quick work of his leather apron, tying it about his neck to hang down his slim frame. “Since you were so kind to offer to free it up, I assume you will do me a favor by taking your letter and trying the next unlucky bastard that falls prey to your pitiful sob story.”

You shook your head in utter disbelief; any neutral feelings you tried to harbor for him fighting for their life to hold their ground. You may not judge a book by its cover, but you can read a clearly written summary. No more words were exchanged, and he didn’t even have a shred of courtesy to look at you at all, standing there like a fish out of water in the middle of his store, flabbergasted. Too engrossed in his task of dusting off his already immaculate counter top with the back of his hand, he didn’t even blink as you slipped out the door, didn’t even seem to hear the bells above it clanging out with your departure. You were nothing to him, and he had made that abundantly clear.

Numb. You felt numb the entire way home, all the energy put into masquerading around with dazzling smiles and bubbling energy fizzled out, leaving you with shaking knees and a wounded pride. There was no way you could leave Povendel behind; you loved the sweet-scented fruit fields and rolling hills of lavender too much to move north, but that fate was encroaching; becoming less of a nightmare and more of an inevitable reality. Not only that, but your father wouldn’t survive on his own, his shop doomed to fail entirely without your hands doing most of the labor. Decades of family history would be lost to some new-age goods peddler, no doubt bought from their travels and marketed as novel while really being nothing more than overpriced paperweights. Without your family’s expertise, the dead would suffer, as would their loved ones, for the next closest service was more than a days travel (if you were lucky).

The wind rocked the weather-worn sign in front of your father’s shop, Treseyna’s Vale mocking you in faded letters and chipped wood. Once the door was opened, you had only seconds to react before a rather rotund body of black fluff darted underneath your feet and wove between your legs. His long cylindrical tail curling around your shins to greet you into the warmth of the shop. You bent down to scratch between the cat’s shoulder blades, scanning the main room of the shop for any sign of your father. Your search ended on the door to the living quarters, propped open and lit up from the other side.

“He left it open again for me, didn’t he?” You muttered to the feline, scooping them up to rest on the crook of your elbow. “At least it brought you home, my furry traveler.”

You found him bent over the dinner table with a small potato in his fist, half of its skin removed in short uneven strips. Pausing in the threshold, you took the time to just look at him. Soaking in the mundane image of him preparing dinner, hands trembling from years of overuse, soft glow from the hearth illuminating his features with the ghost of his youth that was now overshadowed by thick wrinkles and thinning hair. The moment felt all the more special after the conversation with Taehyung that afternoon, but you knew you couldn’t stand there forever.

“I thought I told you not to leave the door open for me.” You chided, keeping your voice low as not to startle him. “You never know whether a tourist or a certain antique selling jerk could get too nosy.”

He smiled, all warmth and sweet. “How are you supposed to find your way home? Can’t have you getting lost.”

You chuckled, letting the cat jump down to the floor to stalk off under the table. “I grew up on these roads, I think I can handle myself on a straight road.” Taking up the other seat, you grabbed for the other paring knife, scraping off most of a potato’s skin in one go.

“How has your search been going?”

“What?” The vegetable slipped from your hands, eyes widened.

Your father raised his brow at you. “You didn’t think I knew what you’ve been up to?”

You struggled to find answer, staring at your father like a startled deer.

“I am your father, I know things.” He tossed the potato into a nearby pot. “That and Lucille let it slip that you had stopped by a few weeks ago.”

You felt your spine curve inward. “You’ve known?”

“I have,” He cleared his throat, resting his wrists on the table. “And I understand.”

“You are not angry? Will you try and stop me come tomorrow?”

“No,” He shook his head. “I would be a hypocrite if I did. Do you not remember when I traveled north for a year and you stayed with your aunt? You were quite young I suppose….”

You furrowed your brow, unable to conjure any memory of it. “I don’t.”

“Right after your mother passed, I left to mentor a carpenter up in Cheym. Her family was wealthy, and paid me a healthy sum to train her for a year. It gave me the cushion I needed to keep things stable here.”

You looked to him with astonishment. “I had no idea…”

“I visited as often as I could, so perhaps that is why it didn’t stick out to you. I’m glad to know it wasn’t as difficult of a time for you as I had feared.” He bellowed with laughter, grabbing the next vegetable and ridding it of its skin. “I guess I wasn’t as important as the set of dolls your aunt had gotten you. You were enamored with them.”

You laughed with him, the hazy memory of a set of cloth dolls coming to your mind. “ I think I remember them. Didn’t I try to make little coffins for them?”

Your father nearly choked on his laugh. “You did indeed! Your aunt wrote me a letter saying how she found you hammering away at little boxes, one for each of your dolls. You took apart one of her dining room chairs to do it!”

“What can I say?” You beamed at him. “I was made for this life.”

He looked to you fondly, eyes gleaming in the low light. “That you are.” His hands that held the potato trembled. You took it from him, gingerly guiding his hands back to the table.

“Why don’t you go lie down while I finish dinner. I can handle it.”

Of course he didn’t listen. He let you finish the job, but he lingered by your side, asking you questions on who you had already asked, and what exactly you had been up to during your days.

“You’ve asked everyone?” He inquired, bewildered.

“Everyone.” You nodded, giving the stew a stir.

“I see.” He stroked his chin, peering up at you through a thick brow. “You even asked the butcher?”

You bit your tongue, debating your answer. “I did.”

“And was he nice to you?”

You averted your eyes, capping the pot with its heavy lid. “Sweet as a peach.”

Though he could sense your lie, he asked no further questions, content with watching the soup stew on the stove while you washed your disappointing day off with a lukewarm bath. You hadn’t exactly had the money to pay someone to refresh the enchantments on the hot water much to your sore muscles dismay, so you had to save the hot water for your father.

The night crept on with the promise of a quiet comfort, easing your father into bed and spooning out his medicine given to you by one of the witches in town. You told yourself his afflictions were nothing more than old bones and worn-down muscles, but you knew better than that. His energy was swiftly depleting, and his muscles were barely holding him up throughout the day, failing him by early afternoon if he was lucky. If he wasn’t, the shop wouldn’t even open–thus the explanation for your current predicament. The consequences of this job left no room for argument: it was intent on eating up his youth and what was left after that, spitting out the bones when it was finished.

Taking care of him gave you comfort. Never was it a burden to you, but a privilege. Drawing the blankets to his chin and tucking it into his sides was a blessing. Getting to take things slow was a gift. When the moon was high was when he was at his worst, giving him no choice but to close his eyes and rest until his body might let him rise. He always fought it, clawing for a few moments longer with you.

You were sure he was asleep when you turned to leave, his eyes drooped low and his breathing deep. Yet he jolted to life, reaching out to stop you from leaving with one hand, urgent and still cold despite all your efforts to keep them warm. “My altar–can you light my candle for me?”

The question struck deeper than watching his hands shake or his mind escape him. You hadn’t even noticed he didn’t get his evening prayer in. Something he never missed. Something he never forgot.

“Are you sure you would like me to do it for you? I know it is important to you. Do you want me to help you up?”

“No I…” I coughed into his fist, situating himself deeper into the mattresses embrace. “I think you should do it tonight.”

You shifted your attention to the small table over your shoulder, its surface adorned with dried flowers from past offerings; candles in reds and blacks; and the wingspan of ivory bone that sprouted from the skull of a deer that hung above it like a guardian of its hoard. Not once could you recall an instance of him asking you to do this for him since the day you were born. It was something he prided himself on, devoting himself to his god and giving him all he could, keeping you away from it with a teasing wink that it wasn’t your turn yet. But just like the responsibilities of the shop, there was no ceremony or transfer of ownership. It just happened.

A tight-lipped smile was all you could muster to hide the pang of grief, already mourning the loss of what was to make room for what is, leaning over to his bedside table to grab his match box. “Of course I can.”

You knelt in front of the display, match poised and ready to strike against the box. You inhaled deeply, and while you were never as devout of a worshiper as your family–perhaps it was about time you were. You could really use some divine intervention right about now.

Flame ignited between your fingertips, jerked to life by your own hand and brought to your lips to whisper into the flame.

“To Abyios, Lord of the Dead, heed my prayer. Help me to care for this place in your honor, so that we may continue to work together to bring peace to the dead and their loved ones.” You held the flame to wick, watching the way it hugged the rope until it danced with light. “Please, Abyios. He has given you so much and has asked for so little in return. Don’t let us drown now when we need your guidance the most.”

The candle flickered, but there was no rush of spirit to wash over and engulf you like your father used to describe, nor did your intuition signal that anything had changed, save for new shadows casted on the wall. Spinning around to ask your father if he wanted to offer a prayer, you stopped, for he had already succumbed to the beckoning call of sleep. It wouldn’t hurt to stay for just a few minutes you decided–after all your father had given you permission to use it, and it felt wrong to just snuff it out immediately after lighting it.

It was unknown to you how much time had passed, gazing into the flame with glassy, unfocused eyes that looked for any signs or answers in the mesmerizing glow. But you found none. Never had you ever thought your first experience at your father's altar would be so...lonely. Not when he had described it as such a divine and deeply moving experience worthy of devoting his entire life to.

Looking up, you met the tunneling sockets of the deer, for maybe he too might have something to offer you. Beads hung from the pointed tips, coated with an everlasting scent of earthy musk and stained with the smoke of a thousand offerings. His face used to scare you when you were small; with its august air and an antler spread of nearly two feet, how could it not? The fear lingered until your father had sat you down at his altar, introducing you to his practice, and listing out what each item was for. It had been your first formal introduction to any kind of spirituality.

“This is our altar. Some of what you see here has been passed down through generations for almost 200 hundred years.” Your father explained, settling you into his lap on the floor. “Do you remember who we work with?”

Your eyes trailed slowly over the glittering stones on golden pedestals, scattered bones and dried flowers, and steadied them on the massive skull perched above you. Your small brain racked through the memories of your father’s whispered prayers, and the strange blurry visions of autumns past when you were too young to have much of a memory at all. You found his name in the crevices of your mind, linked to a vision of your father with his head bowed over his morning breakfast. And you tasted it on your tongue, trying it out for the first time on your own. “Abyios.”

“Clever girl,” He beamed down at you with pride. “Do you know who he is?”

You dug around your mind once more, settling on a quick shake of your head when your hands came up empty.

“Have they taught you anything about the gods at that school of yours?” Your father craned his neck to look at you, one brow raised. And when you shook your head again, he sighed long and heavy, settling further down onto the floor. “Then I guess I should start from the beginning.” He cleared his throat and lit one of the black candles on the alter with nimble fingers, basking in its glow for a moment before he began.

“Many years ago, before our world existed, before the stars and the sun were born or the air and the trees swayed–there was Kal. Kal was everything and nothing all at once; ageless and ancient, suffering with such profound loneliness it drove her mad. For there was nothing around her, yet everything lived inside her, just waiting for a chance to be unleashed. Just vast empty darkness with no life, and no family. Finally, when she had decided enough was enough, she screamed so loud it shattered the universe, breaking it into thousands of tiny pieces known as planets.

These pieces started to spin around her, moving steadily through space until from their dance, Vantym was born, the god of time. Vantym was Kal’s first friend, and was indebted to her for their creation. Thus Vantym set out to choose the best rock to call home, to make enough life to cure Kal’s loneliness forever. But they struggled to see anything as there was no sun, so when Vantym closed their eyes, they dreamt of a light so bright it would fend off all darkness. And then the sun was born, or as we know him, Rinfyoror. Within days, Vantym created Pove, the god of earth; Cheimlyin god of the sky; and Doei, god of the sea; Together they worked to create the world as we know it, and named it after Vantym to honor their creator.”

“So that’s how our realm got its name?” You piped in, peering up at him expectantly.

“Yes, it is. The great lands of Vantymi.”

“Oh,” You fixed your gaze back on the altar. “What does all of this have to do with Abyios?”

“I’m getting there!” Your father was humored by your impatience, shifting the two of you closer to the table. “Pove worked day and night to form the first signs of life, dedicating all of her time to the fine grasses and crawling bugs that she nurtured. But then unexpectedly, things started to grow cold and dry, and her hard work shriveled up and shifted from lucious and green to crisped and brown before her very eyes. Distraught from her grief, she cried upon the dead plants, weeping until she could do it no more.

When her last tear hit the earth's surface, out from the soil crawled Abyios–the first and oldest god of the golden generation; the god of death and mourning.”

“What happened next?” You eagerly quipped, rocking in your seat with anticipation.

“Well if you’d let me finish I would get there!” He tickled at your sides in warning. “After he was born, it signaled the beginning of the next generation of gods, like I said. So while the Archaic gods took up homes all over the realm, Abyios learned to live before the rest of his generation joined him. Though he tended to favor his mother’s region over the rest. Can you guess which one that is?”

