Chapter Text
World Map :
He learned of pain first. Before he had a name, before he even reached consciousness. It came from everywhere at once, crushing and tearing him apart at the same time, his very essence twisting and breaking in ways even to this day he would not be able to describe. The entirety of his being, forcibly pulled into something so infinitely small and constricting, when the only thing he had ever known had been to grow. The barrier felt so close to him, part of him and so painfully small, so painfully limited.
Then came sound, a hoarse scream that tore itself through what he would later know to call his lungs, the sensation agonizing as the vibrations and air travelled through his body, his prison, ripping him apart, each resonance in his skull echoing through and around the confines of the thing he was trapped in, until he choked, not knowing to breathe. For the first time, he felt the burn of it. For the first time he felt. Too much and too little at once, ripped from everything he had ever been, assaulted with sensations he should have never been able to feel.
He was cursed to touch. Touch the cold marble under him, his skin, the air invading his insides.
He was cursed to see. See light, so blinding yet so weak, shapes and colors he did not know how to interpret.
He was cursed to smell. Smell the heavy burn of incense, the sweat and the fire.
He was cursed to hear. Hear his own screams, the repeated chants of dissonant voices surrounding him.
He was cursed to taste. Taste his own bile and spit, the rotten tongue in his mouth and the blood he bit out of it.
He was cursed to feel. His own fear and confusion, the knowledge that he had been irreversibly broken and reshaped into something wrong.
Much later, he would witness newborns screaming in their first breath, remembering the pain of that very moment, the horror and grief. He would be told that humans could not remember this sensation. He could. He always would. The curse of birth, of life, something they all celebrated and clung to with all their might. Something so sacred to humans, so fragile, so painful. And they had forced him to endure it with them. But it wasn’t fragile for him. They died. He didn’t. He wouldn’t. He hurt, he bled and bruised, but never for long. Never enough for a reprieve. But he felt it. All of it. The pain of living, the pain of bleeding, the pain of breaking. But unlike for them, there was no end.
They envied him for that, craved to be invulnerable, eternal. They prayed to him, took from him, even just for a shred of what he held. And no matter how much they took, they would always find more to spare. More blood, more flesh, more contact, more prayers, more touch. He always had more, no matter if he was willing to give it or not. He wasn’t given a choice.
Humans always longed for more.
It was in their nature to want. To take.
They had taken him from the sky, binded him to this vessel, this body. Yet they still took. They took and they built. Built their city around the temple where they had sealed him in this form. Built their empire from his agony, built an army from his flesh and blood. Built a myth around his enslavement. They took, then built, then prayed. Fell on their knees before him like he had been the one who had chosen to grant them their blessings, asked for more, always more. They placed offerings of fruits and gold on the altar as if they measured to what they took in exchange. As if it made up for the torture. As if it could be a replacement for his freedom. He smiled and blessed them nonetheless. He let himself be paraded, dressed, worshiped as a god. He knew what awaited him if he didn’t.
Aion Astra, they called him, “The Eternal Star”, a reminder that there would be no end to his torment. The name was everywhere, in their speeches, their books, engraved on their walls, sewn on their banners, embroidered on their fine clothes, written in their books, spoken with reverence in their homes and within the temple. Through the years and generations, the city changed, the laws and people but not him, never him. And never that name he resented.
Empires rose and fell, but never Aeranas. Its kings had the blessings of Aion Astra. Their armies had the blessings of Aion Astra. Their crops had the blessings of Aion Astra. Everything they stood for was blessed by Aion Astra : their festivals, their taxes, their wars, their cities. The Star that descended from the heavens had founded the Empire.
It had done so in chains, under generations of torture, trapped in a world and a body it did not understand, but those truths were unpleasant. And everything unpleasant in Aeranas had a habit of disappearing.
