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Chapter Text

Prologue

To His Royal Highness, King Sungmin:

May this missive finds you in good health.

I must report poor news from the border.

Two nights previous marks three months of siege upon our northern border. Geumho has made consistent, heavy-handed attempts to take portions of the border under their control and continue to block traders from entering our lands. In these months, they have been cautious of overextending their forces, but as the nights grow even colder, Geumho has become bold. The number of attacks at our outposts have increased to near intolerable levels; this past week has seen the loss of more than one-hundred men. Portions of the border are close to collapse. There are not enough men available at the front to hold for much longer than two months, three at most. More men and supplies are needed should we hope to prevent invasion.

While Geumho has yet to declare open war, the lieutenant-generals and I are in agreement: they are counting on us to tolerate losses on the front so as to not risk the potential devastations of war by declaring open conflict. I would argue these attacks constitute enough of a declaration to warrant a return strike. We must prove them wrong.

The members of the war council currently stationed at the front have drawn up the figures of men, horses, and supplies necessary to prevent an invasion; see the additional papers included in this envelope. You will readily observe that Namhan does not presently have the capacity to provide what we require. Our kingdom requires a political shift to a war-state to provide these resources within the necessary time frame. We must declare war.

I urge you to call for a gathering of the war council immediately.

I understand there are many considerations to be made in a situation such as this; to allow the council ample time to come to the best decision that will ensure the prosperous future of our land, I have ordered the reserves stationed at the central camp to the border and, with your permission, plan to institute a peace-time draft. This should provide an additional month for deliberations.

Peace and good health.

Jeon Jungkook

General of the Grand Army of Namhan

Chapter Text

His hands were shaking.

They fumbled painstakingly with the dark purple cravat that draped around his neck, desperately attempting to tuck it into place. He found it funny that, of all the days for his hands to shake, it had to be this one, when there was nothing but an important meeting to take place.

No battles to be won, no blood to be spilt, no lives to be risked or taken.
Just a meeting.

And yet, Park Jimin knew that this meeting was more than just important, that it perhaps held more weight than his sword when it fell to draw blood. And as he let out a strained laugh as his fingers, once again, tried and failed to tie the cravat correctly, he felt the weight of the day slowly settle itself over his shoulders.

The decisions made at today’s meeting of the war council would likely determine the fate of his kingdom, as well as himself. While the whisperings about the gathering of the war council had been circulating for weeks, whipping the court into a near-frenzy, he’d realized how serious the state of things was the second he’d glimpsed the General’s regiment in the main courtyard the previous evening. They wouldn’t have called Jungkook away from the border this deep into the winter if there were not to be discussions of war.

It didn’t help that he would be seeing Jeon Jungkook face to face.

Maybe it was reasonable, after all, for his hands to be shaking.

“Taehyung?”

Jimin winced. His voice was shaking, too.

Taehyung’s tawny-haired head popped through the propped-open bathroom door, expression bright and open, if a little tired, given the early hour.

“Yes, Jiminie?” His lips curled into an amused sort of smile. “Do you need help with the cravat again?”

Jimin couldn’t help the light blush that dusted his cheeks as he pouted and looked away, hands clenched in fists at his sides. “Yes, please. I just can’t seem to do it up myself today.”

“Just today?” Taehyung teased as he swifty slid between Jimin and the mirror, hands coming up to the tails of the cravat. “Jimin-ah, sweetheart, I’ve been telling you for years that you need to get yourself a valet or two to take care of all this dressage. It’s truly a waste of authority, you dressing yourself. You hardly know how to dress yourself in the usual clothes required of court, much less those to be worn by the prince.”

Jimin sighed deeply, watching Taehyung’s hands in the mirror as they skillfully manipulated the fabric. “The fewer people I do not know that lay hands upon my body, the better. It is already uncomfortable enough to be assigned an attendant for bathing, just to ensure I do not drown myself.”

Laughing, Taehyung tucked the cravat appropriately down under Jimin’s vest. “I bet if you finally allowed yourself to be taught how to swim, you’d be able to convince them to leave you alone as you bathe,” he pointed out with a smirk, poking at Jimin’s side.
Jimin squawked and jumped away, batting at the offending fingers. “I am not setting foot near that infernal pond they insist on teaching in. And I’ll have you know that I know enough to not drown myself. Besides, if I managed to drown in two feet of water, I honestly believe I deserved to go.”

“Aish, Jiminie, just because the lake is dark and you can’t see the bottom doesn’t mean there’s things in it that are going to eat you.” Taehyung rolled his eyes with a smile, ushering Jimin out of the bathroom and towards the bed, where the rest of his outfit was laid out.

“I’m not worried about lake monsters, Taehyung, I’m worried about stepping in dead animal carcasses and swimming in feces.” Jimin couldn’t help the involuntary disgusted expression on his face, thinking of the stories he’d heard from his guards about learning to swim in the dreaded “lake of ten-thousand ghosts” located a few miles from the castle.

“Alright, alright, whatever you say, My Prince. Now, let’s get the rest of this on you before you’re late to the council meeting.”

Jimin chanced a glance at the grandfather clock perched in the antechamber, visible through the door of his bedroom.

“Ah, shit.”

He only had twenty minutes, and it took ten to get from his room to the throne room.

With Taehyung’s help, Jimin managed to wriggle into his cumberbund, formal jacket, and ostentatious purple furred cape in record time. As he swept out the doors, he paused only long enough to pull Taehyung into a tight hug; while they hadn’t mentioned the seriousness of today aloud, Taehyung knew what was happening, and if the way he held Jimin was any indication, he knew exactly what it was doing to Jimin.

* * *

Jimin was breathless by the time the throne room’s ornate oak doors came into view, imposing on their own even against the high ceilings and frescos of the entryway. He stood for a moment, panting, trying to steady the tremor that had returned to his fingers during the journey through the castle. Taehyung had successfully distracted him for a few moments with his lighthearted jokes about fancy dress and swimming, but when he’d gone, the worry and fear from the morning came roaring back, nearly overwhelming him as he stared at the tigers carved into the doors before him.

You can do this. You are strong.

Jimin could practically hear Taehyung’s voice, feel his steadying hand on his shoulder. He took a deep breath, steeling himself, and nodded to the two guards flanking the doorway. They stepped forward to slowly push open the heavy doors.

There were three tables arranged around the edges of the room, two parallel with chairs facing each other and a third on a raised dais at the back of the hall. Each of the parallel tables hosted dozens of seats, already filled with men of varying shape, size, and rank, loudly discussing recent events amongst themselves. There were only six chairs at the raised table: the King’s throne, Jimin’s marginally-less-opulent throne, a high-backed chair for the general and three more for the four highest-ranking lieutenant-generals. They were all empty.

Jimin’s entrance brought a hush to the room as they all turned towards the doors, faces ranging from intent to curious to excited to bored. Unconsciously, he straightened his back and strode down the center of the hall, face falling beneath the impassive political mask he’d mastered by the time he was thirteen. The two members of his royal guard, which had been flanking him since he’d left his room, peeled away and situated themselves along the walls of the hall.

As he settled into his throne, just to the left of his father’s, the whispers started to pick up again and the hall regained its previous din, its occupants quickly dismissing the presence of their future ruler.

It was well known that Prince Jimin was not a fan of war.

A few minutes later, just as eavesdropping on the discussions surrounding him began to bore Jimin, an unassuming door in the back corner of the room swung open. Jeon Jungkook, General of the Grand Army, ducked under the low doorway and made his way to the raised dais, stride long and brows furrowed, flanked by his second, Jung Hoseok, lieutenant-general of the Northern forces.

They were closely tailed by the lieutenant-generals of the Southern, Eastern, and Western forces: Eunwoo, Sana, and Eungchul, who had their heads together and were whispering furiously. Theoretically, Jimin held the title of lieutenant-general of the Central forces, but he hadn’t exercised the power nor the responsibilities of the role in nearly two years, and as he had clearly been excluded from the pre-meeting discussions, none of the military officials considered the title to be to any degree legitimate.

Jimin couldn’t help the way his eyes followed Jungkook as he made his way up the stone steps at the side of the dais, sharp gaze assessing the council before him. Even with the dark smudges beneath his eyes and the heaviness of his steps, he looked as gorgeous as he did the last time Jimin had seen him, with his flowing hair and expressive eyes and the imposing strength of his body, clearly visible as he lowered himself into the chair on the other side of the throne. The intensity of his gaze didn’t help, either, and Jimin had to forcefully pull his attention away before he was caught staring.

Jungkook pointedly did not spare a glance for Jimin.

It had been nearly six months since they’d seen each other face to face. He couldn’t be blamed for forgetting the effects of being so close to this man who, even after so many years of forcefully burying any hint of a flame, had the capacity to render all of Jimin’s self control to pieces with just a glance.

Hopefully this time would go better than the last.

Just as the clock tower began to toll in the distance, his father entered as he always did: commanding attention. The main doors practically flew open, pushed by the man’s own hands - he never gave the attendants the chance to open them for him - and King Sungmin swept into the room, cape fluttering behind him. His gaze swept across the room, scrutinizing every inch, and the entirety of the council, Jimin included, froze, suddenly terrified to move a muscle.

They all sat in a forced silence as the clack of the King’s footsteps rang through the hall. No one dared breathe until the man had ascended the dais and settled into his throne. The King gave a nearly imperceptible nod to an attendant hovering behind his throne and the poor kid nearly tripped over himself to bring his mallet against the massive metal disc at the back of the room.

Gong.

“The war council commences.”

Just the sound of the King’s voice was enough for Jimin to feel the slick slide of dread down his spine; but now was not the time to succumb to weakness. Now was a time for pride, and dignity. Jimin gathered himself discreetly, spine straightening as his hands fisted in the bit of damned fur cape that was draped across his lap. Across the hall, all the council members straightened in their seats.

“General Jeon Jungkook, report.”

From the King’s left, Jungkook rose, one hand resting on the unadorned pommel of the sword forever secured to his hip. When he spoke, Jimin couldn’t help the swoop of his stomach. Even after so long, his voice was the same. Confident. Calming. Familiar.

“Operatives from Geumho have been laying siege to our Northern border for four months. In the past three weeks, the frequency of attacks has drastically increased. We have lost more than two-hundred men at our outposts and a village close to the border has been massacred and burnt to the ground. Geumho has yet to declare war; they are counting on us being afraid of open conflict. We do not have enough men or supplies to hold the border through the winter. We have begun to set up a base camp ten miles south of the Northern border in preparation for war.”

“Lieutenant-General Jung Hoseok, report.”

Hoseok’s lips were curved in a stiff, unhappy frown as he stood stiffly to Jungkook’s left. There was a weary sort of anger in his eyes that Jimin recognized from when they’d served together in the forces, years ago.