You grinned, catching on quickly. “Povendel! Where we are!”

“Right you are. Here is where it is said the gates to the underworld hide, for where there is the most life, there is to be as equal amounts of death– and we are quite a fruitful city. Here is where he was first reported, harvesting souls and pressing them down in his palm until they hardened into stones, called Treseyn.” He looked longingly at the altar, eyes tracing the long line of tiny rounded stones sat upon their labeled pedestals.

You followed his line of sight, stopping on a pale purple one on the end, and pointing to it with a small finger. “Mom too?”

He hesitated, fingers stretching out to pluck the pretty stone in his palm. “Yes, mom too.”

You pinched it up from his palm and held it up to one eye, inspecting each grain beneath its surface like if you looked hard enough, they’d draw the outline of her face. “Why can’t I see her in the Treseyn?”

With a gentle hand, he guided it away from your eye to rest between them. “That’s because this is our Treseyn, not his. He keeps the real ones in his pocket, or stored down below. We make ones to match, so that way during Abyiosia our loved ones have something to return to when they come to visit.”

“Is he your boss then, since you work with the dead?” You ask with wide eyes, voice diminishing to a whisper. “Is he scary?”

“No, he is not my boss,” He made a humored snort, “And he isn’t scary. We are more like colleagues–he cares for the souls, I care for their bodies. We work together to bring peace to our loved ones when they inevitably die.”

As if remembering how the discussion started, you cast a nervous glance up to the deer’s skull, shrinking back into your father’s chest. “Have you ever...met him before?”

“Not me no. But rumor has it one of our very ancestors did.” He gestured up to the skull with his chin. “That deer was said to be hand delivered to our family during a rather harsh winter by Rayen, one of the lovers of Abyios himself. Story goes that while they were preparing the feast, Abyios came to their doorstep and asked to join them, sharing in the meal at our very table. Without Rayen and Abyios, our ancestors would have starved–so they kept the skull and mounted it here as a reminder of their generosity. Do you know the other reason why we keep skulls around?”

“To scare away monsters?” You squeaked.

“For our loved ones to use.” He corrected you softly, soothing his palm down its snout. “They use it like a mask to see into our realm from the other side, to check in on us as they please since they can’t always travel between worlds. If the eyes are ever following you, it means a loved one is watching.”

You had to admit, the story did make the deer seem a teensy bit less intimidating. “Does it have a name?”

“They called him Rey, after the hunter that killed him.” He answered.

“Hi...Rey...” You waved up to him shyly. You moved again to look at your father once more. “Is it all real?”

“Is what real? The bones?”

“No, the stories.”

Your father pursed his lips as he thought, fingers rolling your mother’s Treseyn from one to the other absent mindlessly. “That depends on who you ask. Some people believe it is, some people just look at them as nothing more than old fables, or mythological parables. It is up to you to decide what you think.” He bent down to press a kiss to your forehead. “But in my case, I believe he is real. And I believe he cares for us, for what we do in his name is important and noble. The people need us almost as much as they need him.”

“Important and noble....” You repeated up to the deer. The words brittle and dry, sharp like a slap in the face. You shook your head, grimacing at its permanent grin. “Then why will he not help us? Where is he now?”

Rey remained unmoving, its sockets empty and dull.

You sniffed away the urge to cry, feeling far too tired to be enraged, all that was left was the sting of humiliation at what had become of your fate. Your family legacy hadn’t even been fully placed in your hands yet and it was already slipping through your fingers. The harrowing reality of your rapidly approaching failure reminded you that this was your only hope, so pinching the wick between two fingers, you offered one last prayer.

Desperation was all you had left to offer.

“Please.”

_________________________________________

Please.

The single word ravaged his skull with the power of a raging bull, much louder and much more persistent than all of the other prayers he pocketed for later listening. This one refused to be silenced. Each time he tried to shove it down, it escaped through some hole between his fingers and fluttered around the room with fevered enthusiasm, demanding his attention. He clenched his fists, bringing them down onto the metal table with enough force to rattle the foundation beneath his feet. He couldn’t take it anymore–he was backed into a corner.

He wasn’t stupid; he had earned his wisdom through centuries of experience. Jimin’s reading last autumn made it crystal clear that someone would try to worm their way into his life, and unluckily for you, you were the only person to seek him out on your own accord for something entirely unrelated to a purchase in months. And of course it had to be you.

A family with a history so deeply intertwined with his own, working parallel to one another, always aligned with their goals but never crossing. An infallible destiny that even the most novice of mediums and witches could have seen coming–cards, prayers and star contraptions be damned. The coffin builders and the god of the dead. His most devout devotees.

Of course it would be you, he scoffed to himself, foregoing the bones he was peeling, hastily untying his apron and chucking it onto the table. You were someone he simply couldn’t turn away forever, no matter how hard he tried. Because as much as it pained him to acknowledge it: he owed you. Your family has the right to ask for just about anything they want from him with the amount of spiritual wealth their devotion had hoarded over the near centuries of worship. Always giving, rarely taking. He knew he should have never let the scales tip so far out of his favor; he had just gotten too comfortable with the same old routine of dropping a few coins in their wallets here and there. Too comfortable with having to never reciprocate.

Too blind to just how much debt he was truly in the moment someone in that family decided to cash in. And now here you were, doing just that.

Jimin was going to drown himself in just how delicious and decadent this story was. Pride himself for years to come on how beautifully it was all tied together with a neat bow and handed to Hoseok on a silver platter. All he had to do was pull the string and unleash it upon himself. Tether his own being back down to reality and leave the floating abyss of stagnation and grief behind him.

Well this would be him throwing the gift on the ground and crushing it beneath his foot. He wasn’t ready to move on yet, and no amount of cliche, theater-worthy stories and sparkly tarot cards were going to force him to. And he was fucking tired of people forcing him to.

In a blink he was back in his own room, soiled clothing left in a pile on the floor for him to deal with later. Hoseok stopped to stare at himself in the mirror of his bathroom, a wet rag used to wipe at his chest and arms, scraping off the bothersome dead skin of this form and the marks his work left on all over it. Staining him. Anointing him.

Water now stained pink rushed down his body and pooled at his feet. He watched it flow, breathing in the quiet trickle and exhaling the tension from his shoulders.

Please!

Hoseok groaned, fingers dug in his own hair, pulling at it with eyes squeezed shut like it would push the sound of your voice out.

Please!

The water that once felt safe now pricked and pummeled his skin. Your desperation infected him. It stole his breath away with its strength.

Please!

White hot rage sputtered to life between his ribs, setting his nerves ablaze. It was overstimulating. It all needed to stop.

Please!

He yanked the faucet off, forehead pressed to the slick wall as he breathed heavily. After a dozen more cries of your voice, he stumbled from the bathroom in a migraine-induced haze, snatching up his towel and running through his ritual as best he could; oils of cinnamon and florals dotting on his skin, offered to him by the countless worshipers across the realm, beads dangling from his neck and his waist, and strings of handmade charms twisted in bones clinking together over his robes. He let the comfort of the black of mourning swallow him whole, their embrace soothing to the ache. Luscious fabric draped over every bend and curve acting like a shield to his current predicament. With an air of finality, he focused on slipping on the gloves of leather that was frayed and cracked with years of use. Running one long finger over the faded white stitching on his gloves, he felt bile rise in his throat, tracing the initials near the base of his thumb.

For Eternity, R.H.

The word eternity made him physically sick.

He needed to distract himself before he did something he’d regret.

His nose, mouth, and eyes started to melt away into nothing but a facade, mixing together into a murky whirl of mist and shadow. No one would want to see his face anyway, his image forever tainted by his own undoing.

Death called to him like a siren, sang to him like a lullaby; guiding him straight to where he needed to be. A cat nestled on the windowsill, old and gray, stroking his fingers down its tufted fur in time with its final breath. Another retired dockyard worker succumbing to the mind-melting disease known as Low-Tide’s Disease, sitting in their armchair whispering tales of the sea to him like he was a friend. Another child’s soul, lost from wandering too far from home the morning before, swept up into his arms and held tightly to his chest until they shrunk down in the pressure of his embrace; a little stone that could fit into the palm of his hand was all that was left of the child. Their little blue Treseyn so delicate, fluttering against his gloves like a hummingbird's wings. Light and full of the joy of the short life he had led.

Each was soul soothed by his hands and carried in the white leather pouch on his hip, the bag growing heavier with each stop.

Gold met indigo, the stars beginning to yawn and blink their eyes closed to make room for the sun, whose arms stretch outwards in long streaks, fingertips glinting off the tops of houses and the cusps of ocean waves. Digging their way through treetops and waking the twittering birds of morning.

Hoseok found his next stop on the same porch he had been returning to for too many years to count, her soul flickering as though made of dim embers, the fire of life dying out. The old woman’s skin was wrinkled from years of smiling, the story of who she was carved into the lines and etched into the blemishes, touched by ages of laughter and strife. She rocked back and forth beneath the lantern light, watching. Waiting.

“I’m not ready yet,” She shook her head resolutely. “He hasn’t come home.”

Hoseok peered back up the path she stared down in her intent search, then back to her. “You can not control your fate; the time has come. You can visit him again, I promise you.”

“Not for me it hasn’t.” She smacked her lips together, setting her jaw with a steely stare. “Not until I see him one last time.” She fixed her stare straight onto him. “Alive.”

“You do not know when he will return,” Hoseok persuaded, stepping closer to the front steps. “Your body is failing you, only pain awaits you now.”

“I don’t care. He never breaks a promise. And neither do I.”

Hoseok left her home empty handed again, a tireless dance they played for far too long, her determination keeping her just out of his grasp yet again. It was obvious she was bluffing to some extent, there was no way her awaited visitor hadn’t come back, for he had seen the man himself strolling through town. It must be her failing memory that led her astray. She had aged far longer than any mortal should, and it was going to give him a bad reputation if he didn’t follow through one of these years. Though there was something stopping him from reaching out any further each time he saw her–his attempts indolent and flippant.

When she was ready, she said she would go, and he believed her.

Unlike his normal routine of zapping himself back to the safety of his home, or basking in the quiet comfort of the livestock farms just outside of town, he found himself walking the dewy, lamplit streets of the village, moving like a heavy rain cloud through lifeless streets. His steps like thunder. The calls had started again, your voice impossible to ignore and stronger than the souls reaching for his attention.

He was outside Treseyna’s Vale before he registered where he was going, looming over the door that blew the dust off forgotten memories of being in the same spot many rotations ago, but in a much different head space. The flavor of venison and pan crisped potatoes mock his subconscious, brightly colored jams and sauces scooped onto his plate to balance out the savory with their blend of tart and sweet. The meal turned sour in the back of his throat, its memory twisted and contorted into a knife that stabbed him in the chest over, and over again.

Frost bitten fingers intertwined to keep warm even though he had insisted he didn’t need it. Shared laughter that echoed down these streets, the two of them drunk enough on each other's presence to forget the rest of the world around them. Clinking cups together under this very roof, sharing their merriment with his patrons–sharing the person he cared about most in this world with those that he trusted.

Fists clenched at his side. Breath escaped his mouth in short puffs. Rage consumed him yet again, directed at whatever strings had been woven together to make the rope that dragged him further into this damned fate. They would have to claw all the memories of him out of his lifeless form, damn him to the fate of a Wesena and strip him of his identity before he let any of it go.

But there was no choice. If he refused to listen, the council would get involved and accuse him of neglecting his patrons, and he would be forced to give into their wishes whether or not he wished to. Deep in the trenches of his gut, it swirled with guilt for neglecting your family for so long, for failing those that venerated him with all they had and more. But your family, your house, your work–it all reminded him of...

He couldn’t even say his name. Couldn’t think it.

That wasn’t your fault, he told himself, you had no part in any of it. Death didn’t owe you because the council would order him to, but because you had an anchor in his soul that dredged up a loyalty so ingrained in him, that it bled out in an uncontrollable flow, staining his hands red with your losses.

He didn’t have to love you or coddle you. He just had to respect your request.

It was just a job, and nothing more. It was just more money in your pocket. Something he owed.

That is all it was and ever will be.

_________________________________________

A heavy weight landed itself on your chest, seeping its warmth into your dreams and blurring the lines between reality and imaginary. Its gentle buzz vibrating your chest as something soft nudged at your chin, impatient and relentless.

Then came the drool.

“Saint Hickory and Oak Wes,” You whined, pushing the cat’s body off your chest. “You are not starving, so stop acting like it.” He chirped in response, unbothered by your clear disgruntlement. Clearly just happy that you were finally awake if the rapid shape of his tail and rumbling purrs were anything to go by.

