Archive of Our Own

It starts in your throat, and it makes you hum, swallow, scratch the roof of your mouth with your tongue and you clear your throat and it goes away. It goes away, the first few times. It goes away, but you remember the feeling and you recall it later, when you can’t sleep, you wonder if it really was, is, could be that. 

You pray that it isn’t.

It gets worse then, one day, when you think thoughts that you said you won’t let yourself think. You cough, and you feel a frog in your throat, a fly, a vine. You cough up the first petal into your curled hand and you ball your fists and you hide it, hide it, you don’t let anyone know the Goddess has planted the seed of her curse in your lungs.

Your cheeks burn and you never thought of yourself as someone who cries easily so there’s no reason for your eyes to sting so much now, be so red and bloodshot, for it to be so hard to cover your face.

“Are you good, my prince?” Sunwoo asks. He’s by your side in a second, no, he’s by your side constantly, he’s there for you, always. 

“I’m quite fine.” You ball your fists tighter. 

You’re Choi Chanhee, the third prince, and you do not have unresolved, unrequited feelings. You cannot.

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Chanhee eats with a hand on his throat. It’s unsightly, his advisors would say, were they still bothering to watch over his actions. No one watches over him anymore. No one expects anything from him anymore, except to uphold his duty, except to be a ghost in the castle walls.

The hand on his throat does not help with the choking. It just makes him feel less afraid.

Sunwoo doesn’t speak up until the doors to the dining hall close behind them. 

“Are you watching your line, perhaps?” He never speaks to him with honorifics when no one is watching. Sometimes Chanhee wishes he would, maybe things would be easier, then.

“As if there’s anything to watch.” Banter is easy, even with the pressure in his throat.

Sunwoo hums before he speaks up. “Are you sure?”

Chanhee laughs. It’s easy to laugh, even with the lump in his throat. He should quip back, it should be easy, too, but there’s a ball in his throat and he just coughs.

Sunwoo doesn’t get to see him cover his mouth in panic. Sunwoo only gets to see him compose himself and push the weight in his throat down with all of his will. If he has to swallow the petals, he will, but he doesn’t have to. He coughs with just a sound. 

There’s no reason for him to feel brave when he turns around. No reason for him to encourage this illness that’s taking over him. He does it anyway. 

“Are you watching my line for me? So awfully familiar with my figure. I ought to thank you, should that be the case.” The words should burn him, he thinks, he’s feeding the fire. 

Sunwoo laughs coyly. “Nonsense, my prince.” He doesn’t elaborate. 

Chanhee stops himself from pressing. He’s been reckless enough as it is. There are things he shouldn’t risk, and then there are things he absolutely cannot. 

For the rest of the day, he almost forgets about the fire, about his illness, he is the third prince and he is not bothered by trivial matters. His duty comes first in front of the books, in the stone cold throne room, in the orchard. It comes first when he talks to his father, bows, frowns and accepts. 

It doesn’t come first in his chambers.

“I want you to stand guard outside today,” he announces when the maids leave. 

“Should I return after a while?” Sunwoo stands up from his chair, hesitant. He was taught to never leave him alone, and so he doesn’t.

Chanhee wants to tell him no, go find your own chambers, go far away, stop being there for me, always. He nods instead. “An hour should be enough.”

Sunwoo doesn’t comment on what he thinks Chanhee needs the time for. Chanhee knows, anyway. It’s useful if Sunwoo thinks that. He won’t listen in, he won’t hear Chanhee topple to his knees, cover his face with thick, woven bedding and choke, choke, choke.

It’s petals, and he thinks back to the orchard, to the pear blossoms, gentle, white, pure. They fill him with dread, fistful after fistful, and he disposes of them out of the window, every last trace, rinses his mouth until he can no longer taste the bile and shame. 

What a funny emotion, he thinks before he falls asleep, weak, still shaking. Dread over something that’s already happening. Mourning over something that’s yet to come. Heartbreak over someone you didn’t admit you love.

It tastes like pear blossoms. It sounds like Sunwoo’s soft footsteps when he opens the bedchamber’s door. 

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The archery range is nothing like the barracks, Sunwoo says, and Chanhee believes him. The target is once again pristine. He used to ask to be allowed to train in the barracks, but he gave up. As if that had any real meaning, anyway. 

The storm was supposed to be his cue to stop shooting. His advisors would certainly say that, but they stopped trying to tell him what to do long ago, and now he only listens to the master archer. He’s from the barracks, Sunwoo confirms. He’s fought before. He stays calm in the pouring rain and presses a hand against Chanhee’s shoulder blades. More tension, he says. 

The longbow is light, as light as a blessed bow can be. Chanhee wanted it this way. He hates heavy things, he hates taking jagged breaths and he hates it when his muscles ache. He tensions his back until his chest burns and fixes his grip. It slipped, wet in the rain. 

“Don’t be distracted,” Sangyeon reminds him. Chanhee takes a strained breath. 

The arrow lands too low. He draws another before he is told to. 

“Look at the raindrops before you shoot.”

Chanhee nods, tenses his back, looks at the raindrops before he shoots. The rain makes his bow slippery, and he fixes his grip. 

The arrow lands higher, to the left.

“Focus!” He hears through the roar of the rain. Sangyeon sounds so far away. Sangyeon sounds so close. “Don’t lock your arm.”

All of the things he knows he does wrong. The wind sways his bow and the rain bothers his eyes. All of the things he knows he can’t control. 

The arrow lands too low again. 

“Was this the battlefield you would have been shot twice already,” Sangyeon reminds him. That’s what Chanhee asked for. His teeth hurt when he clenches them. 

As if he would ever be allowed on the battlefield. 

His tunic is woven with brocade, unbelievably heavy in the rain, impractical, something he’s worn his entire life. His bow is light, feather light, unbelievably easy to draw. Something that he’s barely allowed to have. Something that he needs to still work on. 

The arrow misses. He thinks he might be crying. He wants to throw his bow on the ground. He wants to scream. 

Sangyeon’s voice isn’t cutting when he asks, “Will you throw a tantrum now?”

The storm makes Sangyeon’s hair stick to his face and the thin linen of his shirt becomes translucent. He looks like he should be miserable. He looks at Chanhee with understanding.

Archery is about self control. That’s why he does it. 

Chanhee draws his bow again. It doesn’t matter how much his arms ache. He watches the raindrops before he shoots, tensions his back, unlocks his elbow. All the things he does wrong. All the things he fights against. 

He hits the target well enough. 

Sunwoo covers his shoulders with a thick cloak as soon as he steps into the cloisters. Chanhee wishes he wouldn’t watch him lose. 

Sunwoo knows this, maybe. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t say anything until they’re out of the shooting range, out of the armory, in a tower, alone. 

“You did well,” he says, voice soft. Chanhee snaps his head away.

He wants to thank him. He wants to ask Sunwoo to teach him how to shoot all over again, hand on the small of his back, his tension, his words. He wants to press his forehead into Sunwoo’s shoulder and cry.

He wants to cough and cough and choke out flowers, clumps of forget-me-nots the size of his fingernails. He wants to put them in Sunwoo’s hands and tremble. All the things he’s bad at.

Archery is about self control. That’s why he does it.

“Thank you,” he allows his voice to waver before he clears his throat. Before he clears the lump in his throat. “I will need more dry clothes than just this cloak.”

Sunwoo smiles. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. Chanhee thinks he knows what it means. 

Chanhee forces his own expression to not betray him. 

“Your chambers are not a long walk away,” Sunwoo dares to tug on Chanhees cloak. 

“Fetch my garments for me,” Chanhee tries. It was futile. Sunwoo was always next to him.

“Come, you oaf.”

Who else would dare call the third prince an oaf? Smiling risks falling more ill. Not smiling risks letting Sunwoo fear he crossed a line. Chanhee lets his expression crack, just for a second. 

They walk to his chambers by the shortest route, by the east hall, past the coat of arms. By the motto. 

A horse trampling a lion, ivy, the Goddesses halo. Gold and green. A pink pearl in a white shell. For the greatest good, the motto reminds him. This is who you are, this who you were born as. This is your duty. 

All of the things he can’t fight. 

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Chanhee used to be the fourth prince. 

The news were broken during a feast, and Chanhee remembers the cries of his mother echoing through the hall better than he remembers the words of the messenger. An honorable death on the battlefield, he thinks that’s what was said. As if there was ever a battlefield. As if any death was honorable.

At that point he hasn’t seen Choi Chanwoo in ten years. They were best of friends when they were younger, his mother assured him, but he could hardly remember the games and the fights. You would climb the trees in the orchard, his mother would say, and knock fruit down before they were ripe. As if Chanhee would ever climb trees. As if Chanhee was ever allowed to cause trouble. 

They buried an empty casket. The corpse would not have made the transport. Chanhee wondered if in his last moments his brother looked any different than he did in his portraits, the portraits that lined the walls of the palace, the portraits on which Chanwoo’s statue was based. As if no one else could recall his face without them, either. 

The second prince’s death would not have been met with this much mourning, Chanhee knew. Neither the third prince’s nor his own, but maybe the baby princesses. They would never be sent to the battlefield, either. As he watched the black banners unfurl, he wondered if he should grieve more. 

The reason for the heightened security was never officially announced. A week after the burial, Chanhee was met by the guardmaster, told that he will be under stricter guardianship from now on. That someone will be there with him, always, ready to protect him with their life. He would have protested more if he didn’t understand that this meant they were losing. 

He’s glad that he didn’t. 