“The Northern forces are stretched thin and supplies are scarce. Portions of the border are close to collapse. Our men are not accustomed to fighting in such harsh conditions and Geumho has taken advantage of the recent increase in snowfall. Two companies were taken by fever the previous fortnight. Our Chief Medical Officer has told us it is likely we will see much more death from disease before the winter is out.”

“Lieutenant-General Kim Sana, report.”

Sana rose from Jimin’s right, tucking her hands tightly behind her back as she addressed the council.

“The Eastern forces have been dealing with an influx of raiders from the borderlands. We cannot spare men nor supplies. Intelligence work suggests the increase in raids may be due to Geumho’s influences in the region.”

“Lieutenant-General Kang Eunwoo, report.”

“The Southern forces have already sent all the support we can provide. Intelligence gathered in the ports points towards Geumho amassing supplies for invasion.”

“Lieutenant-General Im Eungchul, report.”

“The Western forces are currently working to funnel men and supplies to the Northern border. We have also seen an increase in attacks in the Northernmost section of the Western border. Two of the main roads have been cut off by Geumho soldiers.”

As each successive lieutenant-general gave their report, the faces of the councilmen grew stonier and stonier. Jimin felt nauseous.

This is much worse than the previous reports we received suggested. Has the army been keeping this information from the King? From the war council? Or has the castle been shielded from the news to prevent panic? Or perhaps they didn’t know how bad things were and only learned of this culmination recently?

Jimin’s eyes drifted from the stiff set of Eungchul’s shoulders to Jungkook’s straight back, his frozen stare at the main doors of the hall. Has Jungkook been keeping this from the King? Or is it only me who was not privy to the extent of the army’s concerns?

Jimin then turned his attention to his father, whose eyes were still on Eungchul. His gaze was dark, angry, and as Jimin watched, bled into something intent. Purposeful. Fueled with rage. There was a reason Sungmin was known as the Warrior King. It was clear from how the King’s hand was already grasping for an invisible sword at his side that he wished to take on the armies of Geumho himself.

The hall was quiet for a moment as everyone seemed to process the information the officers had reported. Slowly, steadily, murmurs started to break out across the hall as council members turned their chairs and began debating the state of the kingdom in hushed tones that would soon grow to shouts; the King simply observed, letting the discussion kindle. He’d conduct this as he conducted most of his war-related decision-making meetings: allow for debate, both within the council and with himself; ask each faction to present its argument; allow himself time for deliberation; then make the final decision. Once the decision was announced, no one was allowed to object. There would be no further discussion on the topic.

Jimin watched as the hall began to split into groupings: one favoring a declaration of war, others favoring alternative strategies. There were already threats of a fist fight between two particularly rowdy men who’d clearly started in on the whiskey before the meeting had even begun. The clang of knocked-over goblets and the slamming of fists on tables almost drowned the sound of voices.

Running a hand through his hair, Jimin sighed.

This was going to be a very long day.

* * *

“Declaring war is the only solution.” Eunwoo’s voice was steady, sure. A bit angry. “Geumho’s actions are already practically a declaration; they’re playing us for fools, counting on us being wary of open conflict since our last war was so recently. We can’t let them take more of our land, kill more of our men. We need to give ourselves a fighting chance in this, and we won’t have a fighting chance without shifting the political focus to war. They think we won’t risk it.”

They were a few hours into the discussion, arguing back and forth amongst themselves at the head table. Jimin resisted the urge to rub at his temples; Eunwoo had regurgitated at least six different variations of exactly the same argument in the last hour alone and Jimin really, really wanted to throttle him. It didn’t help that he addressed most of his attempts at Jimin, likely because he knew that was where he’d find the strongest opposition.

“They’ve got a point. We can’t risk it,” Sana argued, stepping in before Jimin had the chance. He let out a barely-perceptible sigh of relief. “We still haven’t fully recovered from the last war; our economy is weakened to the point where we only have consistent trade with one kingdom and the harvest has been so poor we can barely provide the central provinces with enough food. Not to mention, the Northern provinces have been struck by particularly vicious disease these past few months. We don’t need to look outwards for trouble, nor invite it to our door. We have enough to handle internally as it is, without any declarations of war.”

“We’re not inviting trouble, it’s coming for us anyway,” Eungchul shot back, jabbing a finger at Sana. “If we do nothing, they will still invade. We can’t afford to allow Geumho to advance past the Taebaek mountains; they'll reach the settlements in Changwon, and if the numbers are truly as poor as Lieutenant-General Jung is saying, we won’t be able to stop Geumho from razing them to the ground. What will happen amongst our people if they hear of so many of them being massacred? We cannot handle loss of faith in the Grand army, nor widespread panic, not so soon after we have finished burying the dead.”

“Do you wish to send even more to their deaths?” Jimin snapped, rounding on Eungchul, eyes narrowed. “You would have green-gilled young men, directly from the draft, face the seasoned warriors of Geumho in an attempt to prevent a massacre? You do not think that would still be a massacre, just one of more death, as soldiers who have never before held a sword die with the people of Changwon?”

Looking down the line of officers, he could tell from the looks on their faces that even if they weren’t about to admit it, they knew he was right.

“We don’t have any reserves because we’re still lacking in numbers of alive, able-bodied people because we lost so many just a few years ago,” he continued, pressing his advantage. “Declaring war now invites Geumho to come knocking at our door. It practically declares that we’re ready to respond to an invasion. We need to instigate a quiet, peace-time draft, train up our forces so we can handle the attack we know is coming. There is no need to encourage them to attack sooner. We need to shuffle the forces, spread out the security from the palace to the borders. Give us the time we need to prepare.”

“What part of we don’t have time do you not understand, Prince Jimin?” Jungkook practically spit the words down the table. “The Eastern section of the mountains will be overrun in a few weeks’ time if we do not mount a counterattack, and we’ve already stretched the forces we have nearly to the limit. The massacre you so fear will be happening no matter which path we take. But the path of war will allow us to focus our resources, amass the necessary number of men, call on our allies, institute the necessary militant rule to keep our people safe. A peace-time draft is not enough to inspire in our people the fear and strength we need. And the security of the palace is not enough to save the border. It would buy us a week at most, perhaps two. And it would only leave the King poorly protected, yet another invitation for Geumho to attack.”

Jimin almost couldn’t suppress the instinctive flinch that echoed across his shoulders in response to Jungkook systematically attempting to dismantle every argument he made, pinning him to his seat with cold eyes. There’d been a time Jimin would’ve cried if Jungkook spoke to him that way, looked at him like that. Now, though, he just swallowed, allowing the hurt to roll off his back.

“I understand we do not have time, General.” Jimin fought to keep his voice steady. “I only fear that a declaration of war will not gain you what you hope it will and will only bring us to death’s door on hastened feet. There are other methods of addressing this situation, other strategies, tactics. Have you become so used to war it is the only way you know? Have we even attempted diplomacy?”

Frozen and biting, the King cut his way into the fight, breaking his self-imposed silence.

“Diplomacy?” He scoffed. “Are you a fucking imbecile? You think the right response to a kingdom razing my people to the ground is to send a dim-witted ninny across the border with a white flag, asking to talk? You think for a second the battle-hardened soldiers of Geumho will even pause to entertain an offer for peace? That they would not immediately cut the man down from his horse and plant it on a pike at the border in warning?”

King Sungmin’s eyes were alight, burning with a twisted sort of fire that made Jimin sick to his stomach. Pointed and cruel, his lip curled at his son, eyes glaring down his nose.

“Diplomacy is not how you keep a kingdom alive. Words will not be what will save my people. Words do not inspire fear. They do not inspire respect. We must show strength. Power. We must take from them what they have taken from us. Have you learned nothing from history, nothing from how this kingdom has been forged? All of your time with your books and you still do not know of necessary bloodshed? Do you know nothing of empires, of how they live and die? Did you learn nothing from war?”

He fixed Jimin with a hardened stare, daring him to argue.

“Geumho has taken liberties with us for far too long,” the King declared steadily, never once allowing his gaze to stray from Jimin’s face. “It is time we put them in their place.”

Distantly, Jimin noticed the hall had become quieter as more and more council members tuned into the argument surrounding the throne. He could feel the eyes bouncing back and forth between him and his father, like they were watching a tennis match. The tips of his ears burned. His heart was beating rabbit-fast in his chest.

“We would not be putting them in their place, father, we would be decimated.” Jimin couldn’t help how his voice cracked, carnage echoing behind his eyes. “We do not have the numbers to defend our borders, much less mount an invasion on Geumho. Are you listening to your own general, to the leaders of your armies? You would be asking your people to die pointlessly. Are you so eager to throw the lives of our citizens away, Father? Are you so eager to see the blood of your people spilled?”

“I will not have my kingdom known for weakness, boy. We do not back down from a fight. We are not cowardly. We are a people of strength, and we will show these cretains who have chosen to challenge us exactly how strong we are. We will defend the border. We will return the blows Geumho has dealt us under the call of war. I will not allow us to be intimidated by a lesser kingdom. We will not be defeated by a lesser people.”

“Suggesting peace talks is not a sign of weakness. Many wars have been prevented through discussion, though trade, through diplomacy. It would not make you a lesser king. Even if it doesn't work, it would buy us time to prepare enough men to give us a fighting chance if Geumho does decide to attack. We would be able -”

“We have no diplomatic tactics,” Jungkook spoke up forcefully, effectively cutting Jimin off. “We have no way to propose peace talks. We don’t have any liaisons already communicating with Gemho and Geumho hasn’t even declared war. A white flag sent across the border would be taken as surrender and returned in a casket.”

Shifting his gaze from the King, Jungkook locked eyes with Jimin.

“We are not a people built for talking. We should not demean ourselves with discussions on how much of our land we will be giving them, humiliate ourselves by proposing peace talks we would not even know how to navigate. That is all it would be: we would be handing them things we could have fought for. They already suspect we are weak. Proposing diplomacy would only confirm it.”

“Proposing diplomacy demonstrates we are not just brutes incapable of thinking beyond our fists!” Jimin argued, gesticulating wildly at Jungkook with his hands. “It demonstrates to Geumho that we have some capacity for planning, for strategy. It would show them we are a formidable opponent, not suggest to them that we are weak. And it demonstrates to our people we are not so quick to throw their lives away, that we will do everything we can to keep them safe. There is not always a need for bloodshed. There are more ways in this world to rule a kingdom and keep it safe than are in your books of war.”