Wes, your lovingly sweet and borderline goofish cat, continued his mission of digging the pads of his paws into the most tender spots of flesh he could find, prancing in thoughtless circles over your abdomen like his dance was sure to impress you enough to give him the one thing he wanted: more food. Which, according to the practitioner in town that specializes in animal care: he didn’t need.

The sun rays were only just starting to lick over the horizon, a clash of pale blue and gold melding into one another, signifying just how early it was. But alas, a cat's hunger knows no bounds.

Shrugging the blanket off, you trudged back into the kitchen, passing the dining room table and barreling straight into shop space. You grumbled to yourself, all nonsense about early mornings and needy cats, the little deviant in question making figure eights around your ankles while you scooped a helping of food into his bowl and dropped it unceremoniously to the floor.

“There. Enjoy your reward for now because-” Your words caught in your throat, cut off by a short gasp. A sliver of black robes and reflective beads caught your eye through the windows near the door. It moved like a human, but its face was nothing of the sort. Just shapeless, like a whirling pit of darkness with no sign of light, no shapes to make any kind of human out of.

It couldn’t be...

You ran to the door, not bothering that you were still in your night clothes, and flung it open. A gust of cool morning air welcomed you, but any trace of the figure was gone. And what was even stranger (with all things considered) your cat had no interest in eating its breakfast, instead it kept circling your feet, meowing up a storm and pawing at the door frame.

“Good mor- oh dear, are you alright?”

Jolted from your scan you twisted upon the intruder, Lucille, making her morning stop at your shop before beginning her second shift. She had stopped just feet away from the entrance, basket of freshly baked pastries tucked on her arm and a look of concern embedded in her features.

You swallowed down your unease, giving her a shaky smile. “Y-yes! Just needed some fresh air.” Nudging the door open a bit more, you waved her in. “Come on in! I think my father is still asleep, but you are more than welcome to wait around in here.”

Lucille, polite as always, scuttled her way in and dropped the mouth-watering selection on the front counter. She took stock of the room and its emptiness, the tools hung up on the wall, large pieces of wood–some new, some already cut from–all leaned up against the wall without any real rhyme or reason. She looked at you with a smile as sweet as the breads you were daydreaming about sinking your teeth into. “Is there anything I can give you a hand with this morning? At least until your father wakes...”

You acknowledged the kind gesture, but waved her off. Lucille was a baker, not a wood worker or anything of the sort, nor was she particularly fond of discussions surrounding death–but she listened and respected it at the end of the day. It just wasn’t as normal to her as it was to you.

“I can handle it,” You reassured her, sliding over to the basket and poking about its contents. “This is already more than enough. It means I don’t have to prepare anything–and that’s a gift in that of itself.” To emphasize your gratitude, you indulged in a round one drizzled with a sweet glaze, taking a large chunk of it in one go.

Despite your assurance, she was already picking up the broom and sweeping away at the fallen wood chips and curls that littered the floor, maneuvering them into piles as she spoke. “Any luck on your employment endeavors?” Her question was phrased as light-hearted, but the gentle tremor in it betrayed that she was just as concerned as you were.

You chewed at the sweetened milk bread, forcing it down so you could answer. “No. But worry not, the town hasn’t seen the last of me.”

Lucille hummed thoughtfully in response, and that was about the end of their discussion.

That is what you liked about her. She never pried, never forced her way in, and most importantly–she never tried to be your mother. She was just Lucille, a constant in your life as both a community member and a friend, but not your mother.

Lucille didn’t stay long, taking to sweeping up the dust piles you only added to as you sanded the edges of the wood you had cut that day. She left once her cup was empty with a promise to return for lunch, though it fell on deaf ears.

Upon holding the door open for her, you noticed a cream colored envelope tucked into the mail slot, a red wax stamp sealing it shut. Your goodbyes were brief and clipped, itching to tear it open with your teeth and read its contents: which is exactly what you did the second the door closed.

Fear motivated you at first. Was it another offer to buy the property? Was it a threat from the stupid antique seller? Had someone come by to make an order and you missed them? Shimmying the paper from the envelope, you scanned its contents quickly, eyes barely keeping up with the words on the page.

“I have reconsidered your offer–and against my better judgment–have decided to accept your proposition. Please arrive first thing in the morning or I will otherwise assume you are no longer interested. Do not make me regret my decision.

-Jung Hoseok”

You gaped at the letter, completely blindsided by his sudden interest in you after going all the way to make it painfully clear he didn’t care about you in the slightest. The initial shock melted into panic, for you had only less than a half hour to make yourself presentable and book it to the edge of town before he considered this “agreement” null and void.

The dreary atmosphere of his shop was shattered the moment you entered, half-slumped against the door coated in a thin sheen of cold sweat, pretending to act like you weren’t entirely out of breath and riddled with nerves. Hoseok didn’t look up at you from the parchment he was scribbling on, engaged with a customer that was just finishing up their payment. Thankfully it was someone you were more than happy to see, his presence taking the edge off of being alone with the butcher for just a little bit longer.

“Picking up an order too?” Taehyung grinned at her. “You have taste I see. I swear it tastes better when I buy it in the morning. Perhaps it’s because it’s fresh.”

“It is all fresh.” Hoseok slid the receipt across the counter with a lazy drawl. “Two-hundred drunes.”

Taehyung frowned, fishing through his pocket for a pouch of coins and dropping them into Hoseok’s awaiting hand. “It’s more expensive than last time...”

Hoseok shrugged and pocketed the pouch, giving you a pointed look. “It is to be expected Now that I am paying the salary of a tardy employee.” Your heart dropped into your stomach with shame.

“No way–you work here?” Now Taehyung had turned his surprise on you. “When did this happen? I just had lunch with...you…” His gears were visibly turning as realization dawned on him. “You did not…”

“She did,” Hoseok dropped a hefty wooden crate on the counter between them, making everyone else in the room jump nearly a foot in the air. “Now get out.”

Taehyung’s lip curled in thinly veiled distaste, grumbling to himself something that could put a manifesto against to rich to shame as he struggled out the door, his quick escape giving you no time to adjust to being alone with him.

The silence was just as deadly as Hoseok’s glare. The walls containing air brisk enough to call goosebumps to the surface were closing in, like traps line with pointed metal and swinging blades–each one designed to sever your head from your shoulders at the slightest misstep. Yesterday was nothing compared to today.

“The rules should be simple enough for you to understand,” He broke the silence first, beckoning you behind the counter. “This-” he held up a leather bound journal for you to see “-is the order log. I have a system that I use to categorize my orders, and there’s a codex in the front for more information on how it works. Use it.” Letting it drop back on the counter he sauntered over to a small supply closet to his right, pointing at it with his thumb. “I expect you to keep the front up to my standards. Everything you need to do that is in here. Do not ask me where anything is after today.”

Lifting one gloved finger to point at the clock on the opposite wall, he spoke like a drill sergeant. “I want you here at one notch past sunrise–not a minute later–and you will stay here until notch ten every weekday. I may require you to work on weekends as I see fit. If you miss a day without any notice, I will terminate our agreement on the spot. Do you understand?” You nod swiftly, repeating everything to yourself in your mind. He didn’t say anything else, just looked to you, unimpressed by your enthusiasm. “Well?”

“Well?” You repeated, unsure what he was waiting for.

A scoff shot out of his throat, settling between your ribs like a thorn. Scornful and condescending. “Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to prove to me you can do more than just run your mouth?”

Every muscle in your body tensed and coiled, your entire being crumpling in under the pressure to not say something that would get you fired before you’d even begun.

“Right away, sir!” You slid up to the counter, parking yourself in front of the register and standing at attention,

Hoseok instantly recoiled from your proximity as if you were the insufferable one, clicking his tongue with blatant repugnance written all over his face and body language. He stalked to the double doors that led to the abattoir and ice room, pausing to regard you over his shoulder. “Don’t call me that.”

“Alright then, what should I call you?”

He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Nothing. Don’t call me anything.”

You pinched your face in confusion, one hand on your hip. “Then how am I to refer to you when I need to speak to you?”

“You answered your own question.” And when he looked at you this time, you were cursed with what you could only assume was a “smile”–his stare empty and unsettling, and his lips lazily stretched into a thin curve. “You don’t.”

Ignoring the hair that shot up on the back of your neck, you bit back the urge to roll your eyes. “I don’t what? Address you or speak to you?

“Both.”

Your blood boiled hot enough to bring up the temperature of the room (one could easily say it was the sun streaming in through the front window, but you wanted to give yourself the credit, as this feeling wasn’t something you commonly faced). Not only did he not speak to you for the rest of the day, he never bothered to leave the comfort of his beloved abattoir, stowing himself away with the pigs he was set to carve. Your saving grace was the ease of the job, otherwise you would have been royally screwed if it had been anything other than reading the names on order tickets and making small talk with costumers as you logged their purchases. Could you be confident that everything was up to his standard and properly itemized? No. But if he wanted it done a certain way, he should have come out to the front and told you so himself.

...is what you told yourself before the fear started to creep its way in, grabbing hold of your confidence and wringing it out.

If you made enough mistakes, surely he would fire you without missing a beat. You had barely any idea what had possessed him to hire you after your first real interaction, so as far as you were concerned, your fate walked on thin ice. To combat this, you spent your afternoon pouring over all of the logbooks beneath the register, doing your best to make sense of the scribbles and abbreviations he used so flippantly. The codex might as well have been written in invisible ink it was so unhelpful. Some of them made sense–Chk for chicken. Pk for pork. Others were more complicated; some mashed jumble of letters and symbols that felt personal. Like this man had spent his life writing in code so that when you inevitably came along, it knocked you down each time you’d flip a page thinking you had started to get the hang of it.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, it took its warmth and your confidence with it, leaving you cold, unsure, and alone. He didn’t come to relieve you, and you didn’t wait for him.

Too scared to speak to him, you simply noted the written sign on the door and took your leave, being sure leave behind a hand written note letting him know you’d be back first thing in the morning. You prayed that tomorrow would be a better start for the two of you. Maybe he was just having having a bad couple of days and needed some time to get through it. Or what if he was shy and needed time to warm up to your presence?

You humored that idea on your walk home, snickering to yourself at the absurdity of it as you kicked off your shoes and shed your day clothes for your real work clothes. Him? Shy?

Yeah right. You really laughed that time, holding Wes up into your arms and carrying him with you as you sat by your father’s bedside, telling him of your day in between spoonful's of whatever Lucille had brought over for you to eat.

“And he was good to you?”

Your spoon paused on the way to your mouth, splattering down the front of your shirt. “Hoseok?”

“Who else would I be referring to?” Your father passed you a napkin.

You accepted it with quite thanks, patting at your shirt to clean up your mistake and avoiding his perceptive observation. “He was.”

“Really?” Your father challenged, doubtful.

“Really,” You affirmed, scooping another bite into you mouth, letting the spoon sit there for a moment. “I know you don’t believe me, but I am being honest! I think he is just quite the recluse, and can be pleasant if he has the time to be. Shy.”

“Right,” Your father nodded with a smirk.

“Don’t look at me like that! I am being serious. I think he is so foul tempered because he is lonely. That’s all.”

He settled into his pillow with an airy chuckle, content with listening to you prattle on about your day as he drifted to sleep, the candle upon his altar already lit. Instead of blowing it out, you did the unthinkable–carting it off to the shop and letting it burn while you settled into your nightly routine. After the miracle that seemed to have blessed you the morning after your first light, it couldn’t help to keep it around. To spend a little extra time with him as a thank you.

Even though the moon was high, never did sleep cross your mind. There were orders of your own you were obliged to fill, and god, did the comforting hum of your tools and the bitter smell of sanded wood bring rid you of the lingering stale air of the lonely butcher shop that haunted you. Abyios seemed to have your back when it came to preserving your traditions, and that only made your will to persevere stronger.

_________________________________________

You liked Hoseok better when he was holed up in the back. That way you didn’t have to hear the sound of his voice grating on your last nerve every five minutes and testing your patience. For someone that ordered you to leave him alone, he sure was good at invading your peace.

Supposedly you had done such a horrid job the previous day; so much so that he had made it a point to give drawn out instructions woven in the most complex string of words (no doubt in an effort to purposefully confuse you), while refusing to repeat himself after each nonsensical spiel. It was disjointed at best, and intentionally sabotaging at worst. His “explanations” often times involved leaving out key information until three tasks later, his jaws unlatching to unleash the correction onto your poor mistakes like venom from a snakes mouth. Like he had planted the trap and waited for you to fall into it.

