Chapter Text
The mud sucked at Yoongi's boots like it wanted to keep him.
He didn't couldn't stop running.
He can't.
Branches clawed at his face at the fine silk he'd worn just this morning, when morning still meant something. When morning meant servants and silence and the last wretched remnants of a throne that had crumbled before noon.
Run. Run. Run.
His lungs burned. His legs ached. Behind him, dogs bayed ,not real dogs, but men with torches and swords and the kind of hunger that only came from watching nobles feast while commoners starved.
He'd seen it too. He'd told his father. Told his brothers. Told anyone who would listen that the granaries were emptying while the court gorged itself.
No one listened.
Now they were all dead or scattered, and Yoongi was alone in a forest that smelled of wet earth and his own fear.
The root came out of nowhere.
His ankle twisted a sickening pop that sent white fire screaming up his leg. He hit the ground hard, chin scraping against stone, mud filling his mouth.
Get up. GET UP.
But when he tried, his ankle buckled. The pain was worse than anything he'd felt in nineteen years of soft palace life. Worse than the time his brother's horse threw him. Worse than the riding crop his tutor had used when he couldn't sit still through history lessons.
"Your Highness."
The voice came from everywhere and nowhere. Low. Calm. Utterly without mercy.
Yoongi looked up.
The man standing over him was beautiful in the way a blade was beautiful all sharp edges and cold purpose. Dark hair plastered to his forehead from the rain Yoongi hadn't noticed starting. Eyes that held no light at all.
General Park Jimin.
The orphan. The soldier. The man who'd climbed through the ranks on sheer spite and skill while nobles like Yoongi's family threw banquets.
"I said," Jimin crouched down, bringing those empty eyes level with Yoongi's, "get up."
Yoongi spat mud. "Go to hell."
Something flickered across Jimin's face not anger, not amusement. Interest. The same way a cat might watch a mouse that kept trying to run despite the broken leg.
"Interesting." Jimin straightened. "You're the first one who's fought. Your brothers wept. Your cousins begged." He tilted his head, rain dripping from his lashes. "But you….you want me to go to hell."
"I want you to burn in it."
The squad behind Jimin shifted uneasily. Torchlight painted shadows across their faces young men, most of them. Farmers' sons. Butchers' apprentices. The kind of people Yoongi's father had called unimportant.
Jimin held out his hand.
Yoongi stared at it like it was a snake.
"I'm not going to carry you, Your Highness," Jimin said, the title curling with something that might have been mockery. "You can take my hand, or you can crawl. But you are coming with me."
"Kill me."
"Pardon?"
"Kill me." Yoongi's voice cracked. He hated that. Hated the weakness. "You're going to do it anyway. Public execution. Theater for the masses." He laughed, hollow and broken. "Just get it over with."
Jimin crouched again slowly, deliberately, so his face was inches from Yoongi's. Close enough that Yoongi could see the small scar above his lip. Close enough to smell rain and steel and something else. Something like ozone.
"If I wanted you dead," Jimin said softly, "you'd be dead. We both know that."
Yoongi's breath caught.
"The Colonel has plans for you, Your Highness. Plans that require you alive." Jimin's gaze dropped to Yoongi's mouth, then back to his eyes. "So take my hand. Or crawl. I have all night."
The cold rain felt like thorns in his skin.
Yoongi took his hand.
The horse ride was agony.
Jimin had lifted him onto the saddle like he weighed nothing which was almost true; Yoongi hadn't eaten properly in days, not since the first whispers of revolution reached the palace. Then Jimin had mounted behind him, one arm tight around Yoongi's waist, the other holding the reins.
Don't lean back. Don't let him feel you tremble.
But every bump sent lightning through his ankle, and every lightning strike made him gasp, and every gasp made Jimin's arm tighten.
"Almost there," Jimin murmured against his ear.
Yoongi said nothing. He was too busy trying not to vomit.
The mansion appeared through the trees like something from a nightmare; he'd once had all black stone and iron gates, torches burning in sconces along the walls. Yoongi knew this place. Lord Chen's estate. The man who'd loaned the crown money and called it loyalty while sharpening his knives.
Now Lord Chen was dead, and his home belonged to a colonel who'd been a farmhand ten years ago.
Jimin dismounted first, then reached up for Yoongi. The movement jarred his ankle, and Yoongi couldn't stop the sound that escaped a high, sharp cry that made several soldiers look away.
"I've got you." Jimin's voice was steady. His hands were steady too as he lifted Yoongi from the horse, one arm under his knees, the other behind his back. "This will be easier than making you walk."
"I can walk."
"You can't." Jimin started toward the mansion's grand entrance. "But your pride is noted."
Inside was worse than outside.
The foyer alone could have housed a dozen commoner families. Marble floors. A chandelier the size of a carriage. Paintings that Yoongi recognized from Lord Chen's collection stolen, probably, from the very people he'd claimed to serve.
And everywhere, soldiers. Men and women in the Colonel's grey uniforms, their weapons still wet with blood that might have belonged to people Yoongi had known.