Slowly, Jungkook stood from his seat, tongue poking aggressively into his cheek. With deliberate control, he spread his hands over the table, fingers pulling at the bright white tablecloth. “War is how we keep our people safe. You aim to be noble with your arguments for words and clever plays at avoiding bloodshed, but your strategies only show your ignorance. You are a soft-hearted fool, unfit to be making decisions on combating an invasion. You have fought beside your army’s soldiers and still, you do not see the importance of war. With diplomacy, we wouldn’t be able to do something soon enough to save the border. His Majesty is right. Our only option is a show of strength. We must gamble. We must beat them as we have beaten our adversaries in the past: with war.”

Baring his teeth, Jimin took an angry step towards the throne, towards Jungkook. As they’d argued, they’d begun edging closer and closer to each other and now their faces were only a few feet apart; Jimin could feel the angry pants of Jungkook’s breath. The King remained lounging in his throne, watching them with narrowed eyes.

“Simply because it is all we know does not mean it is what we should be doing. You are suggesting we throw away thousands, no, tens of thousands of lives. Are you so much of a arrogant sycophant that you are unable to see though your King’s asinine attempts at warmongering -”

Crash.

With a swift strike, King smashed his goblet into the table. Jimin felt the spatters of wine along his arm, across his face. Red spread down the front of his jacket, spattered like a bloodstain. The hall fell silent, all lingering murmurs immediately snuffed out. Jimin kept his eyes on Jungkook’s, feeling a burning indignation spreading out into his fingertips from his sternum as the man glowered at him.

He’d gone too far. Damnit.

Even as he refused to turn his head, Jimin could feel the blatant haze of scorching anger rolling off the King as he stood from the throne.

“Enough.” The King’s voice was ice-cold. “I have heard what I need to hear about the state of my kingdom.”

Slowly, carefully, King Sungmin took the time to look upon each and every man in the room, daring them to pitch in their thoughts on the matter. He made sure to meet each council member’s eye, to wait until they broke first under his gaze, cowed under the authority of their ruler. He finished with Jimin, grabbing his son tightly by the jaw, forcing his face to the side.

The battle was lost.

“You would do well to hold your treasonous tongue, boy.”

With a harsh yank, he forced Jimin back down into his chair by the grip on his chin, leaving Jimin frozen, desperately clenching his fists in an attempt to stop the tremors wracking his body. Satisfied that Jimin was not moving, the King moved to face the hall.

“Namhan will declare war.”

Jimin couldn’t help it, couldn’t help the desperation clouding his lungs, couldn’t help the painful, terrifying memories of the battlefield pouring into his head, couldn’t help the way he wrenched himself to his feet and croaked out a loud, broken, “no.”
The King’s head snapped towards him, fists twitching dangerously at his sides. Trying to ignore what he knew that meant, Jimin kept his eyes on the King, defiant. War is not the answer. Do not send so many people to their deaths. There has to be another way. There are other ways. If you’d only just listen…

“My decision is final.” The King’s voice was deathly quiet, but the entire room heard it just as if he’d shouted. “Council adjourned.”

* * *

“You imbecilic, half-witted bastard child.”

The King yanked Jimin into the chambers behind the hall by his hair, flinging him across the room to collide with the desk situated in the corner. Gasping, Jimin scrambled to right himself, finger scrabbling over the polished wood. Before he’d even managed to lift his gaze, the King had him by the collar, his hot, disgusting breath fanning across Jimin’s face.

“I tolerate your frivolous dissent in times of peace, boy, because I cannot beat you to a pulp every time that stupid brain of yours comes up with another inane idea, but I will not stand for my son speaking against me on matters of war. This is a matter of life and death, this is a matter of honor. Are you ready to lose this kingdom just because you are afraid of a little bloodshed? Grow a goddamn backbone.”

“I will not stay silent when I believe you to be making decisions that could cost us our kingdom. You are blinded by your pride and greed and -”

Jimin didn’t even see it coming.

One second, he was locking eyes with his father, pouring all his anger and frustration into his words, the next he was flat across the desk. The pain came a second later.

“FUck,” Jimin choked out, body hunching in on itself, a hand numbly coming up to the side of his face where his father had punched him, feeling at the ridges of his eye socket. It was aching, a sharp, cutting sort of pain that he could barely gasp around.

His father had stepped back, drawn up imposingly and panting heavily, hands clenched by his sides.

“You will not speak against me on this again. Next time, I will not be so gentle.”

And he was gone, swept out through the doors, leaving Jimin staring at the ceiling and fighting back tears. Whether they were tears for the pain or for the hurt of having another punch on the list of those his father had landed on him, Jimin didn’t know. All he knew was that the fight had been drained out of him, and all he wanted was to curl up on his bed with Taehyung and be sung to sleep.

“Fuck,” he repeated to the empty air of the room.

It took a few minutes, but Jimin managed to wrench himself off the desk, then straighten out his shirt and jacket so it didn’t look like he’d just been roughed up by the King, then pull himself together enough to know that he wasn’t going to cry the second he stepped out of the room. With a sigh, he tugged at the lapels of his jacket one last time and pushed open the back door of the chambers, which led to a set of passageways he could take back to his room…

…and ran almost face-first into Jeon Jungkook’s chest. The General sprung backwards in shock from where he’d been about to knock on the chamber doors, hands coming up almost automatically to steady Jimin.

It took Jungkook approximately half of a second before he very obviously noticed Jimin’s steadily forming black eye, stern mask collapsing as his eyebrows rose in alarm. He stepped forward with a hand up, almost as if he wished to caress the skin of Jimin’s cheek.

“Your Highness? What -”

Jimin didn’t let him finish, smacking the hand away. “Leave me the hell alone, Jeon,” Jimin seethed, stalking off down the corridor.

* * *

Eyes fixed on the snow gently falling outside his bedroom window, Jimin clung desperately to the feeling of Taehyung’s fingers running through his hair. There was a special sort of comfort, there, in the soft press of fingertips over the crown of his head. Perhaps it was because Jimin could not remember the feel of being comforted so gently, so lovingly, by anyone else, but this sort of a comfort was one that would always remind him of Taehyung’s warmth, his kindness. Unbidden, tears sprung behind his eyes.

I will not have this for much longer.

They were cuddled up beneath the luxurious down comforter on Jimin’s massive four-poster bed, Jimin’s head resting against Taehyung’s chest, arms wrapped around each other. Everything felt soft. Warm. Safe.

It did nothing to lessen the cold lump of dread resting in Jimin’s chest.

“He made his decision.” Jimin broke the quiet of the room. “He is throwing away the lives of thousands. He is sending his people to be massacred.”

Taehyung’s caresses didn’t falter, ever-steady as he pressed a kiss to the top of Jimin’s head. He already knew the war council’s decision, had known it moments after the King had declared it, had confirmed it when his Prince returned to his chambers, bruised and biting back tears. The court was already in an uproar, panic sweeping through the halls of the castle as the whispers of plans to declare war spread. Taehyung squeezed Jimin a little tighter.

“I must go to war, TaeTae,” Jimin whispered into his friend’s chest, curling his fingers tighter into the silk that loosely draped across the skin. “I must leave you, my darling, and walk into bloodshed again.”

“Do not cry, sweet bean.” Taehyung ran a gentle hand down Jimin’s back and switched to scratching gently at his scalp. “You will be okay. You will have Namjoon-ssi and Yoongi-ssi at your side on the front. They will help to hold you when I cannot.”

He coaxed Jimin to look up at him with a gentle hand to his chin, mirroring the grip the King had had on him in the throne room with careful, careful fingers.

“You are strong, and brave. You have shown this every time you have gone to battle. I have watched you with pride, and faith. I know it will hurt your heart, your soul, but you will survive knowing you are doing what you must to protect your people.”

He then let a weak mischievous smile peak out, scruffing at Jimin’s hair. “And you do not know how long this war will be. If things go well, you could be home by the spring! All this crying may be for naught.” Sighing, he sunk further into the pillows, mouth relaxing into a soft smile as he brought his hands to run over Jimin’s back.

“I have trust in our General, in our armies. I have trust in you.”

With a shuddering breath, Jimin managed to muster up a return smile of his own.

“Thank you, TaeTae,” he whispered, burying his face in Taehyung’s chest and wiggling his arms under the man’s lanky body to properly wrap him up in a hug.

“I’ll write you every day. You’ll get tired of me, with all the letters I’m going to send.” He promised, smiling at Jimin’s watery chuckle in response.

“And you know, I’ve been considering taking up work as a messenger. Running missives from the castle to the main camp, and whatnot. I’d be able to see you, then, sometimes,” Taehyung cautiously admitted, peeking down at Jimin’s face for his reaction.

Excited, Jimin immediately popped up from Taehyung’s chest, a genuine smile on his lips for the first time in weeks.

“Truly?”

Taehyung shrugged, seeming nonchalant.

“My parents would not mind; I really do not do much in court, beyond standing around looking pretty and learning all the intricacies of palace gossip. And while I certainly am not one to heft a sword, I would like to be useful in this war.”

“Please, please, please do it!” With a pout already fixed on his lips, Jimin took to gently hitting at Taehyung’s chest as he begged. “Please do this and visit me!”

He sighed wistfully, fists ceasing their attack as he propped his chin on Taehyung’s chest with a smile. “It would be so lovely, to know I would have seeing you to look forward to amongst all of this. A kind face in the camps, visits from my soulmate. It would make this war more bearable, Taehyungie, please do it.”

“Aish, Jiminie, you do not need to beg such things from me,” Taehyung admonished with a laugh, bright and happy. A caring hand traced the curve of Jimin’s cheek reverently.

“As if I would leave my light to brave the bloodshed alone,” Taehyung whispered, smile fading as he ran a slow hand through Jimin’s hair, gently shifting the strands. “As if I would leave you to the dark without me.”

* * *

Only a week after the council meeting, Jimin found himself stuffing the last of his sentimental belongings into his saddlebags in the main courtyard. His hands were tucked carefully into smooth, fur-lined waterproof gloves, protected from the cold, late-winter air, but his ears remained out in the open, nipped red under the morning sun.

They were leaving the castle today: himself, the General, Yoongi, and Namjoon, along with a small host of men from the castle. There were many members of the Prince’s guard that would be accompanying Jimin to the base camp for his personal safety, as well as people who had been living at the castle that would be joining the army, servant and courtesan alike. Three days previous, the lieutenant-generals had taken their leave, with Hoseok and his company leading the way to the main camp set up by the Northern border.

Just two days after the pronouncement of war had reverberated through the capital, then rippled outwards through the surrounding provinces, the King’s messengers had taken to their horses, spreading through the Kingdom with conscription notices for one able-bodied young man or woman from every household. The drafted soldiers were to report to the main camp before the end of the following week, giving Jimin little time to prepare to lead them.

As was his duty as Lieutenant-General of the central forces, Jimin would stand at Jungkook’s side, along with Hoseok and the highest-ranking Major Generals, to run the base camp and train the recruits for war. From there, they would also be responsible for coordinating the war effort: directing troop movement, instructing the major and brigadier generals on strategy, and overseeing the distribution of supplies.