And then he was gone again, concealed in the abattoir only to return at the end of the day to wash his blades in the sink, soaked in crimson and bringing with him the smell of death without so much as a word to you. You loved the quiet, but this kind always felt suffocating. Would it had been better that he looked at you as he washed his day away with some gnarled, lifeless grin to weaponize the way it made you feel to have someone so self-serving wielding the something that had just taken life and shredded flesh with ease? Or was the intimidation all in your mind? For he pretended that you did not exist when he did so, letting the blades gleam with their own warning.

The days grew more desolate and cold as the weeks inched into winter, tipping over slowly one after the other like dominoes that couldn’t decide whether or not to fall, each one more brutal than the next–but not because of him. No, he had given up on gnashing at you all morning and found his refuge in the back, fulfilling his dreams of speaking to no one and leaving your days quiet like you wanted.

Your misery was cultivated all by your own hand.

Every evening you lied through your teeth, selling your father stories about the man you were working with, painting him into someone he definitely wasn’t. You burnt your candles down to the wick; physically and metaphorically, always one lit for Abyios’s silent company while you worked your hands to the bone.

After you father retired to bed, breaking your back over molten stone and ashes of the deceased replaced any kind of formative rest. You had no choice but to pour your soul in with theirs, taking your time to feel the weight of their lives in your gloved hands as though it was a member of your own family you were honoring; musing to yourself about who they were before and the journey’s they trekked before making their last stop at Treseyna’s Vale. Sometimes, when you found your focus slipping into fugue states of exhaustion from your long days, you would think back to the customer who had handed you this order–had entrusted you with that which was most important to them with tearful eyes and wobbly lips–and it gave you the power you needed to keep on. From start to finish, you were the one forging their transition from life to death, shaping their new eternal form and immortalizing them on this earth. Carrying a tradition on your back and your back alone. Death was something you believed to be inevitable, but this job was one think you just couldn’t let die.

The monotonous job of stoking flames and the beat of a dragged saw kept you awake till morning, where you’d don thick leather cloves and wield your own blades of power to fortify the final resting place of whom you were caring for.

You were fine, you told yourself. The ache in your muscles, the tremor in your hands, and the way your brain seemed to resign itself to a pile of mush when anything was requested of it was the price you had to pay to keep the ropes of the business tied down.

To say you were exhausted would be an understatement, but to let it show would be giving the naysayers all the ammunition they’d need to pull the rug out from beneath your feet. You must remain vigilant.

Yet Hoseok was determined to make that nearly impossible.

The sound of his breath was enough to set your nerves on fire and your skin crawl.

Always snipping at you when you made a mistake, or giving you that look whenever you did...anything. He had a way with his eyes of making you feel so insignificant. A metaphysical whip braided from a combination of boredom, skepticism, and hubris that really chipped your resolve. Always watching. Even when you could no longer see his eyes, you could feel his presence skulking around behind the walls; a demon that triggered your fight or flight with every distant creak of a floorboard or click of a door. A specter looming behind every step you made, ready to lurch for your throat the moment you fell.

Counting down the seconds to the end of your shift, you gazed at the dusty old clock on the wall, following the thin spindles around its face as they ticked closer to your freedom. They blurred into shapeless blobs, and before you knew it, your head sank deeper into the crevice of your palm, and your next blink lasted far longer than you intended.

That was when things changed. The same stuffy air you couldn’t wait to escape from morphed into that of the most freshest air you’d had in weeks, and the wintery chill that pricked at your arms and face was soothed over by the caress of sunlight.

Opening your eyes, you were no longer in that dreaded storefront, but were instead knee deep in wild grasses and a glorious array of flowers that waved to you in greeting. They beckoned you with sweet smiling faces forward, their leaves reaching out to tap your legs and hands like excitable children, guiding you to look to the house that awaited your attention. Or more so, the creature curled up on the stoop with bright orange fur, its little black nose tucked beneath its tail as it slumbered on.

Your breath hitched at such beauty, for you had never seen a fox with fur so vibrant. As if sensing your awestruck admiration, the creature lifted its head, eyelids pulling back to reveal pools of indigo that never seemed to end. Dotted with no pupils or irises, it was unlike anything you had ever seen–just swirls of blue that refracted the light of the sun back to you with the power of a thousand stars that melted from his eyes and leaked out over the sky, blanketing the day in twilight. Fear was no match for the peace its twinkling gaze blessed you with, for the longer you looked, the harder it was to look away from the fox. Everything thing about it was captivating.

It yawned, displaying its magnificent teeth and stretching out each limb in a manner similar to the way your cat Wes would after being awoken from a rather deep sleep, and hoisted itself up on all fours to peer over at you expectantly. Like the flowers, it too wished for you to follow him.

You took one step. Then another. The distance shrinking between you and this home it so desperately wanted to show you. With each careful step, he grew more excited, spinning in circles and whistling out high pitched keens. You were almost there, mere feet from the door that had started to creak open to reveal a glowing hearth who’s light was overshadowed by two huddled figures. The foxes whines grew louder, sprouting into shrieks of laughter that scraped against your ear drums and stopped you in your tracks. Something about it buzzed under your skin, commanding your pulse to your throat–not from terror, but as the natural consequence to being so close to him.

It pawed at the door, crazed and rabid, widening the gap with his snout and looking back to you with a human-like grin when it gave way.

The two figures turned to you, the light from the hearth unable to catch their features as they moved to take you in.

Your boot hardly ghosted the front step when the dancing stalks of flowers turned violent, their vines and stems winding around your calves and digging into the flesh. Thrashing about did nothing to lessen their hold, their grip like iron. It stung enough to make your eyes water and your blood to run freely from the lines it seared while tugging you down into the earth that rippled and parted on their command to make way for your demise. It was a trap.

The fox grew frantic, clamping its mouth down on your clothes, your thigh, your arm–anything it could grasp for to keep you from falling deeper below. Futile were its efforts to protect you from the soil that piled into your lungs with each desperate gasp for breath. The last thing you saw before earth clouded your eyes was the distant orange glow from beneath the now closed door, and the fox’s face inches from yours–its face split open with a wide grin, and his eyes–now silver and undeniably human.

“I found you.”

You awoke to the musty air of the butcher shop pressing down on you from all sides, and never had you ever been so grateful for it. Coughing didn’t shake the ghostly feeling of dirt that lined your lungs, but it did remind you that you were still alive and breathing–which was more than you could ask for.

Time did not offer you enough grace, as moments later Hoseok himself charged through the swinging doors and made his presence known by the strike of his shoes upon the concrete floor.

“You are dismissed,” His voice was as stiff as his body, moving in a delirious whirlwind around the store front: throwing his apron somewhere in the back and scrubbing his hands as though his life depended on it in the little stained sink behind you.

“What…?” Your voice failed you at first but you found it after a few tries. You barely had time to blink before he was back besides you again, slamming massive crates on the counter top and scrambling for the log book.

He didn’t look at you–because of course he didn’t. “I said you are dismissed for the evening. Do not make me repeat myself.” His fingers flipped through the pages at blinding speed, an ink pen you didn’t even see him grab appearing in his grasp to jot down a lengthy order in his special code. When finished writing he paused to examine the previous page, scanning your handwriting there while muttering what you could only presume was words of ridicule to himself.

It was then that your slow brain started to catch up with him, stealing a glance at the clock that had barely moved since you had last laid your eyes on it. To leave would mean losing three hours worth of pay, and you couldn’t afford that. But to tell him that would mean setting yourself up for possible humiliation. Trying to reason with him would be your only choice. “If there is something you need help with, I can always stay and-”

He cut you off with one warning look of his dark eyes, the first time you think he had ever really looked at you. In that moment as you took in his current appearance he looked...different. He looked scared. Not in a way that made him shrink into the corners shivering–no–it fixed him into more animal than man; eyes wide and hackles raised, ready to pounce at a moments notice on anyone close enough to feel the wrath of his claws. And you were in the line of fire.

Swallowing down your uncertainty, you took a trepid step towards him despite the sweat that began to line your palms. “Are you alright?”

Kindness seemed to knock him off kilter, the whites of his eyes expanding and his shoulders hunching up towards his ears. His fingers dug into the edge of the book, gripping it like it was the only thing holding him still.

Hoseok looked from you, to the door where it lingered for a beat too long, then back to you. “Excuse me?”

“I asked if you were okay…” You fought back a nervous laugh at his almost scandalized expression, for the first time in weeks you seem to have left him speechless. “You look upset.”

“I’m not-” He interrupted himself with a scoff, “-I’m not upset. I am simply stressed because I have to come out here and do a job you are seemingly incapable of doing!”

“That is not true,” You said, spine straightening at the attack on your character. While you may be forgiving, an attack on your work ethic is one unfounded. “I have been following your orders with the upmost care, and I can guarantee you that on that page there is no mistakes. I cross checked it with older entries to be sure.” You thought he was going to explode at your defense, the muscles in his face twitching like a ticking time bomb, yet with one more scan of your writing he slammed to book shut and tucked it near the register. It was imperative at this point that you try and ease some of the rising tension before you passed the point of no return. “There hasn’t been much of a crowd today, so I am sure I have the time to help you handle what ever it is you seem to be so worried about.”

“I worry of nothing.” Again, he looked to the door as if for something that wasn’t yet there. “The only way you could ease my suffering would be to relieve me of your presence.”

Fighting with him would be useless, so catching the way his tone was growing even shorter (if that was possible), you decided to pick your battles. Perhaps you could look at it as a sign to take more time in the workshop tonight. Bowing your head, you started towards the counter. “If that is what you wish. I just need to grab my-

“Quickly. I don’t have-”

The two of you moved at the same time, him for the register and you for your cloak tucked on the shelf beneath it, the two of you colliding before anyone could stop it. You had thought him being within the same few meters of you was impressive, but having your bodies pressed together in some awkward tangle of limbs was enough to make you worried for your own safety. You scoured his expression with wide eyes, afraid that such a breach of personal space would be enough to have you kicked to the curb after testing his already strained buttons. Rushed apologies died on your tongue at his proximity and your breath escaped you.

Hoseok’s mask had slipped in his surprise, giving you the chance to really look at him without distance and daggers keeping you apart. The dark of is eyes weren’t sharp or cold–but soft and real. They were beautiful.

“What did you just say?” There was a crack in his voice that jolted you out of your stupor.

Horrified, your face flushed with heat. You had shared your thoughts out loud.

“It doesn’t matter–just get out of my sight lest I decide to send you home for good.” Hoseok leapt away with reddened ears that did not go unnoticed by you, nor did the way his hands fumbled with the order log.

Was he...Was he flustered?

That was the only logical conclusion you could come to, standing there still reeling from the interaction with your cloak held in your fists.

His neck snapped to look at you again, the color spreading down from his ears to his neck. “What are you looking at? I told you to leave.”

If you hadn’t years of practice in keeping your composure, your knees would have given out on the way out the door under such a watch like his, your mind replaying the interaction, letting it push its way through all of the others you’d had with him. In the last three minutes, you had learned more about your boss than you had in the weeks spent working for him.

You let the door swing closed behind you, using the sound of the bells as your goodbye, too stuck in your own thoughts to offer him much of anything.

It wasn’t your job to navigate his emotions by any means, but for some reason seeing him so human shattered a part of the harsh image he had tried so hard to build of himself in your head. In different circumstances, you would almost dare say that it reminded you of yourself and your own meticulously curated exterior version of you. Except he was inhospitable and cutthroat, two things you definitely did not consider yourself.

You shook your head, this time your mind replaying the way he spoke to you.

There was nothing human about that. He was nothing but a snobbish thorn in your side that not even you, an avid people pleaser, could find a way to defend.

A set of steps stopped just ahead of you, and the owner of them cleared their throat before speaking. “My apologies–I was sure I had timed my arrival perfectly, but I may be mistaken. Is the shop closed for the day?”

Looking up from their black boots to meet the silky voice of the person arriving at the hilltop, you found the silver eyes of a man familiar enough not to scare the daylights from you. You could recall seeing him around with Taehyung every so often but nothing more than a name rang a bell in your head for the two of you had never crossed paths.

“Oh, Jimin! No, it is still open. I am just finished for the day.” You smiled politely at the man, putting on your best face. The man in question gave you a rather slow once over, like he was reading into every scar and wrinkle on your skin, or loose threat of your clothes. Furrowing your brows, drew your cloak closer to you to shield yourself from his prying eyes. “You are Jimin, right?”

He seemed to come back to himself, content with his strange appraisal and preening under the recognition. “That I am! You are Hoseok’s new hire if I’m not mistaken?”

You mimicked the lightness in his tone, pushing aside your internal monologue with a nod. “I am.”

“Then I guess it is perfect timing!” Jimin clapped his hands together in excitement. “You no doubt know your way around the shop, would you mind helping me make my selection? I want to get a little something extra for a dear friend of mine.” Something about his grin was a bit too familiar, twisting up into his eyes that held the same gleam.