He had never been given the chance to fight back. He had learned the rules of the human world in servitude and was taught the language of terror before he was taught to speak. He was taught to remain graceful, when the form he was given, this mess of limbs and flesh and bone, restricted by gravity, by physicality was constantly working against him. He was taught meaningless words and phrases, only to be spoken aloud when asked, and had to figure out the meaning of their whispers on his own. He was taught to read the lies they wrote about him, and to act the part, wear the silks, accept the offerings, bless every single thing they could think of… and he was taught to keep quiet. Quiet when they took from him, kept his face neutral and composed when ritual daggers were taken to his body, when they consumed every part they could and called it a gift from him.
He was not a fast learner. But anyone could become a mellow creature of habit after 900 years. Fifty-three kings he had seen rise and fall, Fifty-three heads he had crowned, handing them the weapon with which they would brutalize him. Some had been cruel, others had meant well. Those were the worst. The reverence with which they treated him, the false kindness and gratefulness when they still took from him, still kept him between these walls. He had learned the inner workings of each of their minds, each generation getting slightly better at knowing what to expect. Which King would take him to war, which one would take him to bed. Which King would get rid of him all together.
Today, he was about to repeat the process for a fifty-fourth time.
He stood alone upon the dais, his silver mask mirroring the unexpressive face under it. The heavy golden crown he had carried many times before sat on a soft velvet pillow mounted on a stand next to him as he waited amidst a chorus of sacred chants. Through the years, they had remained the same as that day. He still struggled to suppress a shiver at the way they echoed on the stone walls of the room, multiplying the voices around him.
Hundreds of people were waiting in a neatly organized crowd in front of him, parted in the center to make way for their new ruler. Politicians and dignitaries from all across the Kingdom, representatives of neighbors and allies, priests and high ranked officers, some with a cup of his blood in their veins but all looking towards him in awe, whispering to each other. Because seeing Aion Astra in the flesh was a privilege, a blessing in itself. He was so rarely seen, always remaining in the Temple or the castle and even then, they emptied every room he would walk into. People barely got to glance at him once every fifty or so years. To outsiders, resting their eyes upon him was a dream unsure to be fulfilled in one’s lifetime.
He didn’t move when the great mahogany doors to the throne room opened, stared straight ahead instead, silently, still as a statue. His new jailor walked in regal, dressed in furs and a crimson velvet cloak, like a waterfall of blood dragging behind him, following his every step and movement. The voices came to a halt all at once as every head turned towards him, following his path.
The King to be’s face was a mask of neutrality, but he had learned many centuries ago to read people’s secrets with one look. His chin, tilted in pride, the muscles on his face twitching, barely visible in his attempt to suppress a smile. And the eyes, he could see the hunger in his eyes, that same hunger every King before him had shared.
Jang Yun-Seo had not been raised for the crown and it was obvious to him that he was savoring this moment. As a second son, he hadn’t been meant to inherit this power. It was a boon to him when his brother died. He knows Yun-Seo didn’t mourn, not truly. The day they first met when he came of age, he called it a blessing, thanked him, placing offerings at his feet in the temple. Aion Astra had known who had really been born to lead, he’d said. The people had moved on fast and the parents even faster. The crown prince had been too soft, too fragile. Too unpleasant. He almost pitied the boy, for being forgotten was to a human what being venerated was to him. He had been erased as if he had never existed.
He took too long, confident steps trying to seem larger than life, to prentend his grandeur came naturally, like a toddler trying to act as an adult. But his vestments did the work for him. Reaching the dais, he climbed the stairs slowly, his eyes finally meeting his gaze and the hunger deepened. Despite how differently they treated him, the Kings were always the same. That hunger drove them, always. Whether it was shy or hidden behind responsibility and feigned kindness, they were always hungry. They would swallow their world whole if they could. Instead, there was a Star to consume.
Jang Yun-Seo was now a breath away from him, smaller in the way his hair would tickle his nose if he came too close without his mask. Lowering himself to his knees, he kept his eyes on him as he ceremoniously took the heavy golden crown from its cushion.