In a gamble for time, the soldiers that had been stationed at the main camp, which were usually held as a last reserve and were not particularly well-trained, had been sent to shore up the Northern border. Given they were few in number, the General had appealed to many of the small militias dotting the Northern provinces, requesting men and supplies. It was enough to buy them a month, at most. A month to train. A month to prepare.

Jimin sighed, letting his head fall forward and rest against the cool leather of his horse’s saddle, fingers tightening in the straps. Only a month to prepare them for war.

Chancing a look around at the others preparing to leave, Jimin noted the stiff set of Namjoon’s shoulders as he said goodbye to his younger sister, neither of them doing a particularly good job of hiding the redness of their eyes nor the tears on their cheeks. Yoongi was already atop his horse, expression blank and unmoving as always, but Jimin knew him well enough to catch his tells: the flicking of his eyes to Namjoon and his sister, to Jimin, to Jungkook. He was worried, even if he was damned good at hiding it.

Even Jungkook seemed on edge. They’d steadfastly avoided each other since the meeting; not once had Jimin seen the man outside of their collective dining with the King in preparation for leaving for the front. He hadn’t spoken much to anyone at the palace, Jimin had noticed, instead spending nearly all his time in the training barracks. Even now, he stood alone, off and away from the rest of the company, running a repetitive hand down the neck of his horse as if wishing it was the furrow in his own brow he could smooth down so easily.

“Aish, Jimin-ah!” Taehyung’s deep voice broke Jimin out of his reverie.

Distracted, Jimin started to turn, painstakingly wrenching his eyes away from Jungkook. Startled at the feeling of something foreign and scratchy coming down over his head, Jimin let out an embarrassing squeak and jumped nearly a foot into the air, hands coming over his head to protect himself.

“Tsk, tsk, riding off to war in the winter without even a wool hat to keep you from frostbite,” Taehyung chided, wrestling a truly eye-catching puffy white hat that did not, in any way, scream I am an intimidating warrior prince and you should respect me, onto Jimin’s head as he attempted to fight back.

“Taehyung, you little - get this thing off me, or I swear to god I’ll -”

With a grunt, Taehyung swept Jimin off his feet, pinning his arms to his sides so he couldn’t shove the damned hat off his head.

“You bastard! Put me down, you heathen!” Jimin gasped through the tight grip Taehyung had on his middle, trying to wiggle out of his grip like a fish. “This is undignified! How dare you treat your Prince in this manner!”

Taehyung’s bright, pleased laughter bounced off the high stone walls surrounding them, warming the somber courtyard, just a bit. Jimin caught Namjoon’s eye over Taehyung’s shoulder, smiling at the two of them fondly, and suddenly couldn’t find it within himself to be particularly upset.

With a sigh, Jimin allowed his body to go limp.

“You menace,” he grumbled as Taehyung lowered him to the ground.

“Ah, but you love me anyhow,” Taehyung reminded him, tugging the hat down a bit more firmly around Jimin’s ears.

Even with the pointed roll of his eyes, Jimin couldn’t help the slight smile Taehyung’s antics had brought to his face. “That I do. But why have you come all the way down here? You could have bid me farewell when we saw each other this morning.”

Jimin wouldn’t have admitted it, but he was grateful Taehyung had come to say goodbye. When he’d left Jimin’s chambers that morning in a rush to help his mother without a word of farewell, Jimin had been worried they wouldn’t have a chance to exchange sentiments before the traveling party set out.

“Ah, but your gift wasn’t done yet this morning,” Taehyung said with a sly sort of smirk and an eyebrow raise, hand slipping into his pocket.

“Oh? You mean to tell me this monstrosity of a hat is not your going-away gift to me?” Jimin teased, gesturing to the puff on his head. “And here I thought your sole mission was to disgrace your prince.”

“Jiminie, Jiminie, you know me better than this by now,” Taehyung chided, pulling a small box from his pocket. “As if I would leave you so little to remember me by. Here, something to bring comfort in the dark months to come.”

With careful hands, Jimin took the box and pulled the ribbon that held it shut. They both watched as the ends of the ribbon fell and Jimin lifted the top to reveal a gorgeous, thin-chain necklace with a small pendant. The pendant, about the size of the pad of a thumb, featured two strips of stone set into silver and arranged in a loop, constantly feeding into each other.

“Taehyung-ah…” Jimin’s voice broke as tears sprung at the corners of his eyes. “It’s beautiful.”

“Look a bit closer, Jimin-ah.” Taehyung encouraged with a hand at his elbow. A soft smile played at his lips as he gestured to the necklace with his chin. “There’s more to her than meets the eye.”

Carefully, Jimin lifted the necklace from its plush cushion and inspected the pendant.

Opal.
Blue Topaz.
Four small letters engraved in the back.

“To remind you that I am with you,” Taehyung whispered as he closed his hands over Jimin’s. “To remind you there is someone who wishes you to return safely.”

Unabashedly, Jimin choked back a sob and threw his arms around Taehyung’s shoulders, hugging him tight. Usually, Jimin hated open displays of affection. He didn’t allow himself to cry, to laugh, to scream in front of anyone, rarely even Taehyung. It wasn’t becoming of a Prince to express such emotion, after all. And Jimin wasn’t fond of openly expressing himself, regardless. But something about today had run the hole in his chest just ragged enough that, to throw his arms around his soulmate and allow a few tears to trace his cheeks in the middle of the courtyard seemed appropriate.

“Thank you, Taehyung-ah,” he murmured, squeezing tighter. “I love you.”

“I love you, too, Jimin-ah.” Taehyung squeezed back before letting go, stepping away just a bit. “Come home safely.”

“I will do everything I can,” Jimin promised.

With reverent hands, Jimin undid the necklace’s clasp and held the ends out to Taehyung, who took them with a smile. As he drew the necklace around Jimin’s neck, Jimin caught movement in one of the windows above the courtyard.

Glancing up, he and the King made eye contact for a brief, frozen moment. King Sungmin was watching the assembled group prepare to leave, hand resting on the sword at his hip. He’d been forbidden from riding to battle by his physician, citing the aches and pains of the King’s old wounds along with the threat of fever at the camp. The King complained - loudly - for several days, stirring the council into a cantankerous storm of malcontent, but eventually, he’d acquiesced on the condition he be kept informed and that his Hand, Han Kyong, traveled with the General and his company to the main camp.

Han Kyong, the Snake of the Court, was a nasty, battle-hardened young man that Jimin had fought with in the previous war. Kyong had gone into those battles only a few years older than Jimin and much more fresh-faced; he’d left them with scars mutilating his face and arms and a shriveled, angry heart. Over the last few years, Jimin had avoided the man as much as possible, but he hadn’t been able to escape the whispers of the court.

The King’s Hand poisoned Duke Gwan with hemlock. And just because he opposed the King’s position on taxes!

I heard the King has Han tie the prisoners by their ankles and give them lashings so they look just like him.

I heard Han enjoys using old torture methods to get information for the King.

He took liberties with Duchess An, put a hand up her skirt and held a knife to her throat so she wouldn’t scream for help. The laundress saw it, was shaking to death away in one of the storage rooms. We found her, but she’s refusing to talk to anyone because it’s the King’s Hand. It’s not like there’s anything he’ll do to punish him.

Word is the King’s Hand spread fever to the Northern provinces on purpose, just to kill off the population the harvest can’t feed quicker.

The King’s Hand kills without remorse.

Jimin chanced a glance towards the gates, where Kyong sat atop his horse, eyes on the King. His face was screwed in a grimace against the morning sun.

“Jiminie, come on.” Taehyung’s fingers snapped in front of Jimin’s face. “Don’t let yourself wander away from me in these final few moments we have together.”

“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” Jimin sighed, focusing back on Taehyung. “I can’t help it. There’s too much thinking to do.”

“You could afford to do a little less of that, my Prince,” Taehyung told him, running a hand over the necklace now secured around Jimin’s neck, then patting at his chest. “Trust your heart. I have it on good authority that it’s a kind one.”

“Aish, Taehyungie,” Jimin couldn’t help the embarrassed flush combatting his smile.

The clank and clop of a fully-seated rider interrupted them before Taehyung could embarrass Jimin further, Jungkook riding up to them. With a start, Jimin realized that, during his ruminations, everyone had mounted their horses. He was the only one left on the ground.

“Prince Jimin.” Jungkook’s voice was stiff, uncomfortable. His eyes bounced from the necklace flashing on Jimin’s chest to the fluffy hat still covering his ears. An imperceptible look flitted across his face before he seemed to steel himself. “Hurry your goodbye. We must not delay our journey to indulge your…sentiments.”

Flushing fully, now from indignation, Jimin drew himself up to his full height and fixed Jungkook with an imposing glare. “Just because you have no one to wish you goodbye doesn’t mean you should be unnecessarily rude to those of us who do,” he bit out.
Jimin took a bit too much satisfaction in the offended look that plastered itself on the General’s face. Jungkook was just rearing up to respond when Taehyung’s laughter broke the tension. With dancing eyes, he looked between them, before settling a steady hand on Jimin’s shoulder.

“Ah, let it go, Jiminie. Your General is right; you must make haste.”

“Fine,” Jimin huffed, pulling Taehyung in for a final, brief hug, then swinging himself up onto his horse.

They all turned towards the gates, framing the morning sun as it rose. Jimin couldn’t help giving Jungkook one last glare for interrupting his goodbye with Taehyung, even though he was right about them needing to leave. It felt satisfying, in a childish sort of way, knowing that Jungkook knew he was upset with him. With a similar grimace, Jungkook happily returned the sentiment.

The herald at the gates sounded the trumpet signaling their exit and the traveling party started filing through the gates in groups. Jimin turned back to say one final goodbye to Taehyung, hands quickly gathering his reins. Taehyung smiled, returning the goodbye as he patted at the flank of Jimin’s horse.

“Just don’t kill your General before the enemy has a chance,” Taehyung laughed, sending him off with a final pat.

Jimin heard Jungkook snort at his side and sent him another glare.

“I make no promises,” Jimin responded, then snapped his reins to exit the courtyard.

Chapter Text

The first time Park Jimin saw Jeon Jungkook, he was immediately taken with him.

The young boy, with his bright, curious eyes and round cheeks and a nose just a bit too big for his face, was brought by the General to one of Jimin’s sword fighting lessons. They’d locked eyes for just a moment and Jimin had felt something akin to lightning strike through his small, six-year-old body, and for some reason, he immediately knew: this boy was to be important to him.

The General had just returned from the front lines, bringing his wife and son with him. Born just after the beginning of the war with Gyeonggi, Jungkook had been raised at the army’s base camp to the West of the capitol. Due to the stresses of the war, he’d never been to the palace, and while Jimin had known of his existence - his mother talked of the General’s wife often, as they were friends in their youth - he’d never met him. His mother would not allow him to visit the camp.