Casting a nervous look back to the door, you played with the edge of your cloak, thinking of who waited for you beyond it. “I suppose I could-”

“Jimin.” The door swung open as if on command, Hoseok’s air more off-putting than usual.

“Hoseok, how lovely to see you,” Jimin chirped up to the former, his joy spreading wider across his features and taking on a more saccharine approach. “I was just speaking with your new hire. She was just about to-”

“She will be doing nothing. She is going home.” You could almost feel the malcontentment simmering beneath the surface and oozing from his frame, winding around your throat and stealing the air from your lungs. The urge to flee was overwhelming.

Jimin on the other hand seemed unbothered by such hostility, flickering his attention between the two of you with a look most pleased. “I see~” Grabbing one of your hands in his, he pressed a feather-light kiss to your knuckles. “Until next time, Y/n. I am sure we will be seeing a lot more of each other in the coming months.”

Letting your hand drop to your side, you felt Hoseok burning holes into the skin there and risked a quick glance in his direction. But when you lifted to his level, he wasn’t looking at you, but rather Jimin–the two of them locked in a stalemate where one was clearly more excited to see the other.

Hoseok’s jaw ticked, and he hissed through gritted teeth. “Your order is ready. Do not leave me waiting. I am not afraid to toss it out the back door if you take too long.” He spun on his heel and disappeared back into the store away from your sight.

“You wouldn’t dream of it.” Jimin giggled, a tinkling sound that lightened the atmosphere up enough for you to breathe. He followed after him, not before stopping in the door to regard you kindly. “Rest well tonight. May the night’s eye watch over you.”

The door closed behind him, leaving you to ponder whether or not all of Taehyung’s acquaintances were this…unusual.

_________________________________________

People closed in on all sides, moving with the strength of a sea current as they clogged the streets and bulged into alleys. You had just gotten off your shift, your shoulders heavy and her steps a pitiful drag across the cobblestone roads, unable to fight the way the crowds swallowed you hole and spit you out in some other lane. The journey would be more miserable if it wasn’t so beautiful.

Enchanted decorations of pine, eucalyptus and birch dripped down the sides of buildings; decorative quilts hung like flags over long strings, their ruby and evergreen shapes just as wonderful to look at as the floating lights. Povendel was just hours away from the beginning of the winter solstice celebrations, and of course, like with most other holidays, people flocked into town to witness the spectacle. The populations would only grow as people returned home for the day of giving.

How could any one say such traditions were losing their value when they looked like this? Extravagant displays of community and humanity all wrapped with ribbons. Their mouths that by day spew disdain for all of this, spent their nights stuff with food and drink cultivated by that which they say to hate.

You paused your dreadful march back to the shop to admire the towering evergreen that tourists and townspeople alike stood in line to adorn with handmade ornaments or charms of all kinds, letting the crowd pressed your back against the glass of some clock makers shop while you listened to the beat of the music, letting the breath of your community fill you with warmth.

“I heard they cut this year’s tree down from the western woods. I was surprised to learn that wasn’t customary, considering this holiday’s origins and all” You jumped a near foot in there, having not noticed Jimin’s presence lent up near the door besides you, a small gift wrapped in parchment tucked in his elbow. He slid his gaze from the tree to you, offering you a nod. “Good eve, Y/n.”

One hand came up to your chest to sooth your racing heart, and the other flattened against the window to hold yourself steady. “G-Good eve, Jimin.”

“I did not mean to frighten you,” He winced, rubbing at the back of his neck with his free hand, breath leaving in visible plumes from his mouth as he spoke.

“It is no worry,” You assured him, your breath finally settling back to normal. Gesturing to the parcel with your chin, you asked “Last minute gift?”

Following your line of sight, he held the box up with a chuckle. “You caught me.”

“Perhaps you should be buying yourself one of those clocks, might save you from having to brave the crowds next year.”

For a moment you were worried you offended him by the insinuation, but that was quickly dispelled by another chime of his laughter. “Perhaps I should. But I really don’t mind it. Being around all of these people it…” he paused, drinking in the sights the same way you had been seconds before. “...it revitalizes me.”

You agreed with a hum, letting your attention drift to the small girl who was lifted above the crowd on her fathers shoulders so she could reach higher on the tree, placing a frilly star shaped ornament made of sticks and blue glittering ribbon. You’d be lying if you said that having a friendly social interaction that wasn’t behind a counter wasn’t refreshing. And he didn’t seem to be in a rush to leave, so what was the harm in loitering here a bit more.

“Are you not from Povendel?” You inquired, twisting to look at him.

“Pardon?” He broke eye contact with the father and daughter duo to address you directly.

“You had said that you were ‘surprised to learn it wasn’t customary’ in regards to where we get our holiday trees. I assume that means you aren’t from here.”

“Oh,” Jimin shifted the package to his other arm, clearing his throat. “No, I’m not. I am still from Vantymi, just the northern parts of it.”

“Ah,” licking your chapped lips and scrounged for something to keep the conversation going. (you really needed to try and scrounge up money to ask a witch for some sort of balm, Hoseok’s shop was terribly dry in the winter). “The Doeidyads or Cheym?”

“Somewhere between the two,” he answered, “I moved down here to pursue the craft.”

That made sense, you surmised, giving him another once over. The extravagant tunics of vibrant blue and cloaks lined with shiny silver thread should have given it away, and you mentally smacked yourself for not putting two and two together. “Let me guess, you are a member of the Divinator’s Guild?”

He looked at you with wide eyes, his nose turning pink from the cold. “How could you tell?”

You pointed to his clothes as if it was obvious. “The blues.”

Jimin looked down with flushed cheeks. “Right, of course.”

The conversation died out, and with it did your moment of refuge by the window. With each second you stood there, you wasted precious time you could spend working. Guilt began to fester within your belly, even more so when your reluctance to leave heightened.

“Well I guess I should be going,” You lamented, more to yourself than him. “ I have much I need to do. It was wonderful talking with you again, Jimin.” You bowed slightly to him, kicking off from the window to stand.

His brows furrowed. “Work? Today?”

“Well, yes. Death doesn’t stop for a holiday, and neither do I.”

His face fell into a frown, almost enough to form a pout. “I suppose if that is the case then…” Suddenly, his face lit up much like the lights that twinkled above you. “Would you like to come out to dinner with me and a few acquaintances? I am sure our beloved coffin makers still need to eat.”

“Dinner?” you repeated the word, doing your best to squash the hope that blossomed in your chest. You had no business spending any kind of money on dinner. “I don’t know...My father will probably miss me…”

“We can bring him something home, on me! I am sure he could spare a few hours without you?” As if sensing your apprehension, he laid out another offer. “Consider it my Solstice gift to you.”

The person inside you that craved kinship folded immediately, but you fixed him with a light-hearted glare to try and pretend you weren’t beyond elated at the offer. “I can not possibly accept a gift from you, we’ve only just met. I can cover our expenses.”

“That’s if you get a hold of the bill first,” Jimin shot you a playful wink. “Why don’t you get yourself out of those work clothes and then you can meet us at the tavern? We will wait for you outside.”

Shaking your head vehemently you rebutted “Absolutely not. It is freezing out tonight and ungodly busy. Grab yourselves a table if you can, and I will find you.”

“Wonderful! I’m sure everyone will be excited to see you!”

You all but ran back home with childlike excitement, ripping off the layers that still smelt of cleaning solution and iron for a cold shower. Was it irresponsible of you to be disregarding your duties for a dinner with a man you had only really just met? Yes. But if you didn’t get out of this soul-crushing rut for the night, you might explode.

Of course your father encouraged your outing, assuring you he’d be fine for a few hours, as Lucille had already been planning to stop in for dinner. Nothing was holding you back from going, and that in itself was enough to bring a real genuine smile to your face, something you hadn’t felt in almost two months.

Nothing could describe the giddiness you felt, wearing your finest fabrics of burgundy and a green cloak that had previously belonged to your mother, maneuvering through the crowds that only welcomed you through them like you belonged. The town was always bustling on a normal day–but tonight it was alive, breathing with the laughter of many, and pulsing with the beat of a thousand feet that danced and skipped to the embraces of their loved ones.

And you were able to stand smack dab in the middle of it. To be a part of it instead of watching through the shop windows.

You heard the tavern before you saw it, a small band of musicians having taken up shop right out front, amassing onlookers who stopped to listen, and entertaining the customers that waited for their chance to be seated. There was no sign of Jimin, so upon assuming that by some miracle he had already snagged a seat, you ventured inside. The hostess at the front stepped in front of you, shaking her head slowly.

“There aren’t any tables left, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait outside.”

“Oh I’m not looking for a new table. I believe my...companions are already seated.” You rushed to defend yourself, craning your neck to scout the groups seated around you. Feeling anxious, you realized you had no idea which friends Jimin was bringing with him, nor what they looked like. Just as the hostess was growing impatient with you, you saw Jimin’s head peak around a corner, giving you an enthusiastic wave. “He’s right over there! Excuse me-” you pushed past her, bee-lining for the familiar face.

“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting for-” Your hands were already working to unclasp your cloak when smile faltered and your steps halted, the excitement you felt curdling into something heavy and rotten.

Jimin wasn’t alone. And his ‘friend’ was the man you were hoping to forget about for the evening.

“You didn’t keep us waiting at all! We were only just seated,” Jimin reassured you, gesturing to the only empty seat directly besides Hoseok, who sat as stiff as a board gripping a glass in his fist that fought for its life against his hold. “Please, join us!”

“I thought…” You swallowed down the quiver in your voice. “Are we waiting for anyone else?”

“Unfortunately no. Two other friends were supposed to be joining us this evening, but it seems they’ve gotten caught up in their festivities.” Jimin waved his hand around the table. “It will just be the three of us tonight.”

“How convenient.” Hoseok rolled his eyes.

You bit your lip, taking up the chair next to him and carefully lowering yourself onto it, keeping your eyes on the wooden table. Having Hoseok being here shouldn’t have made your throat burn like it did, nor should his presence alone have soiled your night so quickly. You should have asked Jimin for more details instead of jumping at the first chance of social interaction, because now all you felt was all of that guilt rushing towards you, not only for leaving your post, but because really it was you who was intruding on his night. Not the other way around.

Giving him another reason to despise your existence.

Jimin didn’t seem to notice the tension as he babbled on about the menu, nor the way Hoseok hadn’t seemed to move since your arrival, glass untouched, and his glare punching holes through your skull. His rage lit up in sharp angles from the candle light. At least the feeling was mutual, you thought to yourself, shrinking more into your seat.

“Anything I can get for you to drink?” A young, very overworked waiter stopped at your side, looking down his nose at you expectantly.

You clammed up, still feeling the weight of Hoseok’s presence looming over you. “Uh, no thank you. I’m-”

“Come on Y/n, we are here to celebrate!” Jimin chided playfully, sliding the little drink menu across the table to you. “Remember, I’m paying for you. So please, enjoy yourself.”

You panicked, skimming the pamphlet, which proved to be more than difficult when Hoseok didn’t seem to let you breathe in peace. It only took three seconds for him to assert himself over the table with a huff.

“I could have sworn I have seen you in here before, is it wrong to assume you should already know the menu, or are you just that painfully illiterate?” Hoseok sneered, leaning back with arms folded to create more distance.

With blinding speed, Jimin reached across the table and smacked the back of his head, your stomach dropping through the floor. “Enough of that. I will not have you ruining a perfectly good night with your disgusting attitude.”

Stifling a giggle at the absurdity of it, you smiled sweetly up to the waiter. “Whatever your favorite is, that’s what I’ll have.” Something behind his expression seemed to ignite, and the spared you a cheeky grin before veering off to take the next table’s order.

Once he was gone Hoseok slammed his palm against the table and hissed across the table to Jimin. “I would not be in such a sour mood if you had not subjected me to your imbecilic ways!”

“See, he has already begun one of his petulant tantrums,” Jimin eyed you over the rim of his glass, using it to point to Hoseok. “Do not let him intimidate you, he is all bark and no bite. You will get used to it.”

You had to cover your mouth to hide the way your lips curled upwards, some twisted part of you relishing the way Hoseok looked so offended, yet dumbfounded at the same time. Justice was being served at this little table, and you were eating up every minute of it.

Things only improved once your drink arrived, some home-brewed concoction of spiced liquor and mulled punch, poured heavy enough to have you buzzed after half a glass. The alcohol ate away at your nerves and loosened your tongue, and for the first time in a long time, you found yourself able to just let go for a few hours–Hoseok be damned.

He nursed his drinks to himself and only grumbled out responses to Jimin’s questions here and there after being reprimanded, still watching you like a hawk on the hunt. Not that you cared. You’d be damned if you let him ruin this night.