They are no longer losing, but he is not willing to let go of his safety measure. 

“All clear,” Sunwoo always looks so different when he talks to other guards. “Assign the other two men to patrol the gardens.” 

Chanhee watches him change as the guards leave. Almost as if he became softer. Almost as if he became scared. 

“There have not been any incidents in the gardens, the men were just slacking off.” Somehow, his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. 

He doesn’t know how to make him smile again. He only knows how to tease. He only knows how to keep distance. “Do I send you patrolling too, should I catch you slacking off?” 

It makes Sunwoo smile all the same. “As if I could ever slack off, my prince.”

He only calls Chanhee that when he speaks with enthusiasm. It’s better, that way. Chanhee does not want to imagine it said softly. It would break him.

He swallows down the lump in his throat. “Perhaps you should, sometimes. You haven’t been resting.”

“I rest plenty,” Sunwoo sits down. “Whenever you take your classes.”

“What about friends, then?”

They’re eye to eye. They’re closer than they should be.

“I talk plenty with the guards and the groundskeeper.” His words are true, but his eyes dart away. Chanhee wants to chase them. 

“Is that so?”

A brief silence falls. Chanhee watches Sunwoo breathe. He feels like he himself can’t. 

“I talk with you plenty.” Sunwoo’s voice is soft. 

There is no good answer. Chanhee wants to press his hands into his eyes. Chanhee wants to become small, so small he can’t be seen anymore. Chanhee wants to disappear. 

There is no answer that Sunwoo will not misunderstand.

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Chanhee wakes up breathless. It’s an immediate sense of danger, a reminder that death can happen any time, that you are not immune from it, that it’s so different from the idea of non-existence; that it’s a violation of your body and decay of flesh. His throat is closing in on itself and attempting to inhale only brings death in closer. 

Through white hot panic and the tangle of his bedsheets, he barely remembers not to make much noise. 

He doesn’t recognize the flowers when he hurls them out, they’re soft and fleshy and their petals are thin and pink, and they’re barely smaller than a dandelion’s head. They crumple easily in his hands as he tries to hide them, stuff them under his bedding, under the wooden frame. 

Sunwoo comes in when they’re all gone from the view. 

“Have you not had a good sleep?” He asks in genuine worry. Chanhee wonders if his eyes are bloodshot, how much his face betrays. 

“Just a nightmare.”

“I will arrange a maid to soak your bedding with calming herbs.”

The offer is sweet and thoughtful. Chanhee must reject it. “I’ll go to the apothecary myself.” He thinks for a moment. “I’ll go to the temple.”

And that is where Sunwoo’s worry ends, that’s where he puts down the pained expression and puts on another one, a sly smile, a raised eyebrow. All of the things Chanhee allowed to happen over the years, over the nights in tents, over the jugs of mead. 

“Could the nightmares possibly be related to the envoy?” He asks, as if Chanhee has ever worried about any political affair. “Did you not have the best clothing in your dreams?”

It’s too easy for Chanhee to roll his eyes. “The nightmare pertained to your face. I dreamed it stayed this monstrous forever.”

Sunwoo laughs, or course. It’s easy to listen to, too. 

All of the things Chanhee can’t fight. 

It takes him by surprise, how slowly the day passes. The envoy comes with her guards and her maids as if she was among Chanhee’s ranks herself and nothing about her words matter. People accept gifts and messages and people give speeches and Chanhee repeats their words after them, nods, gestures. Nothing about his words matter, either. 

He sinks deeper into the velvet of the safe, meaningless exchange. Is he an envoy, too? Mother, father, I have a message from the trapped in a windless land. We are aimless. We are caged. Set us free or else let us rebel against your rule. With the Goddesses blessing, we shall, that means probably not, but we will contact the priest, and that means your seeing is now over. 

He sinks deeper into the night of the repetitive motions and the shackles, they go from his wrists to the ornate walls. What would it feel like to lose it all, to spill his secrets and let his shame cascade down the marble stairs? Mother, father, I am so much less than you wanted me to be. I am so much more. Take these flowers and plant them in your garden and watch them grow in my stead. 

The envoy bows and so does her court. She will be staying until the feast. She will give the king time to think on his answer. Very well , and we shall let you feel the Goddesses warm welcome. That means nothing will change, nothing at all. It’s his time to cut himself open and bleed, Chanhee thinks. 

He doesn’t. The horse tramples the lion above his head, proud and glistening golden and emerald, but it hardly matters. He suddenly thinks back to the morning, to the chilling fear of death, to the blinding sparks of thoughts cutting through his panic, clutching his sanity, puppeteering his weak, unwilling flesh. He thinks back to how controlled, quiet his inhales were. 

There is the risk of death, and there are things he absolutely can not risk. 

Sunwoo is standing there, to his right, the head of the column, and even when he looks straight ahead, he watches Chanhee.

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The head priest knows.

Chanhee knows he knows, because he grabs Chanhee’s hand, traces over his palm, and then looks at Sunwoo expectedly. It’s a sickening feeling, but the secret will be kept, and so he pushes it down. 

“Wait outside,” Chanhee tells Sunwoo before they enter a side chamber. He casts his eyes down. “I need solitary guidance.”

Sunwoo nods. “Yes, my prince.” 

He also addresses Chanhee like that when he’s serious, devoted, oddly fitting for a temple. 

It scratches Chanhee’s throat as he walks into the room, further away from the door, it falls out of his mouth as a cluster of pink petals. Morbidly fitting for a temple. 

“Pulmo florentis,” the head priest states, as if Chanhee didn’t know. “Flower lung. Although you’ll find most people call it the flower lung curse.”

There aren’t any chairs for Chanhee to sit down as he clenches his fist on the brocade of his waistcoat. There isn’t even any pattern on the stone floor for him to latch his eyes onto. 

“I don’t understand,” he lies. 

The head priest stands by the stained glass window, green and pink light illuminating his white robe. He looks almost as peaceful as Sangyeon did in the storm. “I have told you this before, prince. There are flowers under your skin, and the Goddess wants you to blossom.”

“Forgive me, but I do not see how this illness helps me blossom.”

The priest's sigh echoes through the walls. “She works in mysterious ways.”

Chanhee wants to scream. Chanhee wants to knock the previous instruments off the shelves lining the walls. Chanhee wants to ask how, why, how dare his Goddess curse him when he was told he is blessed and yet, more than anything, he wants to walk out and forget he ever came to the temple.

“I came here for a different issue.” He takes the strands of his scattered thoughts and tries to braid them. “I need soaks and herbs to help me sleep, but not too strong. I don’t suffer from nightmares quite as much as I let it on, and too strong of a concoction could be harmful.”

He isn’t allowed to continue. The priest turns around with sorrow on his face. “It is the guard boy, isn’t it?”

Chanhee finds himself raising his fist as if to slam it against the table, but he lowers it gently. What would he hit? Who would he hit? There is no one to punish but himself. 

“One word about this and I will have you dead,” he warns. The priest seems calm. 

“The Goddess would not permit I spill the secrets of those who confide in me and her.” He has seen far too much in his life, far more than Chanhee, yet he is half as tired. “Rest assured.”

It’s a promise that means something. Chanhee looks at the stained glass window, at the green ivy and the pink pearl. At the abundance of nature. At the blessing of the Goddess. All of the things he does not understand. 

“Send someone to deliver the herbs to my bed chambers before the end of the day,” he orders. “I trust you understand how to best arrange them.”

The priest nods and bows, and that should be it, Chanhee should be able to walk out, yet he feels his feet rooted to the floor, as if he is a weed budding from between the cracks in the stone. Mysteriously fitting for a temple. 

“The Goddess does not wish you ill fate,” the priest reminds. For a second, he looks like just another man Chanhee’s age. For a second, he looks like someone who’s loved before. 

Chanhee severs his roots when he turns around. He swears he can hear them snap and tear. He swears he hears the ivy grow behind him, tall, long, invasive. 

It should grow in his lungs soon.

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The silence in the cabinet never settles, unlike the dust in the air. Something always cuts it, swirls it, an exclamation of encouragement, a neigh, the crack of wood and stone. It’s almost as if life doesn’t stop for those who stop and study the texts. It’s almost as if Chanhee isn’t the only one in the world, anymore. 

Sunwoo tilts back in his chair, a quill balanced on his nose. “Please, prince,” he begs with no conviction. “I will groom your horse for you. I will carry you to the stables, even.”

The duty, Chanhee struggles to remember. “Only a few entries left in the annex.”

Sunwoo sighs. A sound both light and heavy. “How is it that every week you read through the same book of accounting?” 

“The contents change,” he states calmly. “I don’t suppose you would notice, though.”

They're just rows of numbers to Sunwoo, he supposes. To him, they're the effects of the kingdom's policies. Rows of mistakes, rows of successes, rows of losses. Rows of simple things that cannot lie, that invite Chanhee to make sense of them in the hope that they can be used. 

A sound comes from the outside, a yelp of a woman and the laughter of a man. Sounds of humans. Sounds of people. Chanhee’s eyes fall on Sunwoo and rest on his face for a while. Why does he care, again? 

Chanhee closes the codex. 

“Done?” Sunwoo smiles, and it’s equal parts sunshine and yearning. Chanhee almost feels his throat tighten. 

“Yes.” Chanhee weighs his next words. “I want to visit the lake.”

“O Goddess, bless this day!” There is an infectious quality to Sunwoo, something Chanhee can hardly protect himself from. “The third prince has chosen physical activities out of his own will!”