The second Jungkook saw the dull-bladed training sword in Jimin’s hands, he’d stumbled excitedly over his four-year-old feet, running over and asking in four-word sentences if Jimin wanted to play.

The rest was history.

With the war over, the General, Jungkook’s father, spent most of his time either living in the palace or traveling back and forth from the border, checking in on the state of things. His wife and son remained at the capital and, with the friendship between the General and the King, Jimin and Jungkook were practically raised together. They learned sword fighting, wrestling, maths, history - all of it, biting constantly at each other’s heels.

When Jimin’s mother passed from fever in his eighth year, it had been Jungkook who’d held him in his bed that suddenly felt too large that night, twin tear-tracks slipping down their cheeks. It’d been Jungkook who’d stood steadfastly at his side as his father grew colder and colder, words harsher, decisions more reckless and angry.

They’d never talked about it, not really; they were brothers, in a way, but not quite close, not with Jimin as the Crown Prince and Jungkook hidden behind his shyness. And Jimin was supposed to be the hyung. He was supposed to be the strong one, pulled together, unbreakable. He was supposed to be the future King, conditioned ruthlessly to not show weakness. He couldn’t waste time grieving for his mother, not for the one gentle hand he’d known.

So Jimin threw himself into training.

Drills in the mornings, lessons until lunch, a run in the afternoon, more lessons, dinner, then drills until he fell asleep on the straw pallets used for wrestling in the training rooms.

The world was nothing but a dull gray, punctuated by moments of blinding white, slicing through his chest when a memory of his mother would cut through the numbness. Books and the ache of his muscles were his solace, a safe consistency Jimin could count on. Jungkook, too, was a constant. The quiet boy wasn’t one for comfort, but he’d stay, sometimes, late into the night, and drill with the Crown Prince in the flickering lamplight.

Slowly, the light came back into the skies and Jimin started to breathe, again. The memories didn’t hurt quite so much. Three summers gone and he could walk the Queen’s gardens again, without having to turn back after only a few steps. Desiring perfection, he continued to train, but without so much ruthlessness, but rather, passion. He found a love for the art of fighting, for the smooth motion of a sword. Namhan was at peace, finally recovering from the war so many years before. Life felt…worth living.

Unfortunately, even as the burdens of grieving lifted from Jimin’s shoulders, the more he read, the more he found himself to disagree with his father. The court had always extolled how Jimin rather took after his mother, rather than the King, in both his visage and his countenance. He was more soft-hearted than the infamous warrior King, more inclined to discussion than violence. He wasn’t keen on his father’s tastes for hunting and blood sports, wasn’t the sort to enjoy watching the beheadings that so often took place in the town surrounding the castle, didn’t have much of a stomach for the war council’s relished retellings of their glorious successes in battle.

As the years went, the shoulder Jimin was met with grew increasingly cold. Left without somewhere to pour his affections, Jimin took to doting on Jungkook to no end, channeling the love brimming in his chest into the closest person he had. Jungkook wasn’t much for dramatic declarations of affection, but he stuck by Jimin’s side, continued to train with him. He’d rebuff Jimin’s efforts at lavishing him with praises and sweets and affection when it got to be too much, his ears flushing a deep red, doe eyes large in alarm; but for the most of it, Jimin would be rewarded with a small, shy smile complete with Jungkook’s endearing buck teeth.

As they both became teenagers, Jimin’s flirtations became more and more cheesy, mixed with their competitiveness as they attempted to best each other in swordsmanship, wrestling, archery, maths, strategy, the whole lot. Anything that can possibly be turned into a competition, they managed it. And anything that could possibly be turned into an expression of cheesy affection, Jimin managed it.

The older they grew, the more Jungkook brushed him off, laughing at Jimin’s attempts to dote on him or even ignoring them altogether. Jimin wasn’t deterred. Jungkook simply wasn’t one for openly expressing affection, after all. It made sense he was bothered occasionally by Jimin’s shamelessness.

Their little group expanded, with Yoongi and Namjoon, both sons of high-ranking officials, coming to stay at the palace and beginning to train with them. It was so rarely that Jimin was around people near his age; all his lessons were led by men edging on sixty, and as the King allowed him to attend more and more official governmental meetings, most of the councils he spent the days dealing with were well over thirty. It was the only time Jimin could be loud and jovial and silly - with Jungkook, with Yoongi and Namjoon, as they trained together on the grounds just beyond the castle walls.

Funnily enough, Jimin never had the urge to tease Yoongi and Namjoon as he teased Jungkook with ostentatious displays of affection. He put it down to the two being older than him, and much less fun to tease.

It wasn’t until Jimin turned 16 that he realized he was in love with the boy who he’d held so dearly close to himself for so many years. It wasn’t until he glimpsed Jungkook with the daughter of one of the kitchen maids in the gardens, the girl holding a bundle of flowers out to the boy with shaking hands.

Jungkook hadn’t taken them, hadn’t even known the girl existed before that moment, but he’d let her down gently, told her that maybe once he knew her he’d be willing to consider a courtship. But regardless of the outcome, that sick, sinking feeling that had sliced through Jimin’s very being the moment he’d seen them had told him all he needed to know.

There wasn’t even a question of whether or not he should confess. It wouldn’t be a poor match, the Prince and the son of the General. There had been male consorts to the crown in the past; they’d only need to procure a surrogate of respectable standing to generate the necessary lineage. Jimin’s only concern was being too late; with all the training he did, Jungkook was a popular subject amongst the gossips in the castle. He was strong, kind, and just pretty enough to catch the eye, with his doe eyes and bunny smile. While the maid’s daughter was the first, she certainly wouldn’t be the last.

With the warm burning in his chest as a guiding light, Jimin took to crafting a gift with which to begin his courtship. It was a handmade rosary, crafted with only the most beautiful of the beads in the palace chapel’s collection. He spent weeks on it, beading and rebeading every portion at least three times. He was going to give it to Jungkook on his fourteenth birthday. He’d already planned a sort of party, with food and drinks and Yoongi and Namjoon to celebrate. The gift - and his proposal - would be the crowning jewel of the evening.

He should have known better than to be so blinded by his own affections.

* * *

“He’s just…” Jungkook sounded frustrated. And a little whiny, as all fourteen year olds do.

Jimin was barely tuned into the conversation, hidden in an alcove just beyond the garden, rosary clutched in hand. With the prospect of finally confessing so close, his palms had begun to sweat, his heart to beat a mile a minute. He needed calm. Courage. He took a deep breath, resting his head back against the cool stone of the castle wall.

“He’s just too much, sometimes.”

Something in Jimin’s mind snapped to attention. Something in his stomach clenched. Does he mean me?

“What do you mean, Jungkookie?” That was Hoseok, son of one of the lieutenant-generals. He’d come to the palace a few weeks previously with his father and joined their training session. Jimin liked him. He was hardworking and his smile felt like sunshine.

“It’s just…,” Jungkook sighed. “He does stuff that frustrates me, all the time. Like when we’re trying to run a drill and he keeps talking and talking and talking, disingenuous and simpering comments on my eyes, my form…”

There was a rushing in Jimin’s ears, a tidal wave breaking over his chest. This was about him.

“And he won’t leave me alone, even when I try to escape. It’s like he doesn’t understand that I’m trying to have time to myself, or to talk to the other kids without the Crown Prince around. He doesn’t even go away when I ignore him.” Jungkook trailed off, heedless of Jimin not even ten feet away, sliding slowly down the wall as a buzzing settled between his ears.

“Maybe he doesn’t understand, Jungkookie,” Hoseok responded, calm and patient. “Have you told him, outright, that you want him to leave you alone?”

“Then he’d just get all hurt and sulky. He’d be annoying for days if I told him to go away. And he keeps trying to hug me even though he knows I don’t like it. Why can’t he figure out that I don’t want him touching me like that? I push him off every time…”

Jimin was crying.

Well, he was pretty sure he was. He couldn’t really feel his face. Or his hands. Or any of his body, for that matter. All he could feel was the painful splintering in his chest, the itch in his palms. This is all I am to him. Frustrating. Annoying. Presumptuous. Sulky. Disgusting. Too much.

Unwanted.

Unwanted.

Unwanted.

He was on his feet, running back to his rooms, determined to allow no one to see the tears staining his cheeks. He spent the night on the floor behind his bed, hidden from the door, clutching the the rosary that he’d spent so many hours lovingly crafting to his chest as the ragged hole there made it hard to breathe, hard to think, hard to do anything but cry, and cry, and cry.

It was the next day, as he slowly, deliberately buried the gift in the trees that ringed the lake on the castle ground, that Jimin took the small, warm part of his heart that was in love with the soft, talented boy with doe eyes and gentle hands and ripped it out with his bare hands.

* * *

He didn’t go to Jungkook’s fourteenth birthday celebration. Instead, he spent four hours on his horse and six on the training ground, drilling himself until his legs collapsed under him.

His guards found him asleep on the hay at four in the morning and dragged him back to his rooms. The morning came too soon.

He no longer doted on Jungkook. He kept up appearances, continued to attend morning training sessions with him and Yoongi and Namjoon and Hoseok, but he scarcely said a word to Jungkook, and most certainly made no efforts to express any sort of affection. He did his best to smile, to continue on with his other friendships like nothing was wrong, even as Yoongi and Namjoon asked why he hadn’t come to wish Jungkook happy birthday, especially after organizing the festivities himself.

Jimin lied, told them his father had called him away to take care of duties for the crown.

In a fervor not unlike that which haunted him after his mother’s death, he threw himself back into training. If he worked hard enough, he could drown out his thoughts, the ache in his chest, with pain in his body. If he worked hard enough, he was numb to it all, safe from the hurt. He wouldn’t have enough energy to think of Jungkook, of his eyes or his smile or his kindness or his words of distaste.

Even though perhaps Jimin had known, instinctively, that entertaining romantic notions with anyone was a pipe dream, especially since he was likely doomed to a political marriage, Jungkook had been too painful of a reminder.

He’d been too close to Jungkook, too close to the pain of such words to be felt as anything less than the bone-deep cut they were. Someone he’d held so dear for so many years, finally someone who had been kind, someone who may have wanted him.

Someone who’d only thought of him as a nuisance.

To want someone, to love, was a dangerous vulnerability.

Especially to Jimin.

He felt hollowed out, empty, like someone had taken a spoon and scooped everything out of his chest, leaving him but a shell of a man. Ice setting over his heart, closing the wounds, Jimin knelt at the foot of his bed and vowed to never allow himself to entertain such notions of affection for anyone ever again.