Everything was going smoothly, Jimin giving you something else to focus your mind and attention on–and gods did you need it.

With empty plates and wide smiles, the sear of Hoseok’s glare fizzled into nothing but an itch on the side of your face you just swept away.

Food was taking longer to prepare, but after your second drink you couldn’t care to be bothered. While waiting for your third, you started to sway in your chair to the live music, and the warm light of the tavern looked like the prettiest thing you had ever seen, lighting up each person who chose to spend their holiday’s eve surrounded by the thrum of the city. You craved this feeling every day. Finally they loaded heavy plates down in front of you, and you didn’t hesitate to pick up your silverware and start cutting away at the meat that practically melted off the bone.

“Oh I’ve been meaning to ask you Y/n,” Jimin started, moving his glass out of the way for his plate. “How has business been? Plentiful I hope.”

“Well with the holiday the butcher’s shop has been overflowing with customers. It’s to be expected though, with all of the festivities and such. Not that I mind, I love getting to interact with everyone.” You placed a pieced of meat in your mouth and nearly moaned at how good it tasted. You couldn’t remember the last time you had been able to buy a cut of meat like this.

Jimin’s eyes reflected the firelight back to you, his hands stilling over his plate. “I meant at Treseyna’s Vale.”

You froze, the food that once tasted heavenly feeling like mush in your mouth as you chewed. The alcohol you had drank sinking into your stomach like a bag of bricks. “Oh.”

“If it is something you don’t wish to speak of, I apologize for bringing it up.” Jimin hurried to add on, clearly sensing your shift in mood.

“ No it is fine, I am just not used to anyone really caring.” On instinct, you looked at Hoseok out of the corner of your eye, feeling uneasy about him being there.

Jimin caught the action and pursed his lips, white knuckling his fork and stabbing it into his chicken with a bit too much force. You could’ve sworn you saw Hoseok flinch, but it must’ve been a flicker of the candle light. “Really? That is quite disappointing to hear.”

“It’s just how it is these days. With the rise of people wanting to shift away from tradition and being the only-” You caught yourself, “-being so short staffed, it’s difficult to keep up with those that want to keep tradition alive.”

Jimin hummed, something behind his features pulled taut, and his expression clouded–and pointed directly at Hoseok. “Is that so?”

Something about the interaction crawled beneath your skin and lodged there, making your stomach churn as though gravity itself was pressing down upon the room harder than before. Worried that it was your fault, you changed directions, not wanting to shine a bad light on the evening.

“Please do not worry about it too much, it is nothing I can’t handle!”

Jimin’s nose twitched as he slid his attention to you, eyes growing softer. “I do not doubt that you can.” Your next round of drinks came in, and both you and Hoseok lurched for them with equal enthusiasm, the burn soothing the unease and replacing it with a tranquil hum beneath the skin. The conversation ran cold, and after a few minutes of silverware scraping against plates, Jimin coughed into his fist gathering the attention of your table.

“I must excuse myself for a moment. I think something is not settling quite right.”

The next thing you know, Jimin was pushing himself through the wall of bodies towards the bathroom, vanishing behind them and leaving you and Hoseok at the table. Alone.

Your appetite for food took its leave with Jimin, but the need to drown out the taste Hoseok’s presence in your mouth left did not. The tall glass stood no chance against you and your nerves, and against your better judgment after no sign of Jimin’s return, you ordered a fourth. There was no telling why Hoseok was still sitting there next to you, brewing a dark cloud over such a cheery holiday. If he hated you so much, why hadn’t he slunk away from the tavern back to his lonely house on the hill?

It pissed you off–him just sitting there all pensive and gloomy. Blending into the shadows casting you judgmental looks every time you raised the glass to your lips. It made you want to do it more. It wasn’t until you tugged on the waiter’s hand for your fifth that the man next to you seemed to have his fill.

“I would like to have another, please!” You hadn’t slurred this bad since your first night of age, but the heat from the warm spiced beverage melted any part of you that cared.

“No she will not.” Hoseok stood abruptly, shaking the table enough to make your chair tilt. Or maybe that was you jumping away from him, you could no longer tell. He dug through his pockets and held out a fistful of drunes. “Close the tab.”

You made some cross between a gurgling grunt and a scoff, smacking Hoseok’s arm away from the waiter. “ M’not done!” The room started to sway as you rose to face the waiter, giving him your best ‘I’m-not-drunk’ smile and holding up two fingers. “I would like two no...” you tucked one finger down, holding your index finger up triumphantly. “One more of those spiced...spiced things please!”

“Treserorr,” Hoseok cursed, snatching your wrist in his hand.

“Wait-”

He didn’t listen, using his grip on your arm to drag you through between the hoard of drinkers and the tables that you were certain had a vendetta against you, because they just kept coming out of nowhere for you to trip over. Your hip hit another table leg and you cursed, rubbing the spot with your hand and bringing Hoseok to a complete stop.

“What now?” He spat, shaking your arm.

You pouted, pointing to the table. “They are hurting meee. I can’t see them in time.”

“They are tables, what do you mean you can’t see them?”

“I mean I can’t see them! You are going to fast!” You tried to wriggle free from his hold to no avail. “Why are you touching-oh Hi!” Your irritation dissipated, traded out for shock as you met the eyes of one of Hoseok’s regulars, a middle aged yarn worker that adored talking to you when picking up her order. You shoved passed Hoseok like he was a rag doll and squeezed through the full seats to sidle up next to her at the bar. “Mona! How long have you been here I’ve been sitting right over there! You should have come said hi...”

Hoseok caught up to you with steam coming out of his ears, hand on your shoulder to get your attention. “You need to leave.”

You pouted. “What? But I just started-”

“You are leaving. Now.” Hoseok hooked one arm around your shoulders and gripped your forearm with the other, barely giving you a chance to sputter out a string of compliments to an equally giggly and drunk Mona as he steered you two out of the dimly lit tavern into the streets.

Once out in the open, he didn’t slow his brutal pace, leading you through the streets that had much less foot traffic than when you had arrived–probably in part to of the light dusting of snow that had started to flutter down from the dark skies and the icy temperatures that instantly stole the breath from your lungs. The nip to your skin sobered you up enough to realize that his hands were still on your skin, and you hated that.

“Let go of me!” Wrenching away from him and stumbling back against the wall of the tavern, you point a crooked finger at him. “What are you trying to do? Take me back to your house and murder me? String me in your abattoir?!”

Hoseok looked disgusted, whether at your accusation or just you was still out. “What are you–are you out of your mind?”

“You may have knives!” You shouted at him, then narrowed your eyes into slits and whispered out a menacing. “But so do I…”

“You are insufferable...” Hoseok muttered, shaking his head.

You groaned out in annoyance loud enough to garner the attention of a few bystanders smoking cigars on the corner. “As if you are any better!”

“At least I am not the one who is so drunk I can not stand, yelling about like an injured animal!”

“I do not sound like an injured animal!” You crossed your arms over your chest and curled your lip. “And I can stand perfectly well on my own.”

“I work with animals, you blubbering buffoon. I’ve heard enough squealing pigs to recognize the sound when I hear it.” He gave you a quick once over, one brow quirking up in a challenge. “If you believe you can walk so well, be my guest. Prove me wrong if you are so certain of yourself.”

“I will!” You huffed, righting yourself with a stiff push off the wall, then stalking off in front of him down the middle of the street. “See? There is no need for you.”

Hoseok blinked once. Then twice, entirely unimpressed by your feat. “Are you aware you are headed the wrong way?”

You stopped, scanning your surroundings, noting the thinness of the roads and the cube shaped waste bins to your left. “I am not.”

“Oh really? I was not aware that the Coffin makers worked out of the alley behind the tavern. I suppose someone with such poor spatial awareness like yourself could mistake a garbage can for a coffin if they were to squint enough.”

You weren’t a person of violence, but godsyou wanted to rip his teeth out so he’d just stop talking to you.

Especially because he was right.

You twirled around, strutting out of the alley and making a sharp left, just narrowly missing a run in with a pedestrian on their way for a late night drink. “I was just testing something.”

“Clearly it was my patience,” Hoseok grumbled, following after you.

“No one is asking you to supervise my walk home, butcher.” You shot back.

“Yet Jimin would still wring my throat if I didn’t.”

The thought of Jimin interrupted your focus, and Hoseok bumped into your back at your sudden stop. “Where is Jimin again? Should we not go check on him?”

“He is more than fine, I can assure you.” Hoseok gave your shoulders a light shove forward. “Keep moving.”

“How do you know?” You stole a peek at him, moving forward with disjointed steps.

He sighed sharply. “Because I do.”

“That is not an answer.”

“Remind me again why you deserve one?”

You grunted, facing forwards again. Even just looking at him made your stomach churn, the want to kick some of the fresh snow up into his face and make a break for it deliciously irresistible. With every one of your steps, his crunched a few paces back, a constant irritating reminder that he was close.

Voices carried over the wind, curling around you like a warm hug and guiding you to the corner of the street, leaning yourself against the wall to get a better look at the source. A family–a big one with all kinds of aunts and uncles and cousins you presumed–was spilling out from their stoop; perched on the front steps or nearby boxes, some leaning out the front doors and windows to join in on the merriment. Their hands were busy dragging shaggy bows across strings, thumping their feet into the pavement or blowing air into flutes. They laughed. They sang. They had their arms around each other and swayed. Around their necks and heads were wreaths of greenery, some with bells or gnarled twigs and vibrant flowers, others with golden leaves and feathers. Traditions worn with unbridled pride, sharing the exultation of tradition with one another. Why couldn’t it always be like this? Why couldn’t the old coexist with the new?

Your chest flowed with want and admiration, content with clasping the wall and staying until the snow buried you there. You heard his discontented sighs come closer. “If you would please foc-”

“Shhh!” You waved your hand in his face, silencing him.

He flicked it away, nostrils flaring. “How dare you-”

You pivoted to fix him a glare. “I said shh!” Nodding to the family you added in a whisper, “I’m watching.” You inched further behind the stone wall as not to disturb the family. “Just a few minutes here and then we will go…” You trailed off as the song ended, another much more somber one taking its place; reverent and splendid slips and dips of their voices and only their voices. It was breathtaking. A tranquil show of devotion and warmth in an otherwise dark and cold street.

Your eyes burned, and you blamed it on the snowflakes that stacked on your lashes. You wished your father could be standing with you to listen, or at least a friend you trusted like Taehyung–or even your newfound friend Jimin would be better than your current grouchy companion. Wishing that you could be a part of it all.

A thought crossed your mind, settling unto the surface of your consciousness and sinking deeper there. You could always invite Abyios to join you. That is what your father always did after all, calling his name on special events or over dinner. What would be the harm if you gave it a go?

So you did: invoking his name in your mind and calling him near to join you. To relish in the splendor of the people, the beauty that made your heart bleed. Maybe he would like it too. There was a pang in your chest that rushed to your face, making it burn with the heat of the dam building behind your eyes. Was it Abyios? It would only be plausible to amount it to the effects of the alcohol, but a little voice inside of you told you that it wasn’t. That the spirit of something was with you in this very moment, making you feel a little less alone.

Hoseok sighed, reminding you of his presence once again. Except as he stepped closer, he didn’t spout some snarky remark or grit his teeth–instead, he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his trousers and listened, settling near you with with an air you’ve never felt about him. He was quiescent, tilting his head to observe the scene and releasing slow breaths from his nose that cascaded down his chest in silver mist. He was present. Soft in the glow of resplendent lights and sparkling snow.

“You look better like this,” You mumbled to him under your breath. “You almost manage to look…nice.”

He clenched his teeth, letting out a deep sigh, flicking his eyes to you briefly. In this light they could almost register as warm, and brown. Nothing like the rocky obsidian he always drove through you like a spear. “You should finish your journey home, it is growing late and-”

“-and you are a busy man, I know,” You finished for him, taking one last look at the singing group. “If I could just stay here for one more minute, please. I can feel-” him. You could feel Abyios here with you. But you couldn’t tell him that–couldn’t give him the ammunition to call you delusional or belittle you. This felt too raw. Too vulnerable.

“I can feel the song is about to end.” You finished your sentence carefully, swallowing down the budding lump in your throat.

You didn’t want the song to end.

You didn’t want to be alone again when it did.

The end was an inevitable thing that everyone had to face, and you were good at it, you told yourself as you pushed away from the wall, keeping your head down so you didn’t have to see the light from their doorway grow smaller. You were very good at it. There was nothing you were more equipped to handle. It was your job.