“Now,” Chanhee corrects. “That, I have not said. You are welcome to engage in as many physical activities as you will, I however simply wish to observe the surroundings.”

It’s a simple desire. To hide in the shade of a tree, to watch the water and the frogs, and the horses tied to the post. To watch Sunwoo roll his trousers up and waddle into the lake, watch him wrestle fish and carry them out of the water. To watch him smile. To listen to the sounds of humans. 

Sunwoo’s smile does not falter. “And to think for a second I hoped I would receive the privilege of teaching the third prince how to swim.” 

Everything about him is bright. Where does he get his freedom from? Where does he store the hope? Chanhee wants to press his hands to Sunwoo’s heart and find out. 

There’s no time to look Sunwoo in the eyes. There’s only time to banter back. “Why should I know how to swim? Should I fall into the water, you will surely save me.”

It’s an unwise thing to say, as it comes at the price of a ragged inhale and a tight throat. It’s an unwise thing to say, because Sunwoo pauses before he answers. 

“I will.” Something floats in the air, next to the dust, next to the sounds. “Always.”

It’s an unwise thing to do, to stand up and walk away, but it’s the only thing Chanhee can do before he says something even more unwise. By the time they arrive at the stables, Chanhee remembers how to be composed again.

“Well, tack the horses,” he looks at Sunwoo expectantly. “And be thankful I didn’t order you to carry me.” Not that he would. Not that he’d survive that.

Sunwoo feels more at ease in the stables than Chanhee ever could. He moves with the confidence and freedom of someone who’s never feared their duty. It’s a simple desire for Chanhee, to watch him in his element, watch him train, work, forget himself. It would be a complicated desire to want the same for himself, and so he doesn’t.

A face shows up and Chanhee pulls down the smile that unknowingly crept onto his face. “Minister,” he greets.

“Young prince, what winds have carried you here?” There is venom hidden in these words. “Are you done with the evaluations?”

“Done for today.” Chanhee looks away before remembering that he can’t look away from his duty. “I have decided to take a leisurely stroll down the forest.”

The minister’s eyes are piercing. “How brilliant must you be to have dealt with the annexes so quickly.”

“Only one annex was brought to the eastern cabinet, and I have examined it thoroughly.” No one even needs him to do it. It’s not important at all. No one even cares what he finds in the rows of mistakes and successes and policies. 

“Surely there must be more.” 

As they look at each other, all of the sounds around them seem to grow quiet. It’s just gold and marble, and the silence of the stone walls. Where do you think you’re going, prince? The white robes of the minister scold. Surely not outside the castle bounds?

“Surely, they can wait until tomorrow.” Chanhee’s face is stiff and cold when he smiles.

“I suggest the young prince doesn’t upset the queen more than he already has.” The minister doesn’t wait for a response, he just bows and leaves, and something leaves with him.

The sun outside hides behind the clouds of duty and responsibility. Stupid boy, stupid, the trees rustle in the wind. He thought he can escape. He thought he can make a decision of his own, now he must be punished.

Chanhee closes his eyes and digs his nails into the insides of his palms. “Unsaddle the horses.”

Sunwoo looks around before he leans in closer. He knows some things can’t be said out loud. “Are you certain?”

It’s a desire, to mount the horse and just go, go through the forest and cross the bridge, run away from the palace grounds and to not stop until his shoes are full of water, but it’s not a simple one. It’s a desire that lives right next to the voice that asks him to turn around and grab fistfuls of Sunwoo’s tunic, to curl into his embrace. It reminds him of when he could stomp his feet and scream.

Was there ever a time like this? Was he ever truly allowed to fall off the trees in the orchard, stain his cape, lose his quiver? Was he ever allowed to leave the castle bounds when not in hiding? 

Sometimes he wants to pretend freedom is something he’s had and lost with age. Sometimes it hurts more to know nothing ever changes.

“The queen will look for me soon,” he answers Sunwoo. “Should she find me outside of the castle bounds, she will not be happy.”

Sunwoo obeys, he always does. He doesn’t make Chanhee bite the misfortune and chew on it, he lets him coast by. Opens the doors for him as they leave towards the chambers. Doesn’t comment when he stops by the portrait of the late crown prince.

“Perhaps I should strike the minister as he sleeps,” Sunwoo suggests in a half-voice when they’re alone. It cracks a smile out of Chanhee like weeds crack the stone. “Or else, leave poison ivy in his bedding.”

There’s some depth to these words, and then there’s some truth. Truth, like I’ve killed for you before, I will again. Depth, like I never want to see you upset. Both make Chanhee want to hide in himself, but that’s unwise, and he’s done doing unwise things. 

“Better yet, burn the east cabinet and all the accounting.” Walls have ears, he remembers then. “Such would be the words of someone less devoted.”

Sunwoo understands. He smiles a half-smile and sends a knowing look. “By Goddess, I should never act against the crown.”

Unless you want me to, the look says. Unless you order so. But that’s for them to know. 

The queen doesn’t send anyone looking for Chanhee. Not even the minister seeks him in his chambers. There are no more sounds of people than the sounds of Sunwoo breathing.

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Chanhee doesn’t even have to frown for Sunwoo to know he’s upset. He knows that, because the second they leave the queen’s chambers, Sunwoo is by his side, not a step behind him like he usually would be. 

“My prince,” he starts. It’s like he always calls Chanhee that. “Quite a burden, is it not?” 

“Yes,” he frowns. “No.”

“No?”

Chanhee searches for words, but they never come easily to him when he’s looking from the windows and over the town, over the people. It’s always something else occupying his thoughts, then. It’s always someone else’s thoughts in his head. 

“An unexpected task, maybe, but one I can manage.”

He was not supposed to be expected to do anything on the royal hunt opening. He was never expected to do anything but show up. His brothers should have taken care of the ceremonies. 

Chanyeol had things to do. Chanyeol was looked up to and watched over closely and he was somewhere else, always, carefully fulfilling the duty Chanwoo couldn’t. Chanhee didn’t envy him, not one bit. 

He envied him just a little, but less so than he did the second prince.

Chankyu was allowed to rebel. He was allowed to deny his mother’s request and ride off, ride away, to his lands, to his people. Chanhee was only allowed to...What was he even allowed to do?

He stops dead in his tracks, and Sunwoo’s leather armor creaks when he stops in suit. The only sound in the entire hallway. 

“What is it?” 

He doesn’t know what the answer will be until he opens his mouth. “I want to go to the shooting range.” 

Sunwoo doesn’t say anything unnecessary. He just turns to follow Chanhee, maybe half a step behind, maybe just giving him enough space to breathe, maybe giving him too much space. As if he’s reading Chanhee’s mind, but is afraid of what he sees. 

“Why did the queen specify a speech?” He asks before they enter the training area. He knows they won’t be able to talk privately then. 

The answer stings Chanhee’s throat, and he wishes he had a different answer. “She does not believe I can host a ceremony.”

It’s Sunwoo who stops this time, his hand on the door. Chanhee can’t remember the last time he opened a door on his own. “Can you?”

His hand on Sunwoo’s, Chanhee pushes the door open. “I can try.”

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Chanhee rarely gets to talk to his father one on one. It’s almost unheard of, the way they pass each other in the hall of tapestries and both stop to look at each other. The way they sit down. 

“The queen has been rather worried recently.”

“There’s no need,” Chanhee says. He doesn’t like talking to his father, but maybe he should. 

“The queen wants what’s best for you, and what’s best for you is best for the kingdom. I support her.”

Chanhee sighs before he speaks again. “I am not being unfaithful to the crown.”

It almost seems like his father wants to laugh. “And no one thinks that you would be.”

“Then why change my maids? Did you not think I would notice? The seamstress, too?”

He didn’t want to be like that, didn’t want to stand up for himself. Not in the tapestry hall, not to the king alone, not at all. Fear drives people to strange things, he thinks as he clenches his fists. 

The king does laugh. “Which one of the maids do you miss so?”

Chanhee shakes his head. He is not his father, but how can he explain that to him? “Be assured, none of them were close to my heart.”

When his father cocks his head to the side, it’s almost like they’re familiar again. Like he’s twelve again and being told about things he would rather not hear about, but things he listens about because his brothers told him it’s just for grown-ups. Like he’s cherished, again. 

“I have told it to your brothers and I’ll tell it to you, son.” There it is, Chanhee thinks. “There is nothing wrong with getting to know the help more closely, really close, provided you do not get attached.”

Chanhee wonders if it’s visible, how hard he is clenching his jaw. But his father speaks with conviction, so he doesn’t stop him. 

“If your heart stays unoccupied, you can use your body for what the Goddess intended. It is not you who is unfaithful to the crown. It is the maids - after all it is them who have seduced you, right?”

It’s a cruel way of thinking, but it’s not useless. Chanhee’s way of thinking is useless. It protects no one, it helps no one. It’s a mistake that he ever acquired it in the first place. When did it happen? When he fell off the peach tree? When he drew his first arrow?

“What will they do now?” He lets his useless thoughts out. The king doesn’t even understand who he is asking about. “The women that have been disposed of.”

He laughs again. A terrible sound, the resonance blocked by the soft tapestry. By the threads and tassels and the history that looms over them. “That is for them to worry about. Live, probably, if Goddess gives.”

Probably, Chanhee thinks. If Goddess gives. They’re just help, and he is just useless. Not the mindset of a future king. Fourth prince, third prince maybe. Unfit. 

He doesn’t remember what the king talks about, his eyes fixed on some distant cloud, something fake, something fickle. He only remembers the sting in his throat and the rush of green, red, burning, ever encompassing, of the shadow. 