Jungkook seemed confused, at first, that Jimin was no longer pouring himself over him, if somewhat obviously grateful for the respite; it hurt more than Jimin expected that now that he knew, he could see it: how Jungkook would instinctively shy away from his touch, his attention. He made a few feeble attempts to ask Jimin if something was wrong, thrown by the sudden change in his countenance with no obvious explanation, but Jimin had dodged all of the boy’s questions.

And yet, each time he asked, the pain would flare so sharp in Jimin’s chest he would have to flee, finding some storage room or another to hide. He’d crouch behind crates of wine and cheese, head buried in his hands as the tears he tried so hard to fight slid down his face. Fists clenched, he’d feel that sickened feeling in his throat, frustrated with his own weakness.

This.

This is why your father thinks you unfit to be King.

You feel so much, get hurt so easily.

You will never be able to make the decisions necessary to rule a kingdom if this is how you react to simply having your heart broken by someone with whom you never even had a courtship.

The gasps between sobs weren’t loud enough to drown out his thoughts.

It was when Jungkook cornered him after a practice that Jimin broke, shattering to pieces in front of him. Jungkook had asked him what was going on, why he was suddenly so distant, what he’d done wrong, if someone had hurt him.

“Am I not too much for you?” Jimin had spat, throat tight and eyes prickling with tears. “Am I not annoying, overbearing, frustrating? I should have known that, once you had the chance to properly voice your thoughts of me, it would only be that you found me distasteful, but hid it, for fear of upsetting the Crown Prince. I should have known your friendship was disingenuous. You’re just like the rest of them. Leave me alone, you duplicitous, cruel…”

He gasped a breath, eyes welling with tears. He couldn’t even focus on the expression on Jungkook’s face - confused, upset - he could only hear the rushing in his ears.

“Don’t bother to pretend, Jungkook-ssi, coming to me with concerns about my health and wellbeing. I’m not a fool, not anymore. I know exactly what you think of me.”

And he’d stormed away, hands clenched in tight fists by his sides, the beginnings of a sob building in his chest. He didn’t look back, couldn’t bring himself to see the likely stricken look on Jungkook’s face. Didn’t bother to wait for Jungkook to respond. With shaking hands, he’d wrenched open the first door he could find and locked himself in.

But even with all of this, Jimin was lucky. This was how Taehyung had found him, crouched in the peach cellar with bloody fists after he’d tried to get himself to stop crying by bunching at the stone walls. With gentle hands, Taehyung had cleaned Jimin’s knuckles and sat with him, patiently coaxing the story out of him, bit by bit. He’d ended up holding Jimin’s hand as they made their way back into the sunshine outside, offering him a shoulder of support, no expectations attached.

It wasn’t long before the two of them discovered they were soulmates.

In fact, they were so attached most of the court assumed they were having a dalliance - much to both of their amusement.

Then the fights started.

It began innocuously, just an offhand comment during a training exercise with the General, Jimin commenting derisively on a sloppy parry Jungkook had attempted. He couldn’t help it, the poison of the pains of rejection still working their way through his system; he just wanted Jungkook to hurt, to feel the same sort of the ache he’d made Jimin feel.

Jungkook had been shocked, for a moment, his face frozen like a deer in headlights, before he’d shot back with a snide comment of his own, something about Jimin’s inferior strength, and that was it.

The comments began to fly back and forth, each refusing to back down. The insults became more and more frequent and more and more scathing as the months passed and before long, Jimin could barely separate the pains of a love lost for this boy from the hatred that had taken its place.

In a resurgence of the flavors of their youth, Jimin and Jungkook took to being aggressively competitive with each other, often dueling and debating in the grand hall over politics and tactics, every word dripping with derision. They became something of a spectacle among the court, known to hate each other and get into long, arduous arguments in public spaces. Soon, everyone had forgotten that there’d been a time when, wherever Jungkook was, Jimin wouldn’t have been far behind.

Jimin realized, with time, that maybe he had been a bit much with Jungkook in their youth, at times. But these realizations that came with maturation and age didn’t make the ache of the rejection hurt any less, nor did they dull the hatred that festered in the crevices left by heartbreak. It all simply made Jimin regret channeling his affections towards Jungkook, thinking him a safe place, even more.

Chapter Text

The sun was just beginning to peek over the mountains in the East, painting the sky a light pink, and Jimin was already awake, staring at himself in the mirror he had carefully balanced behind the ceramic sink inlaid in the table situated in the corner of his tent.

He hadn’t brought the mirror for vanity, not necessarily. On a whim, he had stuffed it into his saddlebags just before they had left after he caught himself staring at it for an extended moment, remembering how, the last time he had been at war, he had not seen his face for two years without the distortion of running water warping his features.

Once he had returned to the palace and the castle attendants sat him down before his personal vanity, he had caught his own eye in the mirror and froze. He could not recognize his reflection, unable to move anything beyond his eyes as he had traced the gaunt lines of his once-cherubic features, tracked the bluish bruising under his eyes, glimpsed the deadness of his stare.

He did not want to forget his face this time, wanted to save himself from that particular horrific experience. A gradual easing-in was always better. But, of course, it didn’t hurt that, this way, he could be sure he looked presentable.

It was still dark in his tent, the morning light too weak to pierce through the canvas, forcing him to light the lamp hanging from the ceiling. He began adjusting his hair in the flickering light, carefully pushing the silver strands off his forehead, fixing them in place with a smooth mixture of water, sugar, and alcohol. Trying to swallow down the nerves bubbling in his stomach, he twisted this way and that, making sure not a single flaw could be picked from his appearance. One less aspect of himself for them to target.

Their entourage had arrived two nights before, and yesterday had been filled with endless meetings that ended up with him and Jungkook shouting at each other at least five times. Even though he knew it was counterproductive when they had so little time, Jimin couldn’t find it in himself to hold back. It wasn’t the old hurt that fueled their fights, not anymore; no, it was Jungkook’s aggressive tactics that too much mirrored Jimin’s father’s and how they played against Jimin’s caution and pragmatism.

Caught up in disputes on troop movements and organizing a swift series of recruitments, there hadn’t been a ceremony to introduce Jimin to the soldiers. Not that he minded, really; he’d rather do without the pomp and circumstance, especially in such dire circumstances.

But the lack of ritual made him all the more nervous for what was to come.

He had trained troops before; it was a customary thing, to have military camps in the fields surrounding the capital city and, of course, as was expected of him, Jimin was one of the chief military officers running those camps and training the young soldiers that wished to serve the kingdom. It only made sense, having him there, considering his time on the battlefield a few years prior and his title. However, that was a time of peace. He wasn’t preparing to send those soldiers into any danger. This time, it did not feel the same.

Why am I so nervous?

Jimin studied his expression carefully around the blackened dots on the mirror, catching the stiffness of his eyebrows, the slight downturn of the right side of his mouth. After so many years of grooming himself to be impenetrable to the public eye, Jimin knew his tells thoroughly.

Careful hands smoothed down the lapels of his military uniform, running down next to the pewter buttons, ridding the material of its creases. He had never been one for the opulence many of the older military generals preferred, decorating their coats in medals and shiny embroidery, marking their wealth and achievements with gaudy trinkets; he kept his uniform blank, the same deep green as the Private uniform they handed every soldier who joined the forces, the only ornament he allowed himself a single golden star pinned to his left lapel, signifying his rank: Lieutenant-General. In addition to appealing to his personal tastes, the blank uniform tended to make training easier, as well; it didn’t clink nearly as much and he was much less likely to accidentally get caught on something.

Relax, Jimin-ah. It’s just training. You’ve done this so many times before. Jimin could practically hear Taehyung’s voice, could practically feel his large palms running comfortingly across his shoulders. You know how to do this. You know how to inspire respect. And you have the title, the talent, the beauty. They’d be fools to look down upon you, to treat you as anything less than the competent, intimidating man you are.

A bit of Jimin’s heart ached, picturing Taehyung standing behind him, telling him that everything would be okay. He hadn’t realized how much he would miss his soulmate, and how quickly. Over the years, he had become so dependent on Taehyung’s love and support; he hardly knew how to stand on his own anymore.

Yes. They would have to be fools to treat me with anything less than respect. I know what I’m doing. I know soldiers, and I know war. This game is one I am familiar with.

He straightened his spine, allowed himself to imagine Taehyung’s smile for another fleeting moment, before wrenching his eyes open, catching the brown depths in the mirror. A hand passed over his hair once more, the repeated gesture soothing his nerves, and he watched as the tic slowly, slowly settled, as the turn of his mouth relaxed.

Breathe. You can do this.

Knowing he could only delay the inevitable for so long, Jimin took a breath, smoothed a gentle hand over his hair one final time, and exited the tent, letting the canvas flap swing shut behind him. The sun was fully above the horizon now, casting the glowing rays of early morning over the tops of the rows upon rows of tents.

The waking light, along with the crisp air, brought a bit of a spring to Jimin’s step. It was warmer here than at the capital, and Jimin was fully prepared to bask in the sunlight, allowing himself a moment to stretch his arms about his head and sigh as several bones popped along his back and shoulders. Ah. Try as he might to adjust to the cot set up for him in his tent, he missed the luxurious feathered bed in his chambers back at the palace. It never gave him any back trouble.

One hand absentmindedly massaging at the back of his neck, Jimin made his way towards the officer’s kitchen tent, following his nose. Although most of the members of the military dined together, eating the same food, the General and Lieutenant-Generals had a bit more privilege than the rest of them. Considering his mouth was already watering, Jimin wasn’t about to complain about it.

“Ah, good morning, Your Highness.” A woman standing behind the wooden table set up in front of the kitchen tent greeted him with a deep bow. The folds of her soft yellow skirt shifted in the morning breeze. “Allow me to prepare you a plate. Do you have any special requests?”

“Anything you can give me will be wonderful, I’m sure, Hiah-ssi,” Jimin responded with a slight head tilt of his own, acknowledging her respectful greeting.

The women squeaked when Jimin addressed her by name, immediately blushing a deep red and darting off behind the curtain to gather his food. Jimin watched her go with a smile that edged ever-so-slightly towards a smirk, a small part of him enjoying her fluster.

Once his hands were full - a bowl of rice mixed with kimchi and scallions and topped with a fried egg in one hand, a cup of tea in the other - he made his way to the outdoor dining commons. It was still too early for most of the soldiers to be awake; the horn hadn’t sounded over the camp yet. Only a few people dotted the mats around the lines of low tables.

At the end of the field, there was a raised wooden platform where the officers sat for meals. Only one man sat at this table, straight-backed with his gaze glued to the rising sun, positioned just to the left of the raised step that was placed at the table if royalty was present. Jungkook, of course. What a way to begin his first day of training.