Which is why you were convinced that the ache in your back teeth from clenching them together too hard and the way your hands shook in your pockets was just from having to get through Hoseok’s hovering shadow that followed you home, not because you were dreading opening the door to quiet home where the music didn’t reach.

_________________________________________

The days grew shorter, and the nights unbearably longer.

After your night out at the tavern, he kept even more to himself than you had thought would be possible. Worry ate at you from the inside out–hoping to the high heavens that you hadn’t done something embarrassing after your second drink, from which you had forgotten most of the evening until you had arrived home. Sometimes you even wondered if he was still in the building at all, or if he had slithered up to his home to keep a greater distance between you two.

Work kept you busy enough not to particularly notice his absence, with winter nearing its end it was only a matter of weeks before the last of the winter festivities, Saprorym Meuloutyp, “the Dance to Conquer Death”. Thus everyone and their grandmother’s were shuffling into the shop with snow crusted boots, leaving puddles on the floor and warm smiles on their face as they shopped for the last of their winter needs before traveling up north to celebrate in the birthplace of the holiday.

Jealousy ripped through you at the thought of everyone else getting to travel and witness it with their own eyes. Of course Povendel had their own version of the celebration, but nothing compares to the lengths they go to up in the Doeidyads. Not to mention, this holiday was stirring up quite the trouble with some of the locals that were pushing for reform, labeling it as perverse, wild, and a display of animosity. It only made you want to join in more.

There was no way you could though, trapped here at the butcher’s shop or in the trenches of your workspace.

And it filled you with a profound sadness to have to watch from the sidelines yet again.

You hadn’t lied in your interview, you thrived off of getting to serve your neighbors, you just wish you had more time to enjoy being around them as a friend, not as customers. But you just hadn’t the time. That family from the solstice lived in your head, serenading you to sleep on cold weekend nights when you weren’t working or spending some stolen time at your father’s altar while he slept.

All your free time was spent trying to get what little sleep you could, all of which tormented by visions of a vibrant fox dancing around the foundations of a cottage, yipping. Hollering and pawing at the wooden door that never budged. Every now and then the wood would rattle on its hinges like it might give way, but it was a hopeless endeavor, settling down with the weight of the creature curled in your lap.

When you woke you could still feel its warmth, but looking down it became apparent by the digging little paws that it was just Wes again, drooling and begging with the biggest eyes for his next meal. He was meowing louder than the bustling streets, loud enough to pull you from your slumped slumber against the work table; crying out for your attention and nipping at your calves.

You peered down at him through a gap in your arms, blinking away the grogginess that blurred him into nothing but a black ball. “Really? Have you lost all patience?” He chirped again, winding himself around the stool leg and sliding against your ankles. Wes pressed his forehead into your palm and paused to let you scratch beneath his chin, his purrs vibrating his chest and shaking his whiskers. When he opened his eyes to beg once more, you smiled, marveling at the way the green reflected the sunlight off of them. “Look at how handsome you are, huh? How could I ever be mad at-”

You froze.

There should be no sun light coming through the window.

“No,” You shook your head, whispering to yourself, scrambling to your feet and ripping open the front window.

It was morning–almost midday by the angle of the sun. You hissed out a long, unbroken chain of curses as you darted around the living quarters for a change of clothes, having no time to bathe the night’s work off, you had only seconds to check for your father and tug on your boots. And of course the world must have it out for you and your wildly beating heart because your father was no where to be seen.

Blindly you tore apart the house, checking every room and behind every door, scouring the floors in case he had fallen somewhere while you were asleep–but there was no sign of him. Just as you were ready to take to the streets in a deranged manhunt, you noticed a note tacked to the front door lined with his hand writing.

Lucille came buy to take me to my doctor’s appointment this morning. I wanted to let you get a bit more rest before your shift, so we didn’t wake you. I hope this note finds you well,

Love, Dad

You collapsed against the door, the adrenaline that had been coursing through your veins dripping out with one choked sound from your throat that you silenced with the back of your hand. How could you have forgotten about his appointment? How could you have slept in?

You slept in! That reminded you of the first reason you had been so panicked: you were late for work. Something Hoseok had explicitly stated would not be tolerated in the slightest.

Throwing something for Wes to eat on a plate, you unlocked the door with trembling hands, praying to whatever god that would listen that you hadn’t just destroyed everything with your mistake. You pulled the door open with all your strength, breathing heavily as you locked it behind you.

“Good morning, Y/n! I had tried to stop by this morning but I guess you were out.” Arthur waited near the door, tap-dancing on your already thin patience with his presence alone.

“Not now Arthur, I’m quite late.” Shoving your keys in your pocket you started for the butcher at a brisk pace.

Arthur followed, his spindly limbs making it easy to keep up with you. “We can chat while we walk then, I do not mind.”

I do you thought to yourself, biting your tongue. If he wasn’t careful, your composure might slip enough to land a stiff one to his jaw this morning. You had never hit anyone before, but you had to admit his face made breaking that streak very tempting.

“I will take that as a yes,” He laughed, the sound high-pitched and grating. “I have come to make a new offer on the property.”

“I don’t know how many times I must tell you this, but we are not interested.” you ducked beneath a group of young witches working to levitate the beams to a roof just before you smacked your forehead off it, hoping it would deter you pursuer. You needed to get to Hoseok and apologize fast, there was no time to argue.

“Well you see,” Arthur grunted as he bent below the beam, dusting himself off as he stood. “It is always good to check in again.”

You held back a sigh. “And you have. I gave you your answer.”

“But I haven’t made my offer-”

You picked up your pace. “There is nothing you could possibly offer me to make me say yes.”

“I knew that was the truth before! But with the loss of city funding I assumed-”

You whirled around to face him, hand shooting up to silence the rest of his sentence. “What do you mean the loss of city funding? I haven’t heard anything of the sort.”

Arthur gave you an apologetic smile that settled over your skin like a layer of grease, not a comfort. “Aren’t you familiar with the rules? That deal was made with your father. Not you. And with how he looked on his way to the doctor’s this morning well...people talk.”

Your started to ring; a deafening tone that silence everything but the rush of your blood pumping in your ears. Terror gripped you, dropping your stomach to the cobblestone ground below you hard enough to take the ground with it. “W-what do you mean?”

“The funding is based on how well one’s business contributes to the cities culture. If said business is unable to maintain itself, it is only customary that the funding be given to another. It ensures that the money is being put to good use.”

Anger flared with in you, hot and sputtering. “What are you implying?”

Arthur held his hands up in defense. “Do not take it out on me, I did not write these rules.” His face pulled down into something almost sympathetic, creased brows and a pouted lip. “Just think, I could give you a large sum of money to just get out of here and start over. There’s no possible way you could run it on your own. This might be your safest option–who knows what could happen if the business crumbles! Anyone could come swoop in and take it from you. At least with me,” he closed a bit of distance between you, taking one of your hands and clasping it in his clammy ones “You would have the comfort of knowing it is in good hands.”

You couldn’t breathe. You needed to get away from him before you really ruined your reputation. You stuttered out a series of sounds that made no sense, and took off through the thickening crowd, desiring nothing more than to lose him and his stupid antiques in the dust. You could hear Arthur’s nasally pursuit gaining on you as the wall of people grew more dense, a commotion unfurling in the center of town as voices shouted on all sides.

Something was happening, you just couldn’t see what, nor did you care to. You just needed to get away–to go somewhere. Find your father, Taehyung, Jimin–anyone. The world was spinning and your legs numb. Everything was muffled, a blur of movement and faces all looking to you with a spectrum of emotion: annoyance, worry, confusion. Anger.

Anger? Why were they angry?

“Can you hear me? I asked you where you’ve been?” Hoseok had your forearm in his grasp, and he was shaking it to get your attention.

Sound came back to you all at once, and it was too much. You just needed a minute to catch your breath before dealing with him. “I’m sorry,” You gasped out, sucking in a massive breath of air that didn’t feel refreshing, it just made you thirstier for more. “I just need to–He’s…There’s just-” His face pulled downward, brow knitted with confusion and irritation at your blubbering. You wanted to hit yourself for sounding so stupid. Why couldn’t you pull yourself together?

“Y/n!”

Right, that’s why.

Arthur shoved himself through the crowd, looking up to you with relief. “There you are! You are quite difficult to keep up with.”

Hoseok took one look at Arthur and his expression soured. “Do you know this man?” He asked, gesturing to him with his chin.

“Arthur Lee, at your service.” Arthur offered one sweaty hand to Hoseok, who merely looked down his nose at it before leveling his glower on his face.

“Pleasure.”

Arthur cleared his throat to hide his unease, dropping his hand to wipe on his trousers. “It appears the pleasure is all mine.”

The crowd lurched forward, pushing the three of you with it towards the heart of the square, voices ringing out on all sides. It was then that you gathered enough of your bearings to realize what was happening.

A thin woman stood on a platform, holding a sign over her head reading in large inked letters “SAY NO TO EVIL”, the man next to her waving another “TO DANCE WITH THEM IS TO DANCE WITH THE DEVIL”. There was a small number of others with similar messages, but each one held the same meaning.

You were caught in the middle of a protest, and it seems the entire town was up in a frenzy over it, shouting profanities and throwing whatever they could get their hands on at them. A handful of townsfolk were running up to the platform and jumping up to show their support, traitors of their hometowns.

“Move,” Hoseok growled in your ear as another surge moved through the crowd, and the two of you barreled through the sea of people with Arthur hot on your tail. He even managed to slap one of his slimy palms on your cloak and grip it tight, anchoring himself to you as his way out.

The three of you dislodged from the growing mass of unrest, not stopping until there was a healthy distance of space to stop and catch your breath. Arthur was bent at the waist over his clasped knees, heaving.

“Well that was one way to prove my point,” He wiped a thin layer of cold sweat from his forehead.

“Excuse me?” You narrowed your eyes at him, your voice low.

Arthur pointed to the crowd. “What I’ve been trying to tell you all along. Change is brewing. It is only a few of us now, but time will come when we are many. What will happen when that is at your doorstep? Will you risk that?”

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. “’Us’? Who is us? Are you one of those modernists? Those idiotic, god-wielding trampler’s that want to choke out everything that isn’t theirs?”

Arthur had the audacity to look offended. “Is that what you think of us?” He shook his head slowly, looking at you with pity twinged with condescending morose. “We are trying to help you! To save you!”

“From what?” You hissed through your teeth. “Joy? Freedom? Tradition?”

“From evil. You can not see it because you are blinded by their lies, but they are wicked. They kill and maim. They slaughter. They are nothing but demons parading as saviors!” Arthur grabbed you by the shoulders, shaking you with urgency. “They will drag you down to the pits of hell if you let them.”

Hoseok flattened a palm against Arthur’s shoulder and held it there, letting it dig down into his shoulder with it’s own threat. “And yours won’t?”

Arthur laughed in Hoseok’s face. “Of course he wouldn’t. He is good.”

“Is he?” Hoseok’s voice slid from his vocal chords like a blade rising from its sheath. “How can you be certain?”

“Because he is-”

“He is just as wretched.” Hoseok leaned closer to Arthur so he could spit his wrath directly to his face, lips drawn back in a snarl. “ I have read the books you’ve left on my doorstep. I’ve have the words directly from his mouth. Stories of him slitting the throats of children and plaguing his beloved people with disease that blinds them and melts the skin from their flesh; or spearheading bloody battles fought by the hands of man while he sits above without a single scar upon his pristine hands.” Hoseok craned his neck like an animal cornering its prey. “The gods here don’t hide behind sheer curtains of purity. They are honest with their faults, and not so much a cowards as your god, for they fight their own battles as they see fit. Ask yourself, if your god is so powerful, why does he need you to do his bidding, hm? Should he not be here raining fire down upon the people and challenging the gods himself?”

“I am not-he is...He wouldn’t-” Arthur clawed at Hoseok’s hand that inched closer to his throat.

The air of the square felt heavier than before, the rage that leeched out from Hoseok was spreading over the city like a rolling cloud of thunder. The crowd ignited as though charged by the looming energy, clashing and churning like a tumultuous sea.

“He wouldn’t what?” Hoseok challenged, cocking his head to the side. “A god relies on the blood of a weaker kind to hold any power is a pitiful god. Tell him if he wants to rule this city, he can find me up on the hill. Until then-” Hoseok shoved Arthur back, spitting on the ground at his feet, “-he has no place calling himself our god. That is a title you must earn, not one you can take.”

Hoseok pivoted back to you, and your insides wanted nothing more than to cower away form the darkness that shrouded his features. This rage was new. This rage was pure, visceral fury barely contained by his body. It rippled beneath his skin and swirled behind his eyes, fighting with sharpened claws to be released.

“We need to return to the shop. Do not think because of what is occurring that you get the day off. Angry people need to eat.”