Finally he stands up, bows goodbye, meaningless motions. He blacks out the distance from the hall to his chamber. 

Sunwoo doesn’t ask questions when he drops face first into his bed. Sunwoo looks away, stands nearby, keeps watch. Sunwoo thinks he understands. 

Chanhee prays that he doesn’t. 

He is naked and helpless in the face of expendability. These are stone walls that he scratches at with his bare fingers. 

Don’t get attached, the king says, and you will be faithful to the crown. Any threat to the prince's faith must be removed, the queen says, and that is what is best for the country. To leave a decision up to him would be to grant him power, and no one bothers with that anymore, no one ever did.

Maybe there is another way, a voice begs, a voice that sounds like him when he was still naive. He knows there isn’t. There are no secrets in the castle where the walls have ears. There is no hope of ordering people to be quiet when his order means as much as the gaze of a portrait on the wall. 

Right across the room stands his doom. Chanhee is attuned to his breathing. He keeps watch as long as the king will allow him, and then when he’s done, someone else can, will replace him. They’re just the help. Just don’t get attached. 

That must be the root of Chanhee’s disease. That must be what is growing in his lungs. 

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

Chanhee wakes up breathless again, and the fear no longer burns him raw. As the fight for oxygen grows more desperate, he grows more resigned. As long as he keeps quiet, he thinks. 

He gets his thirty seconds of peace when he watches the flowers in his hands. The purple petals feel like they still cling to his throat and he swallows around them. His own shame no longer fills him with disgust, it’s just misery now. 

Sunwoo’s chair is empty, as it always is, in the mornings. He has things to arrange, after all, before Chanhee wakes up, he has orders to give, people to instruct, things to take care of. Chanhee to take care of. 

In theory it is the maids duty to wake him up in time for his morning routine. In theory, it’s the servants’ faces he should see first. In practice, Chanhee wakes up by himself, lowers his feet onto the cold stone floors, into his slippers, and summons Sunwoo. It’s like he doesn’t just listen for movements, it’s like he knows when exactly Chanhee decides to begin his day. 

As long as he doesn’t make any noise, Chanhee thinks, as he crushes the flowers and stuffs them into his shoes. No one should check these.

The door creaks open after he takes one step. 

“Ready for the day, my prince?” Sunwoo’s smile is equal parts sunny and a nightmare. 

“Quite,” Chanhee lies. He makes the time to go to the temple before breakfast. 

“Solitary guidance,” He casts his eyes down like he did the last time and Sunwoo doesn’t ask. He never does. Maybe he should. 

The priest doesn’t get to open his mouth before Chanhee speaks. 

“Tell me about the cure for the curse.”

The priest's silence is heavy. “Young prince, you know it is not a real cure.”

Not the answer Chanhee will accept. “You know how to stop the death from coming, do you not?”

“No more than you do.”

The answer Chanhee feared. He feels his fists clench, again. All he can do against authority. 

The greens and pinks remind him of his duty. Had he only been more like his father, had he only treated Sunwoo as expendable. Maybe he could expend his emotions, too.

A ball builds up in his throat and he no longer cares. If he chokes on it, then he does. He has a duty to uphold. He has a duty to bear. 

“Then what are the potions I’ve heard of?”

“In an altered state of mind,” the priest hesitates. “Altered enough, the mind forgets its attachments. With it, the heart forgets.”

“I don’t suppose it is a treatment fit for a prince.” He’s sour. The greens and pink remind him of his duty. 

The priest shakes his head. “Only as a last effort.”

An heir is better insane than dead, Chanhee thinks. He is more useful insane than dead. 

There’s nothing he can say that the head priest doesn’t already know. He can’t even beg. 

“When is the last effort administered?”

The head priest looks to the stained glass for the answer. He speaks without turning back to Chanhee. “After there’s blood, the matter becomes urgent.”

Chanhee walks out of the temple without saying goodbye. It feels like the statues of the Goddess are shaking their heads at him. Stupid man. Stupid boy. Forgot his place, now he will die. 

Sunwoo’s embrace knocks air into his lungs. 

“What has shaken you so?” He only keeps Chanhee close for a second. It’s enough for a lifetime. It makes him hungry for more. 

They sit on a stone bench right outside the temple, between the trees planted in a neat row. Not quite the orchard, but comforting all the same. Chanhee wonders how to pick words to comfort Sunwoo, too. 

Sunwoo can’t know, he reminds himself. Sunwoo can never know. He thinks of just letting the flowers fall out of his mouth and facing his shame, but there are some things he cannot risk. Sunwoo is expendable, and what’s best for the prince is best for the kingdom. 

But Sunwoo is right there, his half glove warm in the sun, at least it looks warm, at least it seems warm. Chanhee can’t touch it. He may break. 

“I fear the Goddess put me through a trial too difficult for me to complete,” he finally utters. It’s half truths so transparent Sunwoo might see through them. He hopes he won’t. 

“I often,” Sunwoo starts, but something catches his words. It sounds like green and pink. “I often don’t understand the Goddess’s will.”

The wind carries their words as they speak. Maybe they’ll stop being heavy if they fly far enough. “Are those the consequences of being blessed?”

There’s no silence to stretch between them when the birch trees rustle. There should be birds, Chanhee thinks. Then they wouldn’t be alone. 

“In the garrison where I trained, the templar there, he always said, people have seasons too. That we are as the world is.” It is not often Sunwoo talks with such reverence, so Chanhee listens close. He knows he shouldn’t. “There comes summer of joy, and then autumn of harvest. Then comes winter, and the darkness, and the ruin.”

A single leaf falls off a tree and into Sunwoo’s warm lap. He twirls it before he speaks again. “Maybe now you are waiting for the spring?”

An urge to crush the leaf surges through Chanhee’s body, and he bites his tongue, as hard as he needs, even if it bleeds, he bites it. That’s all he can do not to cry. 

Spring is worse, he thinks. There is spring in my lungs. There is spring when I look at you. You are spring, and you will grow on my dead body. 

What he must do is return to winter. 

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

There were times when looking at Sunwoo reminded Chanhee of his responsibilities. Reminded him people were raised and taught to risk their lives for him, for his honor, for his safety. He is not allowed to be responsible for just his own existence, but his duty requires that on his shoulders he bears those countless other lives. 

He used to think that he will bend in half over the pressure, that his back will break. He was young, then. Didn’t understand the meaning of burden. 

His duty is not a weight resting on him, he understands now, not a dull stone placed on his arms for him to carry. It is a pointed sword suspended over his head, over his neck, it is a weapon waiting to be plunged and held back by a single string. Every life lost sharpens the sword. Every day the string creaks. 

Looking at Sunwoo started filling him with hope, then. It reminded him there are people who think it is an honor to risk their lives for him, however strange and bizarre that fact could seem. They see the sword, he thought. They fear the duty. 

But even that has come to pass. 

Chanhee’s bow glistens softly in his hands, glows with warm light, yellow, pink, green. That’s how he wanted it. That’s how he asked the Goddess to bless it. It’s incredibly light, easy to draw, the tension on the string relaxed until he grips the limbs. 

The glow draws attention, so he hides the bow under the folds of his cape. Another minute, he thinks, he wants to be undiscovered for just another minute. There are vines in his throat now, and in a minute they will be gone. 

He coughs and coughs and catches all of the flowers into his hands. They're big, now, they take up his entire mouth, his entire palm, his entire conscience. He tries not to look at them, but the purple is accusatory. You’re running away, it reminds him, you’re hiding. You’re cursed. You’re in pain. You will be in more pain. 

Sunwoo is looking for him, but Sunwoo can’t find him yet, even if he worries, even if he panics. His bow needs to be tucked into his cloak. The flowers need to be trampled, covered with dirt from behind the watchtower. Only then, only then can he come back. 

Sunwoo doesn’t find him until he’s among the other guards, the ordinary ones, the people whose names he can not learn nor remember. When he closes his eyes, they all look like swords. 

Sunwoo finds him when he’s got his bow gripped firmly, proudly, and the rim of the royal cloak is draped across his horse’s back.

“Where were you?” Chanhee asks, traitorous, and watches Sunwoo hurt. As if Sunwoo’s ever left him. 

“Taking care of your safety,” he assures. He looks small when he looks at Chanhee from the ground. 

They do not have the time to talk any longer. Sunwoo needs to mount his horse. Sunwoo needs to be back at Chanhee’s side, leading his guards, and they need to cross the windy plains, approach the line of the trees, approach the crowd and the wide, woven ribbon, pink against the green trees. 

Chanhee wonders what looking at Sunwoo reminds him of, now. He’s afraid he knows the answer. 

People have gathered, but they look the other way. This is not the traditional method of doing things. His mother is reluctant to start, but she stands up, and with the queen stands the rest. Chanhee raises his eyes to the sky. 

“Par sit fortuna labori,”   he speaks above the wind, and the wind carries his words. 

The crowd replies, lacking unison. “Bonum tempora currunt.” The words echo, and they shouldn’t, there is no echo in these open plains. 

This is not the traditional method of conducting the ceremony. 

“May the Goddess bless the hunt,” he speaks above the crowd. “And may it go unperturbed.”

Archery is about self control, he thinks, and grips his bow tighter. That’s why he does it. That’s why he can not, must not look at Sunwoo when he draws it. 

His arrow flies through the air, above the people, and it pierces the ribbon. It falls apart, as it would if slashed by a sword, it reveals the entrance to the forest. 