With a sigh, Jimin made his way to the platform, purposefully sitting at the end of the low table, as far as humanly possible from Jungkook; despite regulation dictating Jimin sit at the raised step at the center of the platform, Jimin wasn’t up for interacting with Jungkook today, not with his nerves already so frayed.

Besides, no one was awake to witness it, and if Jungkook noticed Jimin’s presence, he didn’t seem to care.

After he’d devoured his breakfast, carefully keeping his eyes on the hills surrounding the camp and never once looking at Jungkook, Jimin downed what was left of his tea and stood. From the low murmur of movement and conversation slowly starting up from all corners of the camp, Jimin could tell they were only a few minutes from the wake-up call. It was time to find the training grounds, and prepare for his first batch of recruits.

There were five-hundred-and-twenty-two of them lined up on the training field, grim-faced men and women all adorned in the same plain tan uniform of a recruit. The men who’d already been stationed at the camp, training for the border, were assembled at the front; newer recruits were organized at the back.

Jimin stood at the front of them, eyes impassively sliding from one face to the next, flanked by eight major generals. Fifty-four First and Second Lieutenants, each with their Sergeant First Class second-in-command, lined the edges of the crowd. The field was quiet, every person present stock-still as they awaited the sound of the horn.

It was a fairly impressive demonstration, for a group of mostly new recruits to stand in formation in near-silence on their first day of training; there were only a few whispers of conversation here and there, easily drowned by the wind.

It appeared even these green-gilled men and women understood the gravity of the situation.

In a way, Jimin found that comforting.

Each recruit mirrored Jimin’s rigid parade rest. It still looked a bit awkward on them, bodies unused to holding to the rigid lines. But that would get better with time. After so many years steeped in the rules and regulations of the military, Jimin’s body held the position as if the lines of his body were a work of art.

They would learn.

But despite the demonstration of discipline, Jimin wasn’t particularly impressed. He’d seen the absolute mess that had been the group of them filing out onto the field and finding their places on the training lines. The near-incoherent chaos had resulted in, from what Jimin could see, at least two scuffles and many more shouting matches. No one had known exactly where they were supposed to be even though they’d theoretically rehearsed for this yesterday.

Jimin sighed.

With a tightening of his mouth, he looked to the left, catching the trumpeter’s eye. The man fumbled with his instrument briefly before bringing the horn to his lips and letting off a jarring blast.

The field fell silent.

“Recruits.”

Jimin’s voice echoed across the field, purposefully a bit lower than his normal tone. A ripple passed through the crowd as the men and women tightened their form in response to his voice.

“Welcome to Basic Training.

As many of you know, the situation at our northern border has grown dire; Geumho has grown brave, challenging our power, burning our towns, killing our people.

It is time we retaliate.

At this camp, you will learn the skills necessary to be a soldier. To dominate a battlefield. We will mold you into the soldiers Namhan needs in this war.

Over the next two weeks, you will learn formations and general discipline, sword fighting, hand-to-hand combat, wilderness survival, and basic tactics.

Once you have demonstrated competency in these skills, we will graduate to war games, where you will all test your newfound knowledge against each other.

This training will test you. To become a soldier of Namhan, you will need to sacrifice parts of yourself. I cannot tell you these coming days will be easy. We have little time to become what our nation needs to survive; and we will become what our nation needs to survive.

When you feel the urge to quit, to give up, when you feel you are tested beyond your limits, remember: we are training for war.

We are training for survival.

We are training to fight for, to save, our country.”

A pause. The crowd was silent, eyes tracking every movement of Jimin’s lips, every twitch on his face. It felt like needles against his skin.

“We must win this war.

You must be what Namhan needs to win this war.”

Instinctively, Jimin’s eyes scanned the crowd, gauging the soldiers’ reactions to his speech, judging whether or not they believed him, whether or not they were convinced of their chances in this war, if he’d managed to ignite righteous fire behind their eyes. These introductory speeches always felt uncomfortable to him; he felt as if he was simply spouting drivel to soldiers in an attempt to inspire loyalty and passion when he knew the truth: that the state of things was dire, that many of these men would likely die, that it was entirely possible many of them would not make a difference on the scales of war.

But he understood the necessity of presenting a confident, unified front, of inspiring men to give their lives for their home and country. He understood.

But he didn’t like it.

“We’ll be starting with hand-to-hand combat training,” he continued, stepping forward and pacing along the first line of recruits. “This training will work on your stamina, your coordination, and your focus in battle.”

With the pontification out of the way, the group seemed to loosen, ready and eager to get into training. A few crops of whispers broke out amongst the crowd.

The training of new recruits always began with hand-to-hand combat. The men tended to take to it easily, as too many of them already often used their fists to get their way, and it was a good way to introduce discipline without dealing with the potentially-deadly injuries that inevitably came with teaching a rowdy, untrained group of soldiers how to sword fight.

Jimin took a breath, hands clenching behind his back briefly, then continued.

“Each of you has been assigned a platoon.

Look around you. This group of men and women will be what you have on the battlefield. They will be the ones that have your back, that support you, that keep you alive. And you must be their support, their cover, their survival.

Learn their names.

Learn their strengths. Learn their weaknesses.

Together, you must be a well-oiled, effective military machine. The only way to become this is to learn each other - and learn each other well.”

He paused at the end of the first row, eyes sliding from face to face deliberately. Most of the recruits kept their eyes forward, but a few held his gaze.

“Look at how small he is.” A whisper broke through the wind, a few rows back.

“Shorter than my sister.” Poorly-concealed chuckles echoed down the line.

“Definitely prettier than her, though,” came a snide response. An indignant squawk echoed after.

“He’s right and you know it. Look at that face. Better fit for a whore than a prince,” another voice broke in, louder than the first two.

Bold, white-hot anger lanced through Jimin’s chest.

There was no instinct in him to cower. No, these were words he’d heard before, this was a feeling of helpless frustration he’d felt before. These men weren’t original; their insults were so eerily similar to his father’s advisors’ sneered comments that Jimin almost wanted to laugh. All these words did was strike a match in his chest, igniting the age-old flames he’d grown so accustomed to over the years.

Jimin forced himself to continue on, explaining how their training would be led by professional instructors that had been brought from the martial arts school in the capitol. Each instructor would take on five platoons. He kept an ear to the crowd, slowly continuing to pace down the line.

“No way he’s a warrior,” another whisper came as he passed, “A man that small with a face that pretty? And he walks like a dancer, not a warrior. He hasn’t seen a fight in his life.”

“I bet all the stories about his fighting were just ‘greatly exaggerated’ to make the Prince feel better. Just watch, I bet he’s not even able to do half the things the lieutenant’s’ll be teaching us.”

There were a few chuckles.

“Bet he’d beg like a bitch if you got him down on the mat.”

The fury was growing, burning in his sternum. He’d ground to a halt, finishing a clipped sentence with such palpable anger that a few of the recruits nearest to him flinched back in alarm. His fingernails bit crescents into his palms.

“Bet he’d like it, being pinned down. Bet he’d take it well, body like that.”

Clearly none of them realized that Jimin had stopped speaking, too caught up in their sleazy commentary on his…preferences.

They weren’t all that quiet, anymore.

“Body that tight - bet I could dominate him easily,” another man suggested, tone laced with crude amusement.

Jimin slowly turned towards the whispers, flicking a hand. The first row parted like the red sea, hastily stepping back at Jimin’s signal. Unease held the recruits who’d realized what was going on in rigid tension.

“Lips like that are better suited for sucking cock than shouting orders.”

The group of them were right in front of Jimin now, four or five men tittering amongst themselves in the second row. He passed a cursory eye over the tags on their uniforms, noting their ranks and last names. His mind was already spinning through the records he’d poured over the last few weeks, picking out each man’s name, how long he’d been at the Central Camp, if he’d had any record of insubordination or indecency.

His eyes zeroed in on the man who’d just spoken.

“Yun Daehyun.”

Jimin’s voice was sickly sweet.

Yun Daehyun jumped violently, eyes jumping from his friends to Jimin’s face.

He was smiling, lips curled in a dangerous curve.

Around him, the other men who’d been whispering looked like they were about to lose their breakfast.

“Come here, please.”

White as a sheet, Yun Daehyun stepped forward, coming through the first line to stand before Jimin. Slowly, Jimin appraised him, eyes sliding from head to toe. Reasonable height. Not a lot of muscle. Bad posture. Little discipline or fighting experience.

“Would you like to repeat what you just said?” Jimin asked with a smile, tilting his head just a bit to the side as he drilled his gaze into Daehyun’s face.

The man gulped.

“I didn’t say anything.”

A brave choice. And a foolish one.

“Hm, I don’t think so,” Jimin mused, still smiling. “Try again.”

Daehyun appeared to realize that Jimin wasn’t about to just give him a slap on the wrist. He chose honesty, this time. Smarter. But still foolish.

“That…lips like his majesty’s were better suited for…sucking cock…than shouting orders.”

“Louder.”

“I said,” Daehyun’s voice was loud enough to be heard across the field in the charged silence, “that lips like his majesty’s were better suited for sucking cock than shouting orders.”

His face had regained a bit of its color, the indignancy of being forced to repeat his words striking some sort of self-righteous fury within him.

Daehyun said it with a force that suggested that, in his indignation at being publicly ridiculed, he thought his word would be enough to discredit the prince, that his fellow recruits would agree with him, would recognize this exchange as a egotistical, self-important, unfit royal meting out unjust punishment on an honest, unsuspecting soldier.

“Better.” Jimin nodded. “Follow.”

He turned, making his way towards the front of the crowd, where he’d given his initial speech. With a sweep of his hand, the major generals stepped back, clearing a large open space on the grass.

Jimin turned to face the recruits, Daehyun falling into place beside him, looking confused.

“Recruits.” Jimin surveyed the crowd, smile vanishing. “I am about to demonstrate the dangers of both hubris and underestimating your opponent. This will also function as an educational demonstration of what you are about to learn.”

He turned to Daehyun, flint in his eyes.

“I will give you the opportunity to demonstrate your worthiness to make commentary on what my body is best for in a match of hand-to-hand combat. Step forth.”

With steady hands, Jimin began to undo the pewter buttons of his stiff, formal coat. Daehyun’s eyes darted between Jimin’s hands and his eyes, like he couldn’t believe what was happening. His features were narrow, like a fox. His nose seemed to be perpetually scrunched, like he’d just smelled something sour.

And as sick glee sparked in Daehyun’s eyes, Jimin knew: this man believed he could win.

There was a moment that Jimin almost felt pity.

Jimin slid his coat from his shoulders and handed it to one of the Major Generals, who’d stepped forward in anticipation. Beneath, he wore only a thin tank top, starched to an almost blinding white. From the way Daehyun’s eyes darted to his arms and bulged a bit, Jimin could tell Daehyun hadn’t expected him to be visibly well-muscled.