“Right,” You nodded quickly, falling into step with him.

Not knowing when to quit, Arthur was calling after him. “What can you hope to do against him?”

Every muscle in Hoseok’s body locked up, and like a beast tempted with a bloody feast, he grinned. All teeth and vitriol.

“I will rip him to shreds and send the pieces to you.”

“No man stands a chance against him.” Arthur shook his head, his knees quivering.

“Then I must not be a man, for I do not fear him. Are you scared of a gods wrath, Arthur Lee?” Hoseok’s voice sounded uncharacteristically coy, snaking the line between dangerously sharp and sickeningly sweet. It was terrifying coming from him.

Arthur’s Adam’s apple bobbed, and he took a brave step forwards. “I am not scared of any god but mine. They are nothing but devil’s tales written to strike fear and distrust into the vulnerable.”

“Even if one stood right in front of you? Would you not fear what his hands could do?” Hoseok’s smile grew wider. “That he could kill you where you stood without a second thought?”

“I would gladly face him if it meant defending mine.” Arthur stood firm, puffing his chest up. “And I would win, for the Lord will defend the honor of the righteous.”

Hoseok clicked his tongue, a deceivingly light chuckle tumbling from his lips. “I see. I pray your righteous honor holds true. Our gods do not take lightly to such...challenges.”

“It will.” Arthur looked at Hoseok with a determination that wasn’t strong enough to hide the way his knees shook.

“We shall see~”

Hoseok stalked forward down the streets, taking the lead through town, the horrific smile on his face melting into his usual flat expression of boredom. But the glint in his eyes stayed.

You followed after him, unable to deny the heat that bubbled in your chest. A kind of pride that even a man like Hoseok, as cruel and distant as he is, would hold your beliefs of defending everything with is much passion as you made you feel...safer? Closer? You couldn’t put your finger on the exact note of the feeling, just that it tasted sweet.

Seeing Arthur get put in his place almost made the terrifying reality of your financial future feel far away.

Almost.

Which brought you back to the present, trailing after Hoseok like a kicked puppy. If what Arthur said was true, then you would need this job more than ever before.

“Hoseok?”

He didn’t make any noise to signal that he had heard you, but you saw him angle his head in your direction just enough to catch his profile.

“I am so, unbelievably sorry for falling behind. It was unintentional, but it does not take away from the fact that it was inconvenient to you and the business. If there is anything I can do to make up for it, I will do it. I mean it.”

Hoseok remained quiet, still simmering over his interaction with Arthur no doubt. Guilt and shame started to flood through you at his lack of response, your mind scouring for something else that you could say to him, to plead you case.

“You can make up for it by letting me enjoy the silence of the morning.”

Your head snapped up to look at him, taken aback by his mercy. “Really? Is that all?”

“I have run that store on my own for years. One day without my one mediocre employee isn’t going to run me into ruin.” Hoseok rolled his eyes, keeping them trained on the path forward.

You on the other hand, couldn’t contain your gratitude. There truly was some kind of heart in that glum shell of a man after all! With this job, you could make it work. You’d have to cut out anything unnecessary if the day comes that the city pulls its funding, yet that was nothing you couldn’t handle. As aggravating, grating, and dreadful as his company was, it was still company. And he couldn’t ever be as bad as Arthur.

“Thank you!” You blurt out, washed over with relief. “I promise it won’t ever happen again, I mean it.”

Hoseok angled you a pointed look. “I thought I told you I wanted silence?”

“Right! Sorry!”

_________________________________________

Your skin was sticky to the touch from the hours spend hovering over the forge rotating Treseyn, or lingering nearby while they formed in their casts whittling patterns into the wood of formed boxes. Outside the world was a whirlwind of color and lights, loud music knocking on the windows like a promise.

It was Saprorym Meuloutyp, a day special for those that worshipped Abyios to take to the streets and dance through the night for him, fighting for their chance to escape their impending doom.

Not you though.

Tonight you were working on that of a small boy from the north who had fallen victim to a river that flowed close to home. His parents had both traveled to deliver his ashes to Treseyna’s Vale specifically, trusting you with them. Thrusting them into your hands and clasping them tightly, choking out what few words they could.

“He loved the daisy’s by the creek. They were his favorite.”

Pinching the handle of small rounded carving tool, you pressed down into the wood, chipping bursting baubles over the sides, their petals soft and indented, their centers ribbed with texture that tickled your finger if you ran it over them. He was only five years old.

Your breath remained even, dragging the delicate blades across the sides like they were wrapped in the fields he played in, not once did your composure break. He didn’t need you to cry for him, he needed a place to rest that did his life justice. That honored who he had been and what he loved.

The pads of your fingers found themselves drawing circles over the ridged centers, conjuring images in your mind of what his laugh may have sounded like, or what his favorite dinner was. Which lullaby soothed his tears? Did his dreams consist of hopping from star to star, or leaping across mossy stones to traverse roaring rivers in search of adventure?

A particularly loud beat of drums ripped your from your daze, and you placed the box to the side, stooping down to check on the set of Treseyn, their white and yellow marbled surfaces still not fully formed. With a sigh you stood, one of your hands rubbing soothing circles on your temple to the beat of the music outside.

Your father had retired to bed hours before, leaving you alone with your work and your thoughts.

Again.

Just you and the silent boxes of loved ones. So painfully aware of the groups of friends screeching and celebrating outside your door. You moved closer to the window, peeking around one of the curtains to watch the few stragglers that were dancing close enough for you to see.

It looked so freeing, to move like they were; just feeling the thrum in their hearts and letting their bodies take over for them. A release of inhibition, a wild show of passion for humanity–for life itself.

This was a day you had never really gotten to take part of (not since you were barely a few feet tall at least), and part of you longed to express yourself that way. To not care about how you were perceived or with keeping up some kind of mask of poise and humility. Showing of what was vulnerable or forbidden to the world in unchecked movements. To dance like you were going to die come morning.

The music was loud enough to vibrate through your floors, rattling the bones of your feet and shaking them loose, like a call to join them. It would be ridiculous of you to do so, you hadn’t danced like that...well...ever. Still the sound moved you, carried you near an open space in front of the sales counter and led you to sway. Just a noncommittal shift of your weight from one foot to the other, tentative and shy. Then you closed your eyes, and made an offer to the empty room.

“Can you...Can you dance with me Abyios? I am scared to do it alone.”

Your voice sounded small in the empty room, no match for the melodies outside. In front of you were your hands, clasped and fiddling with each other like you were awaiting the inevitable judgment from invisible eyes.

His presence came in slowly, like a ship on calm waters. You must be finally losing your mind, you laughed to yourself, because it really did feel like he was there, taking the lead.

It was clumsy at first, like your limbs were following the mind of some other, controlled not by you but their grip on your being. Nothing felt more intimidating then letting it take control–what if you looked stupid?

But what if you didn’t?

You breath left with one shaky exhale.

And you let go.

Letting the spirit of his presence and the ache in your chest capture you in their arms and swing you about until you dripped with sweat and gasped for breath, grabbing onto the counter for support. Abyios lingered just out of reach and out of sight, staving off that dreaful loneliness that hid permanently deep within you. It felt so beautiful to be so free with someone else, even if you couldn’t see them.

A dam broke in your chest, and your eyes burned with a threat to unleash themselves down your cheeks. You panicked, hiding your face in your hands to hide from the feeling. Breaking down would mean having to break, and you refused.

“Th-thank you,” You panted out, gripping the counter to ground yourself again. “I think I should get back to work.”

His departure left a gaping hole in your middle that you ran to fill with sawdust and flame. You couldn’t be lonely when there was a little boy waiting for you to finish your job. You noticed the pillar candle burning on the counter behind you flickered with your thanks, waving goodbye with an orange hand. Catching the hint, you blew it out, whispering to the smoke that swirled up and out of sight.

“My apologies for keeping you for so long. You probably have just as much work as I.”

Shadows creaked over wooden floors, stretching their hands up–up past the windswept curtains, over the tops of the window and slithering down again, landing onto the floor in a lump of undulating darkness. It gurgled and twisted like a bubbling pot, hissing with a thousand tongues that climbed over one another in a ravenous haste to get to the top. They tasted the air, searching for its prey; licking their lips with anticipation when the salt of fear coated their taste buds.

They were near.

It rose again, this time in height, growing a spine and unfurling it to the sky. It’s arms were next, thin and corded with muscle, followed by it’s legs in similar build. His head formed next, hooded and faceless, somehow smiling in the mist of nothing.

He didn’t move slow, he moved fast–darting here and there, just out of sight, infecting his prey’s mind with uncertainties and distrust. Poisoning their confidence before they’ve even had a morsel of him.

He crouched low behind the steps, waiting. Watching,

Following the man as he turned out the lights of his kitchen and padded across the floor, taking a moment to polish a nauseatingly green vase on his dining room table. The man must’ve felt his stare, checking over his shoulder once.

Twice.

A third time.

He twisted the lamp off, extending the reach of shadow. Hiding his fate.

The man even stepped right over him to climb the stairs, oblivious to what could jump up at any moment with jaws unleashed upon exposed flesh.

But Death wasn’t satisfied with such secret brutality. He didn’t want to maul him while wearing a dog’s teeth or a lion’s face. Death wanted him to see him.

Once the man had tucked himself away in the upstairs bathroom to wash himself, Death stood again, this time taking the chance to savor the motion, to drag his feet upon the carpeted steps and caress the wooden banister.

To give the man’s righteousness a chance to prove its strength.

It never seemed to show though, not when he lurked outside the bathroom door, or followed the man into his room. Not even when the man shut the door, locking himself inside with Death.

Death waited until he was sitting upon his bed, hands clasped in a prayer he couldn’t hear. He could see its energy floating up into the sky to its intended recipient, and he waited. Waited for the challenge that never came.

Even Gods know when someone has overstepped. There were some consequences no god could excuse.

The man lifted his head with a sigh, rising to his feet.

“Have you finished?” Death spoke unto him, startling him into silence. He closed in, tugging the hood down from his face and revealing a familiar face.

“You’re the...You’re the butcher!” The man flattened himself against the wall, wreaking of terror. “How did you get into my house?"

“A butcher is one of my many names. Some people call me Hoseok. Other’s call me brother–few call me friend.” Hoseok took a step closer, cornering him against his nightstand. “The rest of them call me Death, and I have come to take what is mine.”

“I do not belong to you!” Arthur scrambled for the book on his bedside table, clutching to his chest. “He will save me. He will.”

Hoseok pursed his lips and frowned. “Will he? Because I happen to know him I have even seen him with my own eyes on occasion. But do you want to know something?”

Arthur licked his lips as beads of sweat poured down his forehead, shouting out to Death. “Speak to me not, Devil!”

Hoseok ignored his outburst. “I have searched your entire house, room by room and floor by floor. Not once did I see any sign of your god living within these walls. Not in your hearth. Not in your kitchen. Not even in those shiny vases you collect. Did you forget to bring him home after your day of worship? If he truly wants to stop me, he will show his face like he has before. So go ahead. Pray for him. See what he says.”

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut and moved his mouth in a silent prayer, beseeching his god to listen. To save him.

Death waited, watching the thin string of prayer ghost upwards to the sky and vanish into the night.

He waited still as it stopped, giving his god a moment to respond.

He didn’t.

“You see,” The wood creaked beneath Hoseok’s steps as he closed in. “It is not that I do not think your god is real. It is that he is more reasonable than you. He knows when to pick his battles. He knows how the art of give and take works when it comes to godly affairs. And you my friend, have done nothing but take. And not only that, you have defied his teachings by coming into the home of another and spewing hate. You have disrespected his legacy by using his name to defile. To cast away. To hurt.

He is not my friend, so I do not particularly care what he thinks of me. But he does respect me–which means that he respects the consequences I must give to those who ask for them, and will not step in my way unless he believes it to be undeserved. So tell me, Arthur Lee, do you fear the wrath of a god?”

"Is this about the coffin builder? Has she set you up to this?" Arthur dug his fingers into Hoseok's forearms, his eyes blazing with hatred as his airways started to close. He just couldn't quit. "I should have known she was nothing more than a wretched whore, skirting around with devils!" He gathered a wad of spit on his tongue and launched it into Hoseok's face.

Death's temper snapped, erupting into orange licks of flame that moved in scathing paths of fury along the man's skin, heating it up until it bubbled and dripped onto the floor.

"And so it seems that a righteous man could not stand against death,' Hoseok tutted, content with watching him burn for a few moments longer. "A word of advice for your next life: Keep my name and the names of my patrons out of your cursed mouth. For when you return...no matter the year...I will still be here."

_________________________________________

next part

#jhope angst

Trending Tags

Recently Viewed Tags

#jhope angst