It’s not the traditional way of doing things, but it works, and Chanhee aids his horse, crosses the forest line, and people follow him. The dogs are let out, the chase begins. It’s not the traditional ceremony of the first hunt, but it’s something he knows how to do. 

The hunt can start now. The hunt starts now. Sunwoo must be joining him soon.

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

Only the unfortunate ones don’t make it through the forest in one day, that’s the opinion among royals. Only the foolish ones reach the summer residence for the nightfall, is the opinion of the common hunters. Night might not be well suited for hunting, but the morning is, and to be already in the forest at the crack of dawn is to catch the best game. 

That’s the difference between those who hunt for food and hunt for sport, Chanhee thinks. Not that he cares about either. Not that he cares about hunting at all. 

“I bet you I could take down an elk the size of this tree,” Sunwoo points to the side, to the fallen tree trunk. “Or a boar, easily. Had I brought my bow, I would have.”

Chanhee has never seen him use a bow. 

Chanhee opens his mouth a little and then forces it shut. Winter, he reminds himself. Green and pink, like his cloak against the moss. There are some things he cannot risk. 

“I bet you could too, Prince,” Sunwoo calls. “Your aim rarely wavers.”

Sunwoo has seen him miss the target more than a few times. Chanhee bites his tongue. 

“What a lovely sight that would be, lithe prince and his overgrown game!” He smiles so brightly, bright enough to light up the evening. 

“Finish putting up the tent,” Chanhee scolds, as if he is not being blinded. There is hardly anything to fix, the fabric taunt, the poles secure, but Sunwoo checks dutifully. 

“Should I light a fire?”

The night is warm, but Chanhee nods. Something for Sunwoo to do. Something for him to stop looking at Chanhee so intensely. 

“I’ll go gather wood.” Something to put distance between them. 

Sunwoo gets up from his knees. “I’ll go, too.”

A sensible offer. One Chanhee can’t scold him for. 

“No, no, I am going to gather wood, ” the emphasis is enough to make Sunwoo smile and nod. The only time he is willing to leave Chanhee’s side is to give him privacy. Chanhee wishes he didn’t think it’s admirable. 

He makes it ten, fifteen, twenty steps before he collapses to his knees. Sounds echo in a forest, they echo so. With his hands, he disturbs the brushwood until it cracks and rustles and covers up the sound of his choking. The sound of his shame. 

The pink chrysanthemum falls out of his throat like an accusation and it’s stark, stark against the moss. Like his cape. Like his fingers. If Chanhee looks closely enough he will see specks of blood, so he doesn’t.

Maybe he wasn’t good enough, he thinks when he comes back and Sunwoo gives him a worried look. Not good enough at hiding his shame. Not good enough at keeping distance. 

“Where is the wood?” Sunwoo asks. The fire is already lit. 

Chanhee only brought a handful of sticks. He puts them down by the fire, sits down, ignores Sunwoo. 

“I couldn’t find more. You should look instead. I’ll watch the fire.”

It’s like a game of poke the bear. When will Sunwoo stand up? When will he be hurt? When will he ask why Chanhee is being like that? How many more cold shoulders and cold stares until Sunwoo stops being reliant, brave, devoted, until he stops looking at Chanhee like he is the one who kissed the earth awake? 

“Loafing, I see,” Sunwoo stands up dutifully. “Fine. I will go.”

Like that, he is off, in the opposite direction from where Chanhee came. 

Not enough, Chanhee thinks. Not cold enough. 

The night looms closer and it scares him, the tent scares him, the fire’s warm light dancing on the dirt scares him. It’s a different world, full of proximity, and he feels surrounded by his doom. How to survive the night, he wonders? Sunwoo will stand guard, of course he will, and Chanhee will be forced to watch him through the tent wall. 

Another thing he can’t control. Another thing he can’t fight. 

Before Sunwoo is back, he vomits out a chrysanthemum and throws it into the fire. He wipes his tears on the stained fabric of his tights. Green and pink. It’s worth it, he tries to remind himself. There are some things he cannot risk. 

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

The banquet hall is so filled with nobility of all sorts Chanhee fails to understand how that many people can be necessary for one kingdom. They aren’t, he quickly remembers. Their parents were. 

The pheasants enter the table with a fanfare. 

“The third prince, six pheasants,” someone calls out as the dishes are delivered to the tables. 

Chanhee stands up and waves, hollow. His face, his hands, they go through gestures, and they feel numb. A different person takes control, someone who doesn’t fear duty, someone who doesn’t know burden. He’s a recluse in the back of his own mind. 

As if the congratulations meant anything. As if they needed the bird meat. As if any of that mattered. 

Time bounces from the stone walls of the summer residence, brushes against Chanhee and bounces back outside. He wants to disintegrate and flow out, too. He wants to leave his body there to do all of the waving and to just spill out of his own pant legs like sand slips from between fingers. 

The envoy from before is among the crowd by the east side table. Chanhee can’t tell if she’s enjoying herself or just courteously smiling, if she is there at all, or if she’s just sand in her dress. 

Maybe they are the same, again. Maybe he is an envoy. The third prince, six bleeding hearts. Six heartbeats away from a disaster. Six chrysanthemums on his hands. Six specks of blood. Mother, father, I come from the land of the useless. I am blessed with a curse. I want…

What does he want, really? 

He tries not to close his eyes, afraid of what he knows he would see. 

Humiliating, really, he thinks. The only two things he wants are in direct conflict with each other. The only three things. Four, maybe. The only things that happen to him are contradictions.

The feast continuing meant more emptiness. The feast ending meant returning to Sunwoo. He couldn’t wish the time either way without feeling the cold sweat on his back. 

As unavoidable as the waves of the sea, Sunwoo is at his side as soon as he steps away from the table. 

“It still astonishes me the young prince was able to capture six pheasants,” he murmurs. It’s meant to rile Chanhee up, and it almost does. But banter is too familiar, banter is joy, and joy is summer. 

“I want to go to the gardens,” Chanhee just orders. 

“They look better before the sunset,” Sunwoo rebukes, and Chanhee realizes he did not notice the time passing. 

How late was it already? How much time has he been gritting his teeth for, how much did he bear already? How many more days until the hunt is over and they’re allowed to leave the summer residence?

Why did the summer residence feel so tight, so restraining? Why did it seem so dangerous when back in the palace, Sunwoo was by his side just as much? Why did the tightness of the tent walls suffocate him, when it’s comparable to the drape of his canopy?

Why do flowers grow so fiercely under the cover of snow?

“Do as I order,” he spits out, and pretends the words don’t hurt his throat. Sunwoo stays quiet.

The gardens are unimpressive. Rose bushes and a trimmed willow, they have nothing on the orchard. All they’re good for is providing Chanhee shade to dip himself into, to hide himself in. He almost fools himself into forgetting Sunwoo is right behind him. 

“Would you like to partake in the hunt again tomorrow?” 

He can’t forget for long. In the dim light, Sunwoo’s words are so soft they almost don’t make it to Chanhee. 

Chanhee stays quiet. He doesn’t enjoy hunting, so why would he?

“I shall take a bow and catch enough game to impress the nobles. We will say they’re all your catches. And then we can just take a stroll through the forest.”

Just like when they were younger, Chanhee thinks, and his gut churns. Just like when Chanhee had little more in terms of freedom, not much more than a horse ride through the wilderness. Sunwoo would do the dirty work. Sunwoo would bring Chanhee respect. Just like when Chanhee first looked at Sunwoo and saw more than an armor and a sword, he thinks, and squeezes his eyes shut. 

“Perhaps you’d rather visit the cabinets?” Sunwoo sounds meek. Chanhee can only imagine his expression. “They store many codices here. If you know them all, then you could teach me some passages.”

Just like they used to, Chanhee thinks, and it hurts him right between the lungs. Just like when he found out Sunwoo can’t read. He found learning so hard, he always does, claims he hates it, but he listens intently when Chanhee teaches. Chanhee doesn’t understand why, and he finds it hard to swallow, to shake his head. 

“The gardens will be beautiful during the day,” Sunwoo promises quietly. “If you’d like to just relax there,” and that’s when Chanhee breaks. 

“Why?” He asks, but it comes out as a sob. He bends in half under the weight of his heart, but his back remains straight under Sunwoos eyes. 

“I can tell you’re in pain, my prince,” his voice is deep, mead and bronze. “And I can’t help you bear your burden. I can only be there for you. I can try.”

What a funny emotion, Chanhee thinks. Heartbreak over something you aren’t allowed to love. Dread over something you want. Helplessness in the face of your own actions.  

It’s a game of poke the bear? How long until Sunwoo is hurt? How long until he snaps? How long until he blames, hates, abandons Chanhee? 

He was so stupid, Chanhee thinks, for playing that game. For thinking he can play that game at all. He aimed to lose, yes, but not like that. 

“If I might be so bold, my prince,” Sunwoo hesitates, and Chanhee wants to, should want to shut him down, but how can he? “could I ask you to confide in me?”

The pain between Chanhee’s lungs grows. It must be either his heart or the seed of the curse. It must be both, he thinks when he digs fingernails into his fists. It must be both, for they are one and the same. 

There is no good answer. There is no answer Sunwoo will not misunderstand. 

All he can do is turn around, face Sunwoo, let him see the damage he’s done. As much as the shadow will allow, he is naked. 

“I wish I could,” he whispers. 

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

There is no reason for the envoy to talk to Chanhee in particular, but he supposes he is the only member of the royal family who doesn’t engage in the hunts everyday. 