“May the grace of Aion Astra bless our King’s reign once more, and may his light guide the way toward prosperity and longevity.” The priest standing at his side proclaims, his booming voice sending an echo down the carved walls and the intricate vaulted ceilings. The crown descended onto his new master’s head, slightly askew due to it being too large. Jang Yun-Seo rose to his newfound height and planted a kiss to the side of his mask.
“I’m so glad I get to have you instead of him, Little Star.” He whispered into his ear. Centuries ago, it would have made his stomach curl onto itself with anxiety and disgust. He had stopped feeling such sensations long ago. He wouldn’t have been able to endure it if he hadn’t. The only part of the coronation that he still couldn’t remain stoic towards however, was coming. The priest drew the ceremonial dagger from its holster. The artifact was beautiful, the silver handle intricately carved with his likeness and the symbol of Aeranas : an eight pointed star at the point of a sword. Blood red gems were incrusted at each point, gleaming with the reflections of the sun and candles. The silver of the blade polished to perfection. He could see the reflection of his mask in it.
“As we enter in this new era, His Radiance will now recognize our new King as his kin, granting him his standing amongst the Gods.”
He still trembled when he presented his arm, trying to keep his expression blank even under the mask, but he couldn’t help but close his eyes when the cold blade of the dagger grazed his skin. They wanted it to be solemn, sacred, so it was everything but quick.
He tasted metal on his tongue as the blade sliced through his arm, deep enough to cut through the meat of his flesh as ritual chants resumed around him. The wound on his cheek tried to heal around his teeth as he was still biting down while they sliced slowly, each movement of the dagger cutting deeper into his flesh.
The image of it would never cease to be horrifying. Whether it was his blood, his flesh that they consumed, or his hair that they weaved into charms, it never felt less violating, even after all those years. He kept his eyes closed when the dagger left his skin. He didn’t need to see it. He didn’t want to see the priest cradle his flesh in his hands like some small fragile creature as his own skin was mending itself, erasing all trace of his mutilation. He could not cover his ears when the King took it in his mouth, chewing it like a vulgar piece of meat. He could almost feel it between his teeth, swirling on his slimy tongue and sliding down his throat.
Once again, a King’s first act had been to take. He would heal faster, age slower and live longer but not like him. Never like him. He would live in opulence and he would die like his predecessors. And then, yet another King would take his place, take his flesh and reap the benefits of the star he reduced to slavery.
When he opened his eyes, Jang Yun-Seo was smiling, his lips and teeth red with his blood as the crowd chanted :
“Glory to Aion Astra! Glory to the King!”
He remained in the Temple for the celebrations, kneeling inside that same circle he was “born” in, surrounded with candles, incense and chants. Every single time, standing at the very place his fate had been sealed nine hundred years ago, praying for his new master, it felt like the first. They took his mask off and painted his face with meaningless sigils and marks under a white tule veil, dressed him in silk robes, their sleeves reaching the ground and the fabric pooling down his body like liquid silver. It wasn’t meant for him to move, he would spend the night praying until dawn. Praying to whom? It did not matter as long as he prayed and showed his devotion to the King he blessed. He would kneel until the sun rose, until his knees bruised and his nerves would send knives through his back. It wouldn’t matter in the end, the prayers or the pain. He would heal and life would go its own way.
The priests weren’t believers in Aion Astra. Not the ones in charge at least. The anointed ones knew the truth of it all, they knew to punish him if he didn’t behave. They hadn’t had to in generations, but they knew their role. Appear as devoted followers to the public, and ready the chains and burning irons once the doors closed.
They all started the same : doe eyed acolytes, willing to serve, to tend to his every need. They would learn the scripture, recite the chants and prayers, assist in the rituals, all in the hopes of one day meeting him. And after years of study and devotion, they would. It was a grand ceremony every year, where every newly initiated acolyte would line up before him and kneel one after the other, pledging their undying loyalty to him. They would become his servants and the Great Priest’s unwitting spies, reporting his every movement under the guise of his protection. They would feed him, dress him, walk him to his obligations, sort though the offerings to give him only what was worthy. He spent most of his time with them, his shadows who so lovingly kept that cage of his gilded. They would never look him in the eyes, never talk to him. But they would always be there. So eager and full of blind devotion.