Don't think about that. Don't think about Father. Don't think about…
Jimin carried him up a sweeping staircase, down a corridor lined with doors, and into a room that made Yoongi's heart stop.
The bed was large enough for four people. The windows faced east toward the mountains, toward the border, toward escape. A fire crackled in the hearth, and someone had laid out clothes on a chair. Simple clothes. Commoner's clothes.
"They took your things," Jimin said, setting Yoongi down on the edge of the bed. "These are replacements. The Colonel thought silk might send the wrong message."
Yoongi grabbed Jimin's wrist.
The general went very still.
"What message is that?" Yoongi asked, his voice low. Dangerous. The only weapon he had left. "That I'm a prisoner? That I should be grateful for scraps?"
Jimin looked down at Yoongi's hand on his wrist. Then back at Yoongi's face.
"The message," he said carefully, "is that you're no longer a prince. You're a tool. And tools don't get silk."
He pulled away gently, which was worse than if he'd yanked.
A servant appeared in the doorway. A girl, maybe fourteen, with hollow cheeks and the hollow eyes of someone who'd seen too much.
"His ankle," Jimin told her. "Wrap it. Then bring food broth, bread, water. Nothing heavy." He glanced at Yoongi. "His stomach will be sensitive."
"I want wine," Yoongi said.
"No."
"I want a bath. Hot. With oils."
"Also no."
"I want "
"What you want," Jimin cut in, stepping close enough that Yoongi had to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact, "stopped mattering the moment your father's head left his shoulders." A pause. "You'll get broth. You'll get bandages. And tomorrow, you'll get fitted for clothes that don't make you look like a corpse."
He turned to leave.
"Wait."
Jimin paused at the door.
Yoongi's throat worked. Pride and survival warred behind his eyes. "What's your name?"
"I told you. General Park "
"Your first name. I refuse to call you 'General' like I'm one of your soldiers."
The fire crackled. The servant girl pretended not to exist.
"Jimin," he said finally. "My name is Jimin."
"Jimin." Yoongi tested it on his tongue like a piece of unfamiliar fruit. "I want a blanket. A proper one. This one smells like death."
"It probably does. Lord Chen died in this bed."
Yoongi's face went pale, then red.
Jimin smiled just a quirk of his lips, barely there, gone before it could soften his face. "I'll have them bring another. Try not to die before morning, Your Highness. The Colonel would be very disappointed."
The door closed.
Yoongi sat alone in a dead man's bed, his ankle screaming, his pride in tatters, and wondered if he'd just made the worst enemy of his life or something much, much worse.
Eclipse
The mud sucked at Yoongi's boots like it wanted to keep him.
He didn't stop running.
Branches clawed at his face at the fine silk he'd worn just this morning, when morning still meant something. When morning meant servants and silence and the last wretched remnants of a throne that had crumbled before noon.
Run. Run. Run.
His lungs burned. His legs ached. Behind him, dogs bayed ,not real dogs, but men with torches and swords and the kind of hunger that only came from watching nobles feast while commoners starved.
He'd seen it too. He'd told his father. Told his brothers. Told anyone who would listen that the granaries were emptying while the court gorged itself.
No one listened.
Now they were all dead or scattered, and Yoongi was alone in a forest that smelled of wet earth and his own fear.
The root came out of nowhere.
His ankle twisted a sickening pop that sent white fire screaming up his leg. He hit the ground hard, chin scraping against stone, mud filling his mouth.
Get up. GET UP.
But when he tried, his ankle buckled. The pain was worse than anything he'd felt in nineteen years of soft palace life. Worse than the time his brother's horse threw him. Worse than the riding crop his tutor had used when he couldn't sit still through history lessons.
"Your Highness."
The voice came from everywhere and nowhere. Low. Calm. Utterly without mercy.
Yoongi looked up.
The man standing over him was beautiful in the way a blade was beautiful all sharp edges and cold purpose. Dark hair plastered to his forehead from the rain Yoongi hadn't noticed starting. Eyes that held no light at all.
General Park Jimin.
The orphan. The soldier. The man who'd climbed through the ranks on sheer spite and skill while nobles like Yoongi's family threw banquets.
"I said," Jimin crouched down, bringing those empty eyes level with Yoongi's, "get up."
Yoongi spat mud. "Go to hell."
Something flickered across Jimin's face not anger, not amusement. Interest. The same way a cat might watch a mouse that kept trying to run despite the broken leg.
"Interesting." Jimin straightened. "You're the first one who's fought. Your brothers wept. Your cousins begged." He tilted his head, rain dripping from his lashes. "But you….you want me to go to hell."
"I want you to burn in it."
The squad behind Jimin shifted uneasily. Torchlight painted shadows across their faces young men, most of them. Farmers' sons. Butchers' apprentices. The kind of people Yoongi's father had called unimportant.
Jimin held out his hand.
Yoongi stared at it like it was a snake.
"I'm not going to carry you, Your Highness," Jimin said, the title curling with something that might have been mockery. "You can take my hand, or you can crawl. But you are coming with me."
"Kill me."