“I must congratulate you on the ceremony,” she states after the customary greetings are dealt with. “Such a great occasion.”

It’s an extremely informal way for them to meet, in the undercrofts, in passing. Chanhee supposes his duty should demand he minds more, but these days he rarely fears the sword hanging above his head. 

“It was an honor to be able to conduct it. Of course, had the crown prince been here, the ocasion would have been even greater,” he accepts smoothly. 

Sunwoo is busy watching the envoy’s two maids, and Chanhee takes that chance to walk a few steps to the side, and the envoy gladly accepts the privacy. 

“Pardon my insolence, with all of the respect to the crown prince, I don’t suppose he understands the will of the Goddess as well as you do.”

The words stun Chanhee into a brief stop. Not many dare to question the crown prince’s abilities. 

“Being born to wear the crown, the Goddess must have blessed him accordingly.”

“That I do not question,” the envoy bows her head in respect. “But that is a different blessing from the one I sense in you.”

Talking about a blessing when he’s cursed, how amusing, Chanhee thinks but accepts the praise with a nod. Not the first time he’s heard this. Not the last, he supposes. Just another thing he can’t fight. 

“I wasn’t aware you’re a godly woman, Lady, to sense blessings.”

It’s her turn to stop in her tracks. “Whoever cannot sense the flowers under your skin is a blind man. The Goddess has marked you as her own.” She speaks with a sense of urgency. 

“Lady Kim, what are your goals?” The private conversation makes him feel like a traitor. “Your words might be misinterpreted if you continue.”

Her smile is calm when she answers. “All the same as I have stated during my audience. The Grand Temple seeks to collect offerings as seen fit in return for the Goddesses blessings. There are simply many forms of offerings to consider.”

The rest must remain unsaid, Chanhee understands. Any word more from her and she will be guilty of disrupting the peace of the crown. After all, even the temple’s servants will be seen as expendable compared to the royal family. After all, what is best for the prince is what is best for the kingdom. 

But the damage is done. A few pleasantries more and she takes her distance. She bows goodbye and expresses her sincere wishes for a resolution. He expresses his sincere gratitude, as if any of these matter. 

Sunwoo is back at his side like glue.

“What could she have meant?” He asks, as if he will be told. 

Chanhee frowns. In some ways, even he wasn't told, really. “I’m afraid I will only be sure once I return to the palace temple.”

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

It’s the first time the vines grab a hold of Chanhee’s throat quite so urgently. There is no swallowing them down. There is no relaxed breathing that can stop them. He turns on his heel and bolts, he picks a stray door and blocks it with his body, and he thanks the Goddess it is empty. 

Sunwoo bangs on the door merely seconds later. “Prince?” He demands, voice urgent. 

Chanhee can’t answer. He bends in half and chokes, and this time, he can’t claim to be soundless. His gargles echo in the larder, and he shivers with the cold and with the violent cough all the same. His fingernails ache from where he presses them against the wood. 

“Don’t force me to knock down the door,” Sunwoo’s voice comes as soon as Chanhee quiets down. 

“Don’t,” he softly begs. He wonders if Sunwoo can hear the tears in his voice. 

“Prince, let me in,” he insists, but he sounds gentler, and Chanhee knows he’s winning this battle. 

“Not yet,” he begs. He wishes he could just give an order. “These are the only doors to the larder. I’m safe here.”

As if that was the point. As if that was Sunwoo’s concern. 

“Prince,” he starts, but sighs, and his fist falls softly on the door. “Please.”

He doesn’t specify what he is begging for. 

Chanhee sniffles again, his head now tipped back, resting against the door. “Just wait.”

The door between them is a stone wall. The door between them is a mountain, never to be climbed. The door between them is everything Chanhee can never fight, and yet everything he can cling to. The door between them is everything Chanhee has when Sunwoo sighs again, so close, so far away. 

“I’ll wait.”

The door between them is not locked, Chanhee knows when he falls to his knees and cries. One push is all that is between him and his doom. One push, and a lifetime of trust. 

He shouldn’t allow himself to cry, he knows. He shouldn’t stain the sleeves of his shirt and he shouldn’t wipe his mouth on his cape. He shouldn’t let Sunwoo hear him stifle his whines. He can’t remember how to stop. 

The pink chrysanthemums are large and wet, and more than with saliva they glisten with red. 

Chanhee grabs a cheesecloth from a shelf and scrubs at the floor until it’s no longer stained. He wraps the flowers in it tightly, and curses when the blood seeps through the fabric. He wraps his package of shame into another layer, and then one more, until the fabric is pristine white, until none of his blood shows, and then stuffs it under his waistcoat. To be disposed of later. 

He opens the door calmly. 

Sunwoo’s worried eyes glaze over him checking for injuries, but there are none. There are only Chanhee’s bloodshot eyes and his pale face, and his gaze, cast down in shame. 

They walk to the bedchambers in silence, and Chanhee thinks he should thank the Goddess for that. Between the five days of fear and the humiliating answers, he knows which he considers to be worse.

Perhaps his own mortality would scare him more if he didn’t live with a sword over his neck.  

Perhaps his mortality would scare him more if he didn’t have more important things to lose than just his life. 

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

The summer residence’s windows are small and tight in the back chambers, they provide no light and no air, and as a child, Chanhee could never understand why that was the case. The rooms look more like an old jail cell, too, he always thought that, but now he understands. 

Between the fresh stucco and the intricate columns, the summer residence tells a story of fear. The thick walls keep you safe and the small windows allow no one to break through them. The cellars have seen years, ages of supplies not for feasts but for survival. The lime and marble tell a story of reclamation, but they do not speak louder than the ghosts in the walls.

Chanhee never felt less safe in any castle. 

Chanhee never felt less safe.

Tomorrow, he thinks. Tomorrow they will return, and he will urge Sunwoo to be swifter, to break from the column and take a shorter road. Tomorrow he will cast his eyes down again, speak of solitary guidance, stare at the green and pink stained glass and ask the priest to save him. He will bear his duty again, as he should, or he will fall victim to it.

The night should be his, then, a voice says in his head, and Chanhee knows where it comes from - from right between his lungs.

In his wide, plush chair, Sunwoo seems to be simply resting his eyes, and should anyone call his name, he would respond immediately. That’s the rest he gets, Chanhee thinks, again and again. That’s the rest he’s allowed to have if he wants to have any at all. 

It doesn’t bother him, he promises. How could he sleep a deep sleep at all, if he’s meant to be there for Chanhee, always? He got used to it, he promises. Just a few hours are enough, he swears. Tonight, it feels heavier than ever. 

All Chanhee can see is glimmering and edges, metal shining bright in the split moonlight. Not the full Sunwoo, not in the darkness, just an outline and a caricature. He will seem the same, he reminds himself. He will be hidden. These walls don’t have quite as many ears.

“Sunwoo,” Chanhee’s voice is barely above a whisper when he calls out. Sunwoo opens his eyes right away. 

“Yes?” His hand is on his sword. 

A vine squeezes Chanhee’s throat and reaches deep into his lungs and reminds him what he is running from. Tomorrow, he will be green and pink. Tonight, he is dark blue. 

“Come into my bed,” barely above a whisper. He knows Sunwoo hears him well. “Sleep next to me.”

There is no Prince, I can’t, not the one that Chanhee wishes he would hear. There is a sharp inhale of breath and a slow exhale. 

“I cannot sleep,” he corrects, “I don’t need to sleep like that. Someone needs to keep watch.”

Chanhee prepared his answer, and it comes out too quickly. It betrays the amount of thought. “How better will you feel if I as much as sigh in my sleep than when you lay next to me?”

Sunwoo stands up from his chair. It must be uncomfortable anyway, he reasons. Sunwoo must know how much he hates the summer residence, he reasons. Just for tonight, he reasons. 

“What if someone sees us? What would the morning maids think?” Sunwoo tries to tease lightly, but it’s heavy words, heavier than Chanhee’s conscience. 

The weight threatens to escape through his tears when he shakes his head. “The morning maids dare not enter my chamber without my guard’s permission.” Another prepared line, served between the heartthrobs of fear. 

After all, they mustn’t. The Goddess can’t be as cruel as to take that one night away from Chanhee.

“Causing you trouble and embarrassment is something I cannot do,” he says, but he gets closer to the bed. 

Not you, Chanhee thinks. Not my trouble. As if he was important enough to have rumors spread about him. As if he was influential enough to have anything to lose. 

As if that was the loss he feared. 

“Cause trouble you will, should you refuse my request,” he shakes his head again and again and swallows down tears and begs Sunwoo to stop asking. 

Maybe if he was more influential. Maybe if he was important enough. Maybe if the sword over him was any bigger, any smaller, any further away. 

Maybe then he’d have time. 

Sunwoo stands at the edge of the bed. Chanhee can hardly make out his shape, black on black, fear on conscience. He can only see the metal of his sword and the buckle of his bracer. He doesn’t feel himself rise and move across the bed, he only feels his hand land softly on Sunwoo’s chest. 

“Take the shoes off,” he asks, reasonably, he thinks. No reason for his eyes to sting and for his mouth to curl. Sunwoo does. 

“And the pauldron,” he smooths his fingers over the buckles. He could just undo them, he thinks, grief taking over his heart. Sunwoo lets him. 

“And the sword,” he begs. His hand reaches for the hilt, and it falls on Sunwoo’s fingers. They’re hot, as hot as Sunwoo is real, as real as Chanhee is not. 