Stubbornly refusing to be phased, Daehyun ripped his khaki recruit uniform shirt over his head and threw it to the ground.

They began circling each other.

“Note how he holds his body,” Jimin began commentary for the benefit of the recruits in the crowd, all of their eyes bouncing between him and Daehyun in a wild combination of fascination, anticipation, and disbelief.

“He’s keeping his center of gravity too high. That leaves him vulnerable -”

Jimin darted forward, delivering a sharp, precisely aimed jab to the man’s shoulder before retreating. Surprised and over-balanced, Daehyun stumbled back.

“- to attacks like that, that come high on the body.”

Irritated at Jimin’s blatant use of him as a demonstration of incompetency, Daehyun charged, clearly intending to use his size and grapple Jimin to the ground, where he’d have an advantage.

But for all his apparent power, fueled by self-righteous anger at being humiliated, Daehyun wasn’t an experienced fighter; his punches and jabs were sloppy and followed no particular pattern, even though they appeared to be roughly aimed for effective parts of the body: the eyes, nose, ears, neck, and groin.

Jimin easily wove through Daehyun’s poorly coordinated offensive attempts, putting in a few well-placed hits every once in a while, clearly and effectively illustrating the gaps in Daehyun’s fighting style for their audience.

The more frustrated Daehyun became, the sloppier his fighting got.

The man managed to land only one punch, a glancing blow to Jimin’s ribs that he moved with, allowing the power to carry him backwards.

Damn. That was going to bruise.

Right after, he made an attempt to take out one of Jimin’s knees with an uncoordinated swing of the leg that Jimin deftly dodged, angry that Daehyun had managed to get a hand on him. Deciding the lesson had been aptly illustrated, Jimin hooked the offending leg with his own and used it to wrench Daehyun down to his knees.

Before the man could regain his bearings, Jimin yanked his head down under his armpit by the neck, bringing his other arm around Daehyun’s throat and locking his hands together in a gentleman’s grip. Chin on the man’s back, Jimin took a step closer and slowly brought his arms up, effectively trapping Daehyun in a standing guillotine choke.

Daehyun had the audacity to struggle, attempting to wiggle out of Jimin’s hold with a growl. Jimin tugged upwards sharply, drawing a surprised whine of pain from Daehyun.

“Remember this feeling,” Jimin panted in the man’s ear, tightening his grip, making him choke, trashing as he tried to get Jimin off of him. “Remember this feeling of absolute helplessness. I could break your neck in the next two seconds and not a single person on this field would stop me.”

He pressed his fingers tight against a pressure point on the side of Daehyun’s neck, and he fell limp, twitching against the hold on him, eyes darting side to side, wild and surprised and scared. Jimin took a moment to survey the field, carefully making eye contact with each man who’d been standing near Daehyun.

“You will live to see tomorrow, and only because we need your body to fight in this war. Do not mistake my mercy for kindness. I am to be your King. You will treat me as one.”

He dropped Daehyun’s limp body.

Stepping back, Jimin held out a hand for his jacket, which was immediately returned to him. The five hundred recruits stood stock still before him, deathly silent, eyes darting between Jimin and Daehyun’s collapsed form.

Jimin allowed himself a moment of satisfaction, at having so effectively made his point.

It did little to erase the sour taste in his mouth.

Bet I could dominate him easily.

A slick slide of disgust and unease slipped down Jimin’s spine.

“Take him to the infirmary,” he ordered the Sergeant standing next to the first few rows of recruits, presumably Daehyun’s platoon Sergeant.

The man darted forward, gesturing for a few of the recruits to help him lift Daehyun’s body and carry him off the field. Five hundred pairs of eyes followed them.

A quick flash of movement caught Jimin’s eye and he turned, making eye contact with Jungkook, who was standing at the side of the field, just out of sight from the crowd of recruits amongst the tents.

He had an inscrutable expression on his face, a confusing cross between a glare and something begrudgingly impressed. His hand was tight on the sword at his hip.

Jimin raised an eyebrow, daring him to step in.

Jungkook stayed still.

Jimin turned away.

With a hand, he indicated to the combat instructors, who’d been waiting off to the left side of the field in a small group, to come forward. They filed in to stand at attention by his side.

“Each platoon will report to its designated training location. Your instructors will lead you through a series of basic stances and attacks. Learn your drills. Perfect them. Do not dare to fail.”

In a burst of movement, the recruits scrambled over themselves to obey. Jimin watched their panicked rush with an impassive gaze.

No one dared look him in the eye.

Good.

Hours later, Jimin found himself once again seated at the officers table in the dining commons, Yoongi and a few others joining him for dinner. The rest of the day’s training had gone by without a hitch. Whether the recruits were too scared of public ridicule or of Jimin to dare step a toe out of line was anyone’s guess, but either way, Jimin’s batch had caused remarkably little fuss during the remainder of hand-to-hand combat training and their introduction to wilderness survival.

The bruise on Jimin’s side ached.

“Heard you managed to send a recruit to the medic tent already,” Lia, one of the Major Generals who’d trained troops with Jimin before, spoke up, flashing Jimin an amused smile.

Jimin sighed, rolling his eyes. Of course gossip of the incident had spread already. Honestly, he should probably be grateful: the more recruits that knew the story, the less likely they’d be to openly disrespect him.

“Aish, on the first day, really?” Yoongi groaned, elbowing Jimin roughly. “You couldn’t hold back, not even a little?”

“What’d you do, neck pinch the guy?” Kai, another of the Major Generals, joked with a laugh.

His smile faltered at the flat look Jimin gave him.

“No way, actually?” His face broke out in a grin. “Wow, Your Highness. Way to make an impression.”

Jimin shrugged, fighting a bit of a smile of his own. “Well, they needed to be taught that if they fail to respect me, it comes at a price.”

A bobbing of heads in agreement and acquiescence, along with a few chuckles, followed his statement. Yoongi rolled his eyes again, fondly, used to Jimin’s more…forceful antics.

They slipped into easier conversation, discussing the strengths and weaknesses of the batches of recruits. There were four of them, totaling to roughly two thousand men, each batch led by a Lieutenant-General: Jimin, Sana, Eunwoo, or Eungchul. Hoseok had already returned to the front and Jungkook was overseeing all operations of the Central Camp.

It was more men than they’d hoped for, but it was clear they had their work cut out for them. Too few of the recruits had any form of combat training, and it was starting to become obvious that most were lacking a propensity for teamwork and tactic memorization, as well.

But the Major Generals appeared to still be hopeful and determined, discussing their plans for guiding the recruits forward. Jimin listened, taking mental notes and nodding along, doing his best to allow himself to be taken up in their optimism.

A tap at his shoulder caused Jimin to jump nearly a foot off the ground.

His cheeks immediately flushed, ashamed at starting so violently. That was weird; usually, he was hard to sneak up on.

Looking up, he was met with Jungkook’s usual impenetrable stare, his long black hair hanging in his eyes. A flash of uncontrollable trepidation lit up Jimin’s chest. With a jerk of his head, Jungkook indicated for Jimin to follow him off to the side of the platform.

Damn. Jimin had been hoping to avoid a confrontation with Jungkook over what had happened with Daehyun. Even though Jimin was the Prince, Jungkook still technically outranked him when it came to military matters, which meant that if Jungkook disapproved of his methods of discipline, he could be punished himself.

Memories of his father’s fists flashed behind his eyes.

Jimin rose and followed Jungkook off the dais towards an alley between two of the storage tents. The second they were face to face, Jungkook was opening his mouth, hands coming up between them.

“What were you thinking, handling dissent like that, with a public, physical ridicule?” he demanded, incensed, shaking open, taut hands in Jimin’s direction. “You can’t be judge, jury, and executioner, here. You can’t decide to just beat a soldier up for disrespecting you. We have procedures for punishment for a reason. You can’t go off the book just because you’re the Prince.”

“I didn’t beat him up, I gave him the opportunity to demonstrate his incompetence and thus invalidate his opinions on my competency,” Jimin bit out, seething. “What would you rather I do, in the face of open disrespect? Step back and call you in to handle it, further proving my inability to handle things on my own?”

“You should have brought the man directly to me,” Jungkook shot back, obviously frustrated. His face was twisted up, eyes flashing at Jimin’s resistance. “We would have established his offense and he would have received the proper discipline. When they step a toe out of line, they need to be taught that the system will punish them, not you. The objective isn’t to force these recruits to respect you through fear, Your Highness.”

He spat Jimin’s title like poison, like he wanted Jimin to know that, with every fiber of his being, he thought Jimin unworthy of it.

“Do you know what he said?” Jimin asked suddenly, eyes sliding over the taut hold of Jungkook’s body, the way his eyes were glued to Jimin’s face.

Confusion flickered across Jungkook’s face. “What?”

“Do you know what he said?” Jimin repeated.

“What does it matter?” Jungkook ground out, tipping his head back and squeezing his eyes shut, hands pushing harshly through his tangled hair.

Ah, so he didn’t know.

“He said that lips like mine were better for sucking cock than barking orders,” Jimin said evenly. “The man next to him thought he could dominate me easily. Another thought I would like being held down and forced to beg like a bitch. One of the more innocent ones thought my face was better suited to a whore than a Prince.”

Jungkook was frozen, hands still in his hair as he stared at Jimin with what appeared to be disbelief.

(A confusing, terrifyingly strong wave of rage bubbled through Jungkook’s gut, whiting his vision. His hands were shaking. Why was he having such a visceral reaction to this? Alarmed at his own anger, Jungkook forced himself to tamp it down, shoving down the sudden desire to tear that pathetic-looking man he’d seen collapsed on the field earlier to shreds.)

“And they’re not the only ones. I know what people say about me,” Jimin continued, voice sharp with ice, carefully observing Jungkook’s reactions. “The soldiers would have kept saying it.”

The two of them locked eyes, flint to stone.

“You’ve never had the misfortune of anyone questioning you,” Jimin bit out. “You’ve never had to feel the burn of stares on your back, eyes imagining you on your knees, something that should be dominated, something to be fucked and thrown aside. You’ve never had to listen to the whispers, listen to them talk about how they would take you, how they would teach you to behave, how you’re weak and fragile and just another pretty face.”

He took a breath, cheeks mottled with red and vision blurring in his anger.

“I am to be their King and yet they still see me as another thing to be owned and broken simply because I do not look like you. Until you learn what it is to feel that you are lesser simply because of how high you stand, the slightness of your body, the size and placement of your features, do not ridicule my methods for inspiring respect.”

Jungkook was silent, dumbstruck, conflicting emotions warring for dominance on his features as he processed what Jimin had said, clearly unsure how to respond. Jimin was breathing heavily, adrenaline shooting through his body, urging him to fight or run.

He ran.