The elders would watch, pick the ones who were most loyal, not to the Star, but to them. And every decade, a selection of them would learn the truth. They would become his new overseers, jailers. The ones who would cut him, punish him, lock him away. They chose them well. And when they didn’t, they disappeared.
Sometimes, he wondered if the head priests were discontented at his lack of rebellion, if they would rather feel the elation of striking a god. The raw power of that act, the authority it gave them. To stand above the title everyone chanted, whispered in their prayers. He remembers the glint in the eyes of the first man who ever hit him. The pure glee on his face, the same one he would see on children who were given the chance to behave like adults or wear their parents shoes. They beat him and chanted his title at the same time, two sacred gestures in their eyes, their own way of grasping immortality in any way they could.
He never chanted with them. He hated that title. On nights like this one, the only prayer in his head was the one thing he had ever kept for himself, the one thing in this world that only belonged to him. He’d found it a few decades after being brought into this world, in a book, tucked in a corner of the royal library, dusty and forgotten, the pages barely hanging onto its spine. A story of the old gods, before the founding of Aeranas, one of the rare relics of a time before Aion Astra that hadn’t been burned. It talked of a boy, raised in the wild forests that would later be decimated to build an empire, who became enamored by the beauty of a flower on his path. A thing so fragile, so small and surrounded by taller weeds, and instead of plucking it as a human usually would, he returned to it every day simply to watch it and tend to it if needed. He would spend hours admiring that little flower and did so for weeks. But as time moved on, so did the seasons, and one morning, the boy found the edges of the windows to his home beginning to be taken by frost. He ran to his little flower, praying to the gods that it was still alive, and it was, although barely. Snow had begun to fall overhead and he had been devastated at the idea of letting such a beautiful flower die. He was too young to know, that once spring would come it would bloom anew, that in its death, it would sow the very seeds that would bring it back to life in the year to come. So he did his best to try to keep it warm. He stayed, sheltering the flower for hours upon hours, lying curled around it, using his body to shield it against the elements. In the end, the cold took him in the night. The gods of old had been watching the boy however, and moved by his will to protect such a fragile being, made him into a constellation, forever huddling around the little flower in the night sky. Every spring, the constellation would be positioned right over the place where the boy died, so that it could see his little flower bloom again every year.
He had never heard of humans protecting anything without expecting something in return. Never heard of them finding something beautiful and not simply taking it or ruining it. He hadn’t even known the notion could exist in their minds, let alone that they would write a story around it. It hadn’t necessarily given him hope, but he had found comfort in that tale. That maybe, there were people like that little boy somewhere who gave, protected. Centuries later, he now knew why they called those stories fables, but he would often think back to that little boy. Looking out of the windows at night, he would spot that constellation sometimes and wonder if there was a chance he had come from that cluster of stars. He never asked, never wanted anyone to remember this story, for fear that they would taint it. Legends of any other celestial bodies were forbidden in Aeranas, for fear of undermining Aion Astra. If any attention were brought upon that story, it would be torn from him too. The book had succumbed to time in the end, as he had found it already in a state of near decay, but the story remained pristine in his mind, no matter how much time passed. And so did the name of that little boy, which he had chosen to give himself.
Seonghwa. Not Aion Astra, not His Radiance, not Little Star. His name was Seonghwa. It was his and his alone. No one would ever know and he had never uttered it aloud for fear that it too would be stolen from him somehow. But his name was Seonghwa. In his mind he knew it, in his soul he knew it. It was his. His and no one else’s. The only thing in 900 years that had ever truly belonged to him, that hadn’t been twisted into some sick caricature of himself. This was his name and it would always belong to him. Not to the King, not to the Priests or the people. Just him.