He feels small, in his nightshirt and in his shame. He feels looked at, and the one thing he fears is being seen. 

“I shouldn’t,” Sunwoo answers, but it’s soft. He has to protect Chanhee, he remembers. He has to be ready. 

“Put it under the pillow,” Chanhee’s voice almost cracks and he feels his nose stuffy, his throat heavy, his eyes wet. He feels his heart sink lower, lower. 

“My prince,” he hesitates and that is enough for Chanhee to crumble. 

Fists full of Sunwoo’s tunic, face in his chest, he doesn’t know if he cries or not. He knows Sunwoo lies him down, holds him, lets him be small. He knows he sleeps deeply, warm, another presence there with him. He is safe, as safe as he could ever be. 

He knows his throat is clear, just this once, until he wakes up, until morning maids come, until the sunrise takes away his colors. 

Until tomorrow, when he remembers - for the greatest good . 

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Entering the oratory felt like entering a crypt.

The stained glass was crafted with much less skill than the one in the main building of the temple but it still filtered the light green and pink. The colors scattered through the room and scattered across Chanhee. On his travel robes, on his outstretched hand, on his bow and quiver. On his shame and his pride. 

It was what he had to do. It is what he must do, he reminds himself as his hands struggle to let go of the items. It is the only choice. 

The bow is light, as light as a willow branch freshly snapped off the tree. It sprouts leaves, sometimes, and it is so incredibly easy to draw, just how Chanhee wanted, but just for him, just to him. No one else could shoot it at all, the bow turning into a useless twig and a string in their hands. 

Archery is about self control, he remembers. That’s why he did it. That’s why the Goddess gave him the bow. 

He was waiting in the very same oratorium, then, before being brought to the temple. He was thinking deeply about his choice. A weapon that will be with him until he grows old and dies, a weapon that will help him achieve greatness. A weapon that the Goddess will then bless, as she has blessed his three older brothers’ swords. 

Afterwards when the priests claimed he was chosen by the Goddess, he thought they made a mistake. When he made his choice, there wasn’t any mysterious force guiding his hand. Out of the swords and épées, out of the bows, none seemed to radiate an enticing energy. 

It was pure defiance that led him to snap a branch from the willow outside and to bring it to the altar. 

Only much later did he realize that the priests were right, and the realization arrived with a heavy weight. The swords of his brothers did not begin blooming. The bow of his mother did not transform its shape. The priest’s dagger did not glow a soft light when gripped tight, yellow and green and pink, no one else’s prideful rebellion turned them into a beacon of a deity’s will. 

It always struck him as a punishment. You dared to go against the authority, and I have responded to your call. You dared to want freedom, and you shall receive a tool of restraint. 

Archery is about self control. That’s why he does it. 

That’s why he’s no longer worthy of it. 

Chanhee drops the bow on the altar, the small, stone plinth, so much smaller than the one in the main temple. He will return to it, he hopes, once he remembers how to carry his duty. 

Leaving the oratory feels like walking into a void. 

He expected to find Sunwoo outside, not to run into the head priest and have to bear his worried, shocked expression. As if he knew everything. As if he expected this. 

“I need to talk in solitude,” he warns Sunwoo, as if everything he did in the temple wasn’t always solitary. 

“Of course,” Sunwoo nods. He looks stern, too, but it’s different. The priest is a premonition. Sunwoo is a prayer. 

The priest takes him into the same room, as always, and Chanhee wishes he didn’t have to find it familiar. 

“It’s happening,” he says. No need to hide what the man can already see. 

He furrows his brows even further. “Young prince, I did not think your condition would get so severe so quickly.”

What is there left for Chanhee to say? Well, but it did? Well, I suppose the Goddess really hates me? Well, you were wrong, so now administer your poison, please, before I change my mind and run? 

“How much blood is there?” The priest asks before Chanhee can decide. “The flowers under your skin, prince, they have become large and so very red in color.”

Chanhee almost wishes to see the world the way the priest does. To see himself how he feels on the inside - overgrown, bruised, red. A tangle of roots and curses.

“I can hardly see the flower’s color underneath,” he confesses. “It must be time, then. For the remedy you have mentioned.”

A silence stretches between them, so large that it fills the room and cascades over it. Over Chanhee. Over his travel robes. Over his shaking hands. Over his missing self control. 

“I prayed it would not come to this, but since it has, I must tell the truth.” Whatever he is setting up takes a lot of strength from him, because he breathes deeply and grabs his amulet tight. “I cannot administer the remedy to the prince.”

Something rings in Chanhee’s ears as hes been hit over the head. It sounds like glass breaking. It sounds like a string snapping and a sword falling.

“How come?”

“The tinctures and elixirs in question affect the mind of the patient so strongly that I would be accused of treason would I administer them.” He is genuinely sorry, but it doesn’t matter to Chanhee. “These are holy herbs we are considering, prince. They can bring one to the Goddess or to the brink of death.”

“You told me before that they are the last resort. Is this not the eleventh hour?” 

The man approaches Chanhee, grabs his elbows, stops him from falling and guides him to a chest he can sit on. “Is anyone else aware of your condition, prince?”

Chanhee shakes his head. 

“Then how can I proceed with such drastic treatment?” 

Chanhee understands now. 

It was always his duty that was going to kill him. He just misjudged where the blow would come from. 

He isn’t sure if he bid the head priest goodbye, but he walks out, out of the room, out of the temple, into the castle. Sunwoo follows him. As if he ever stopped. 

The walls of the castle are lined with portraits, he notices as he walks. The halls he passes through everyday are now distant and unexplored. The portraits are all as if he’s never seen them before, never seen the people on them. The king and the queen. Their eldest son, deceased. Their two heirs. Their youngest daughter, child princes. Their third son. 

Him. 

He looks at himself in the painting. Grand, imposing, fragile all the same. Painted in green and pink, surrounded by gold insignia and white marble. In his hand, a vine of ivy. At his feet, a lion.

He doesn’t know how much time he spends looking at the painting before he speaks up. “Tell me,” he hesitates, but there’s no reason to hold up. “Does the painting resemble me?”

“Almost,” comes a careful answer. Sunwoo approaches Chanhee until they are shoulder to shoulder. “You’ve grown more beautiful since then.”

It’s a quip, Chanhee knows, yet he can’t help but cast his eyes down. 

The painting was finished just two years ago. The only thing he’s grown since then, he thinks, is a tree of shame. It bears fruit when he’s dark blue, and it’s got roots in his lungs. 

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It starts in your throat, and it makes you hum, swallow, scratch the roof of your mouth with your tongue. It’s just an itch, and it goes away easily if you swallow heavily, but it doesn’t leave your thoughts, it gnaws at them because what if, what if it’s that . 

Then one day, it doesn’t go away anymore, after one thought, one twitch of your heart too many and you cough, cough, cough. You spit out petals and you grab them, hand clammy and cold. You crush them and hide them deep, as deep as you can. No one can know that the Goddess has planted the seed of her curse in your lungs. 

And then it gets worse, yet, until one day you can’t help it anymore. 

You can’t run, not without air in your lungs, not when you can’t breathe. You can’t hide your face when you shake and hurl so violently it throws you to your knees. You can’t stay quiet when there’s blood dripping from your mouth as you pass flowers onto the cold floor of your bedchamber. 

Your throat burns raw fire and you know you’re crying because how can you not, how could you not when your body is falling apart? You were never the type to cry, but that was before you had to face your doom. 

There is a warm hand on your back, and just like that, everything stops mattering. 

Sunwoo doesn’t say anything for a while. He uses his own cape to wipe your mouth, his fingers to wipe your tears. He holds you close, doesn’t force you to stand up from the cold floor, doesn’t leave your side, he never has. 

He looks at the flowers, though, at the roses, so pathetically red, so terrifyingly red. He looks at the bloody mess you’ve made, and at the thorny stems, and he looks at you, you know, because he always does. 

“My prince,” he asks, and his voice has never sounded so soft, so fragile. “Who causes this?”

You are Choi Chanhee, the third prince, and you have unresolved, unrequited feelings, and they will kill you. 

You’ll let them. 

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It would seem unreal to him, had he not been living it, just how cruel his Goddess really was. Was it because he rejected her blessings? Was it because he dared to accept them at all? Was it because he hoped for a pretty death, that won’t take his pride, that will spare him the last of his shame?

Was there even an answer? 

There was no choice for Chanhee but to let it happen. To let Sunwoo carry him to bed, hand him a towel cloth, let him wipe the floor clean because he understands that even in this state, even like this, Chanhee doesn’t want anyone else to see. 

In a cruel way, it’s true. If there was one person who couldn’t see him like that, it was Sunwoo. If Sunwoo had to see him like that, then nobody else could. 

“Who is the cause of this, prince?” he asks again, when he thinks Chanhee has calmed down.

Chanhee shakes his head. Even now, even like this. There are things he cannot risk. 

“I don’t mean to be impudent, but please,” Sunwoo’s fists are clenched hard. “They cannot possibly be worth this suffering. And if you insist they are, prince, then let me deliver the same suffering onto them, in the name of justice.”

Chanhee just shakes his head again. Oh, if he knew. If he only knew. “You are not to harm them.”

Sunwoo trashes in place, unsure if he should go, unsure if he can stay. He makes a bold choice, finally, to sit down on Chanhee’s bed. “Is it the envoy?” 

Chanhee can’t help but scoff, the absurd almost pulling him out from the tight grip the irony of the end of his life has on him. “Why do you guess?”