"Pardon?"
"Kill me." Yoongi's voice cracked. He hated that. Hated the weakness. "You're going to do it anyway. Public execution. Theater for the masses." He laughed, hollow and broken. "Just get it over with."
Jimin crouched again slowly, deliberately, so his face was inches from Yoongi's. Close enough that Yoongi could see the small scar above his lip. Close enough to smell rain and steel and something else. Something like ozone.
"If I wanted you dead," Jimin said softly, "you'd be dead. We both know that."
Yoongi's breath caught.
"The Colonel has plans for you, Your Highness. Plans that require you alive." Jimin's gaze dropped to Yoongi's mouth, then back to his eyes. "So take my hand. Or crawl. I have all night."
The cold rain felt like thorns in his skin.
Yoongi took his hand.
The horse ride was agony.
Jimin had lifted him onto the saddle like he weighed nothing which was almost true; Yoongi hadn't eaten properly in days, not since the first whispers of revolution reached the palace. Then Jimin had mounted behind him, one arm tight around Yoongi's waist, the other holding the reins.
Don't lean back. Don't let him feel you tremble.
But every bump sent lightning through his ankle, and every lightning strike made him gasp, and every gasp made Jimin's arm tighten.
"Almost there," Jimin murmured against his ear.
Yoongi said nothing. He was too busy trying not to vomit.
The mansion appeared through the trees like something from a nightmare; he'd once had all black stone and iron gates, torches burning in sconces along the walls. Yoongi knew this place. Lord Chen's estate. The man who'd loaned the crown money and called it loyalty while sharpening his knives.
Now Lord Chen was dead, and his home belonged to a colonel who'd been a farmhand ten years ago.
Jimin dismounted first, then reached up for Yoongi. The movement jarred his ankle, and Yoongi couldn't stop the sound that escaped a high, sharp cry that made several soldiers look away.
"I've got you." Jimin's voice was steady. His hands were steady too as he lifted Yoongi from the horse, one arm under his knees, the other behind his back. "This will be easier than making you walk."
"I can walk."
"You can't." Jimin started toward the mansion's grand entrance. "But your pride is noted."
Inside was worse than outside.
The foyer alone could have housed a dozen commoner families. Marble floors. A chandelier the size of a carriage. Paintings that Yoongi recognized from Lord Chen's collection stolen, probably, from the very people he'd claimed to serve.
And everywhere, soldiers. Men and women in the Colonel's grey uniforms, their weapons still wet with blood that might have belonged to people Yoongi had known.
Don't think about that. Don't think about Father. Don't think about…
Jimin carried him up a sweeping staircase, down a corridor lined with doors, and into a room that made Yoongi's heart stop.
The bed was large enough for four people. The windows faced east toward the mountains, toward the border, toward escape. A fire crackled in the hearth, and someone had laid out clothes on a chair. Simple clothes. Commoner's clothes.
"They took your things," Jimin said, setting Yoongi down on the edge of the bed. "These are replacements. The Colonel thought silk might send the wrong message."
Yoongi grabbed Jimin's wrist.
The general went very still.
"What message is that?" Yoongi asked, his voice low. Dangerous. The only weapon he had left. "That I'm a prisoner? That I should be grateful for scraps?"
Jimin looked down at Yoongi's hand on his wrist. Then back at Yoongi's face.
"The message," he said carefully, "is that you're no longer a prince. You're a tool. And tools don't get silk."
He pulled away gently, which was worse than if he'd yanked.
A servant appeared in the doorway. A girl, maybe fourteen, with hollow cheeks and the hollow eyes of someone who'd seen too much.
"His ankle," Jimin told her. "Wrap it. Then bring food broth, bread, water. Nothing heavy." He glanced at Yoongi. "His stomach will be sensitive."
"I want wine," Yoongi said.
"No."
"I want a bath. Hot. With oils."
"Also no."
"I want "
"What you want," Jimin cut in, stepping close enough that Yoongi had to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact, "stopped mattering the moment your father's head left his shoulders." A pause. "You'll get broth. You'll get bandages. And tomorrow, you'll get fitted for clothes that don't make you look like a corpse."
He turned to leave.
"Wait."
Jimin paused at the door.
Yoongi's throat worked. Pride and survival warred behind his eyes. "What's your name?"
"I told you. General Park "
"Your first name. I refuse to call you 'General' like I'm one of your soldiers."
The fire crackled. The servant girl pretended not to exist.
"Jimin," he said finally. "My name is Jimin."
"Jimin." Yoongi tested it on his tongue like a piece of unfamiliar fruit. "I want a blanket. A proper one. This one smells like death."
"It probably does. Lord Chen died in this bed."
Yoongi's face went pale, then red.
Jimin smiled just a quirk of his lips, barely there, gone before it could soften his face. "I'll have them bring another. Try not to die before morning, Your Highness. The Colonel would be very disappointed."
The door closed.
Yoongi sat alone in a dead man's bed, his ankle screaming, his pride in tatters, and wondered if he'd just made the worst enemy of his life or something much, much worse.