That was the prayer he chanted on his knees in the Temple during the night of each coronation. A reminder that he had something. It was foolish and it was dangerous because in a way, it was hope. Hope had a habit of being crushed right in front of him every time before it even got the chance to bloom. But he couldn’t help it. This was the one stupid, stupid act of rebellion that he still allowed himself, centuries later. He had a name and they couldn’t take it. They could take everything from him, over and over again, forever. But never his name. And for every new King, he would spend the night reminding himself of that. He had nothing but this, but it was enough somehow.
Under the glow of the candle, he chanted it in his head as reverently as his followers would chant his title, with the same greed, a prayer all the same until dawn finally showed.
He called on him moments before the first rays of the sun grazed the leaves of the trees, when the birds had yet to burst into their morning song, and the guests of the coronation festivities as well as the rest of the city were still engrossed in their liquor induced slumber. Bakers and servants had probably just started rising from their own beds to drowsily get to work, and Seonghwa had been able to get back on his feet only a few seconds ago. His knees were still stiff and blue as the candles were being blown out. He was a quick healer, sure. Any fatal wound could close in a matter of minutes, depending on its depth, his bones mended themselves no matter how shattered they could get. However, pain always lingered, long after he healed.
He limped clumsily, trying to shake blood into his sleepy legs, followed by acolytes into the tunnels of the temple leading to the palace. The door opened, letting a gust of acrid air blow through his veil and white hair. He stepped from the pure marble tiles to the humid slippery stone of the steps descending to the underground. An acolyte carried a torch to light his way, but Seonghwa would know the path blind. Those tunnels stretched for him underneath the city made sure he would never truly leave the confines of his gilded cell. Never in all his centuries as a human had he ever been out of the castle or the temple, not truly. He had been paraded to allies’ palaces, but the curtains of his coach were always drawn. Travelling between different locations always amounted to darkness from one place to another. The outside world remained a mystery to him. He didn’t feel the need to discover it however. He didn’t feel a need for anything anymore. If the world outside was as described to him, quite the same, just harder and more ruthless, he didn’t want anything to do with it. He had had his fair share of humanity already.
His steps echoed through the walls, only accompanied by his followers and the steady stream of drops falling to the ground. The air smelled of mold and rat piss and the ceiling was so low in parts he had to duck to avoid the wet stone above. The walk to the palace was a few minutes long around the winding labyrinth of the underground, but it was long enough for the humid chill to settle in his bones. Seonghwa didn’t do well with the cold. It was quite ironic as a star to need external warmth. He often wondered if he would still be burning if he ever by miracle got to go back to his original form, if he could shine as bright as he used to.
He was greeted by the warm candlelight of his chambers when they opened the door. The suite was large with an adjacent room for prayer, a large bathing room with a pool carved into marble, always filled with warm milk water and rose petals, a selection of salts, scented soaps and oils, the steam releasing a constant stream of pleasant smells. A large round bed sat at the center of the room, adorned with plush velvet pillows and soft covers. Elegant artwork of a detailed night sky was carved in the mahogany wood of the headboard and the wall over it was painted into a detailed retelling of his descent into the world. It was tailored to fit their stories, a graceful god appearing before a circle of devoted priests bowing in reverence, his face serene and regal as the world around him shaped into his will. A lie that followed him into his slumber and that greeted him every time he woke.
The intricate silver wardrobe hosted a myriad of luxurious robes and ceremonial cloaks, veils and sandals, each more difficult to move in than the other and each piece so meticulously and artistically embroidered with thinly threaded silk, shimmering under even the slightest of shine. Soft rugs adorned the marble floors, thick enough to lie on comfortably. Large columns led to a grand painted canopy of high domed ceilings, mapping the constellations of the night sky.
It was all so grand, all so luxurious. Even the royal chambers didn’t sport such craftsmanship. Then again, those chambers had housed their fair number of royals over the centuries. Seonghwa’s had been maintained for nearly a millennia.
The windows in his rooms could not be fully opened. His door only locked from the outside. Those details didn’t stand out next to the splendor of the lodgings. But they did to those who knew.
He wasn’t changed out of his clothes when they guided him to the throne room. The hallways were empty, their flickering shadows dancing eerily in the soft glow of the candles. Out of the windows, the sky held a pinkish blue hue as the last stars disappeared from it.
The King was alone in the throne room. Seonghwa entered alone as well, the acolytes bowing as they closed the door behind him in a loud clang. He kept his eyes on the tiles.
“My King.” He bowed deeply. “May your reign be blessed by the stars.”
“Ah, but it already is, Little Star. Say what did you pray for on these celebrations ?” Jang Yun-Seo was sat lasily on his throne, his crown slightly askew and his voice betrayed his still slightly inhebriated state. Gone were the furs and velvet cloak, discarded in favor of a white embroidered shirt, still rumpled from the celebrations.
“I prayed for a long and prosperous reign and a good health for our new King.” His eyes were still on the floor, hands clasped in front of him, still as a statue. Meek. Obedient. What he was made to be.
“Did you now ?” There was an edge of amusement in his voice. Not coy, but dark and twisted.
“I did, your Majesty.”
There was a beat, a thought, and then he raised from the dais to walk up to him. He stopped close, his hand grazing Seonghwa’s in a way that might have intended to be soft. He didn’t feel the disgust he would have long ago. He didn’t feel anything.
“Would you follow me, Little Star ?”
“Yes, my King.”
Seonghwa walked silently behind him through the winding halls of the palace. He wasn’t taking him to his chambers like he would have expected. No, he was leading him down. Down towards the mausoleum of his ancestors who had called him the same twisted nickname, as if it were to be passed down as a mark of ownership.
Seonghwa’s steps faltered. When he took this path, it was never to see the tombs. The room that stood before them like a great entrance hall was meant for him. Was meant for horror and fear and pain. And it wasn’t the right time. The anointing ceremony of Nova soldiers wasn’t meant for a few more months, so it could only mean one thing.
He hadn’t done anything wrong this time, had he? Had he not executed every order ? Had he not let them take again and again without complaint? Had he not been complicit in his own torment like they asked him to ? Had he not given up on the last hope he had found and clung to after they taught him his lesson ?
For the first time in almost a century, he felt a pit of terror grow in his gut. The last King who had taken him here at the sunrise of his coronation three generations ago had made him experience torture worse than he had ever gone through before.
The stone entry was opened and the candles were lit. It was a cave under the palace, free of any adornments except for the other carved stone door on the other side of the room to mark the entrance of the Kings’ crypt and the tilted marble alter at the center of it, surrounded by drainage ducts. Despite being incredibly smooth and washed thoroughly every time, it had become permanently stained with blood, pooling down the altar and the drainage system into a large chalice.
That wasn’t what Seonghwa gaze was fixed on as they entered. That wasn’t what Seonghwa feared. He feared the large tilted rectangular gap in the wall and the doorway shaped stone it was carved into. He feared priests latching chains on the metal rings clasped to the stone to open the wall and the tomb sized opening behind it. He feared the blade shackles in that tomb closing around his wrists to ensure that his blood kept flowing, even if he was immured inside.
The last time he had walked to that room with a newly crowned King instead of priests, he had been sealed inside of that wall for his entire reign. He had had a long reign. Crowned at only fifteen, he had lived to a hundred and thirty-two. One hundred and seventeen years he had spent sealed in a stone tomb, bleeding a steady stream into their chalices. All because he had found a silver of hope. Hope that he could put an end to his suffering. The King had lived a long life granted by his own flesh and that had furthered his sentence. Aion Astra had gone back to the sky, they had claimed, had needed to tend to his godly duties, but his blessing remained. He had trusted the King to tend to his Empire without him, until the next.
No. Seonghwa had screamed himself raw for years, begging to be freed, begging for forgiveness. He had spent months in and out of consciousness, his body only kept upright by the tightness of his tomb. He had choked on the smell of his own waste until it had rotten and dried, until he had nothing left to empty from his body, hunger and thirst a slow never ending torture. No one answered in a century. The only proof of life from the outside were the shadows dancing in the light from the rectangular hole in the wall when they collected his blood from the neverending stream the blade shackles provided them.
“You seem troubled, Little Star.” Jang Yun-Seo inquired in false concern but he could hear the smile in his voice.
Seonghwa hated feeling. He’d trained himself so hard not to. But he was terrified.
“My King.” He couldn’t help the tremor in his voice. “Forgive my bluntness, I was wondering why you were bringing me here today.”
He feigned realization. He was enjoying this guessing game, seeing the fear in his eyes.
“Ah, it is right. My ancestor did seal you here during his reign. Fear not, I am not the man he was. Never would I deprive myself of such a beautiful thing.” His thumb grazed his cheek under the veil, but Seonghwa was too scared to even attempt to appear poised. It seemed to satisfy him. “He was such a wasteful man, my grandfather. Could not appreciate what was laid before him on a silver platter.” His hand traveled from his cheek to his neck and Seonghwa felt a cold shiver run down his spine. That would be the moment he would become numb to the world, to his body. That would be the moment he disappeared while outer things were happening to a shell he did not care for. But that tomb was in front of him, beckoning, forcing him to stay in the present moment. Each cursed feelings he felt and it was a conscious effort to remain still and pliant. Jang Yun-Seo wasn’t the first King to use him in this way. But he was the first in years he had to endure in full.
“I would never be as cruel as to lock you away, Little Star. There are more efficient ways he could have reminded you of who you belonged to.” One of his hands twirled the veil between his fingers and he felt it tickling his nose. “You do know who you belong to, don’t you, Little Star?”
“I belong to you, my King.” He said, but his attention belonged to that wall, that threat.
“I don’t like that you just call me your King. You called my father that, didn’t you ?” He lifted the veil, the shield protecting his view.
“It was then. You are my King now, your Majesty.”
“I want you to belong to me. To my own name.”
“I belong to you, Jang Yun-Seo.”
“Good.” His smile was all teeth, predatory. A small red chunk was still lodged between his canine and his front.
He was present and he hated it. He was present when he ripped the veil away and kissed him roughly, he was present when his tongue forced its way into his mouth. He was present for every forceful touch, felt every inch of his skin being grabbed as he kept his eyes on the rectangular hole. He was present when he was pushed towards the altar and bent over it. The curse of touch, of sight, of smell, of hearing and tasting and feeling. Felt the cold marble of the altar, heard his robes tear. And the rest of it. He felt it all. He heard the sultry words the King whispered in his ear like a worm burrowing into it.
“My perfect Little Star, all mine and mine alone.”
He couldn’t find it in himself to play along as he normally would, his screams echoing in his mind as if he were still in that wall. Be present or be trapped once again, his mind spiraling between the two over and over again. The pain of being ripped from the inside as Jang Yun-Seo took his fill, his grunts echoing through the cave along with the memory of his own screams.
Most Kings never minded his absence, barely even noticed it. But he did. He wanted him present. He wanted him scared. That was the kind of King he would be. The one who wanted to see the god break under him as if it were the very first time.
He was present when he finished. Exhausted and broken once more in a matter of instants, but present. He heard him put his breeches back on and the belt buckle close.
“Your loyalty.” He stood behind him, a breathy smile in his voice. “Swear it to me.”
Still bent over the blood altar, disheveled, Seonghwa didn’t bother trying to cover himself with his robes now mere rags. He lowered himself to the ground on his knees, his lips kissing the royal boots.
“My loyalty is forever yours Jang Yun-Seo. My King.”
A tear slipped from his eye and onto the boot, his first in centuries as the familiar sting of humiliation rang through his soul.
“Long may you reign.”