Sunwoo’s warm hand is on his arm for just a second before the man pulls back. “You don’t have to tell me. I realize I cannot do much. I’m just your guard.”

Chanhee shakes his head again. He wishes Sunwoo would not continue. 

Sunwoo doesn’t stop, though, he just puts his hands on Chanhee’s arms again, holds him, searches his eyes with his. “It just escapes me, who could be worthy of this? Such level of affection? Surely not someone who does not reciprocate?”

It must be torture, Chanhee thinks. 

“Do not say this,” he begs, but his words don’t reach Sunwoo how they were intended to. 

“You are not,” Sunwoo’s voice cracks, and it’s the first time Chanhee’s heard him so agitated. “You are not to be rejected. If I must give you over to whoever you choose to protect you in my stead, I will, but to this, prince?”

It must be torture, Chanhee thinks, to be forced to listen to these words. It’s all he’s ever wanted. It’s all he’s ever feared. It’s poison, destroying all he’s ever cared for. 

Stop, he wants to beg. I’m already broken, the spring has taken over. Let me be defeated, and then grow over my body. Do not let me break you, too. 

“Sunwoo, please,” is all that comes out from his mouth. “I cannot risk…”

“What could you risk that is worse than,” he hesitates. He can’t say death. “Than this?” 

Your death, Chanhee thinks, and sobs. 

You.

Their eyes meet, somehow, and Chanhee wishes they didn’t. Sunwoo’s dark eyes look even darker when they glisten. 

His lips tremble as he asks. “Prince, how severely must you love them?”

It must be torture, Chanhee thinks, and breaks down.

He grabs Sunwoo’s shirt as tightly as his trembling fingers allow him and lets himself wail, and Sunwoo grabs him back. It’s a desperate embrace, as desperate as they come, but Chanhee isn’t allowed to have it any other way. 

“More than I love my life,” he sobs out, and feels Sunwoo break in his embrace. 

“No one deserves that,” he hears in his ear in exchange. 

He never used the word love before, not even in his nightmares. It felt heavier than anything he’s ever carried, anything he’s ever been. But that was in his past life, and now it doesn’t matter. 

Of all the battles he couldn’t fight, he’s lost them all but one. 

~~~

Everything changes, but it’s like nothing has changed. Or rather, nothing changes, but it’s like everything is different. Sunwoo is still by Chanhee’s side, watching over him, and he always has been. Chanhee is still a ghost haunting the walls of the palace. 

It’s just that now everything has an expiration date. 

As he passes the tapestry hall, Chanhee remembers his conversation with his father. Funny, he thinks, who turned out to be the expendable one. Funny, he thinks, how when I’m gone...

He stops mid step. 

Sunwoo rushes to him with yet another warm touch, justly worried, but he shouldn’t be. Chanhee grabs his hand in what he hopes is a reassuring gesture, and that’s all he can do before he feels something crack right between his lungs. 

When he’s gone, what will happen to Sunwoo? That is not for the royal family to worry about. Live, if Goddess gives, a voice reminds him ruthlessly. 

All he can do is rush to the temple. 

It’s empty, as if by a miracle. Not even the head priest, not any of his deacons. No one but him and the Goddess, and Sunwoo by the door. He can watch, Chanhee thinks. He’s seen it all already. 

There is no official vessel for the Goddess, yet the sculptors and painters feel the need to portray her, somehow. Something is to be said about how human nature seeks to depict gods in their own nature. And so the Goddess has many faces, some of them old, some young, some beautiful and some plain, speaking more about the artist than about the Goddess herself. The only thing that remains consistent is her soft, welcoming smile. 

As Chanhee falls to his knees in front of the altar, the smile becomes a sinister one. 

“What am I supposed to do?” 

He never prays. He never saw the need to pray. Some would call it too prideful, but he always believed the Goddess would just guide him, prayer or not. “How is this your blessing?”

There is no answer, of course. Statues do not talk. The altar does not glow with mystical light. 

“How could you have led me here?” He wants to swear. “How cruelly can you teach me of my own faults, when I have been following your path?”

He chokes on his words, and he doesn’t understand why until his body shakes. As soon as he coughs once, Sunwoo is by his side again. A warm hand. A warm embrace. 

“Prince, my prince,” he hears the terrified sobs between the waves of nausea, between his own broken sobs.

Sunwoo allows the bloody roses to fall into his lap. They will stain his trousers, Chanhee thinks, before the force of his chokes forces him to close his eyes. They will cause him more trouble. 

“This cannot happen to you, my prince,” he hears when he’s done. Sunwoo’s hands are on his cheeks, again, pulling his messy hair out of his face, wiping his tears. Wiping his bloody mouth. “You do not deserve this.”

This one time, Chanhee doesn’t want to object. He doesn’t deserve this. Sunwoo doesn’t deserve this. They deserve to have an exit. 

“I’m so sorry,” Chanhee sobs out. He wants to put his hand on Sunwoo’s, but there’s not enough strength left in him. “I wanted the best.”

“I’ll do anything for you, prince,” there are tears on Sunwoo’s face, too. “Anything to save you, just tell me.”

Chanhee wants to shake his head, but he can’t, not with how gently, how firmly Sunwoo is holding him. He just lets his tears fall, instead. 

After all, what can be done?

“For the greatest good,” he forces out. That’s why he let this happen, right? For his greatest good. He made a mistake, he lost the war, but he gambled for the greatest good. 

Sunwoo kisses his forehead, fervently, in panic. “No good is greater than you, nothing could be. No one.”

It’s terrifying, he thinks, as his eyelids fall closed. It’s terrifying how much Sunwoo cares. Maybe if he didn’t care, maybe then Chanhee wouldn’t try as hard. Maybe he wouldn’t fall as hard. Maybe it wouldn’t all end like this. 

“Can you say my name?” Chanhee forces his eyes to open one more time. “Just once.”

“Choi Chanhee,” Sunwoo obeys. He always does. “Chanhee, my prince, my Chanhee.”

It feels blessed. It feels soft. 

It feels more important than the blood in his throat. 

There’s a noise, and then Sunwoo screams somewhere above his head. “Priest! Priest! He’s weak, so weak, I don’t-“

“Don’t let him go, I shall fetch the herbs at once-“ Chanhee thinks he hears in the far distance. 

“My love, stay with me,” he thinks someone cries. 

It’s all cold and distant. The only warm thing is the embrace he’s floating in. The only thing nearby is the spring in his heart.

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Chanhee woke up and nothing hurt. He was in a large room, white marble walls, golden emblems, ivy climbing up the pillars, pink flowers on the floor. He couldn’t remember how he felt before he got there, but in the marble room, he was calm. 

The one person in the room other than him was a woman. She seemed familiar and distant all the same, and he couldn’t see her face even when looking directly at her. All that he could see was her gentle soft smile.

“Welcome, my child,” her voice echoed against the marble walls. Cascaded over the flowers, over Chanhee, over his pure white robes. Over his dignity. 

What would a person say, Chanhee wondered? What should he ask about? Am I dead? How have I died? Is this the gate to your eternal garden? What is this place? What would someone who isn’t him say?

“Why have you forsaken me?” He asked the only question that truly mattered. All of his calm instantly made way to bitter rage and disappointment. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. He deserved a happy ending. 

The Goddess didn’t say anything, just looked at him with the same, unchanging smile. 

“What were you punishing me for?” He let himself rage, let himself stomp his feet like a petulant child would when throwing a tantrum. “For being born at the wrong time? Why did you let me think I was blessed?”

“Not every pain in life comes as a punishment,” the Goddess finally answered, and the deep reverb of her voice almost restored Chanhee’s calm.

“Then what is it?” He didn’t intend on becoming reverent any time soon.

“A consequence. A lesson.”

Chanhee tried looking her in the eyes, but her face was still not visible. It was blurry, as if seen from far, far away. “What was I supposed to learn?”

No answer, again. 

“Self control, is it not?” The words felt wrong. He looked deeper into himself. “The greatest good?” 

“One could call it that,” she sounded maternal. As a Goddess should. 

It was easy to burn with rage. It was even easier to redirect the anger back at himself as he’s done for so many years. After all, he was the only one in control of his life. Just him and all of the things he couldn’t fight. 

“I was too weak, my lady. I couldn’t understand your lesson in time.” His body went slack, and he fought the urge to just collapse onto the marble floor. Onto the ivy. “I failed.”

The Goddess shook her head slowly, as if in contemplation. Even without being able to see her face, Chanhee knew she furrowed her brows. “Your lesson is not over.”

He cast his eyes down. “What will become of me, then? Will I be punished for my sins now? I couldn’t bear the weight of my duty. Of my shame.”

The Goddess laughed, the sound both warm and freezing. “My child,” she opened her arms as if inviting Chanhee into an embrace. “Why are you ashamed of love?”

It was a revelation that started between his lungs, grabbed his heart, and pulled it down. It was a revelation that made his eyes hurt and his ears ring and made him want to run. It was a truth, and it made him run into the Goddess's embrace. 

It wasn’t warm, neither was it cold, but it felt light. It felt as if he’s never done anything wrong in his entire life.

There were so many things he wanted to say, all at once, yet none of them felt worth saying. An answer appeared at the end of every single one of his concerns. 

I was ashamed of the weakness I displayed. Love is never a weakness. 

I was afraid of rejection. You loved him for how he never rejected you. 

I was ashamed of my lack of self control. You were hurting yourself. 

I didn’t want to put him at risk. Instead you caused him pain. 

I was weak. You were afraid. 

“How I wish I had more power,” he finally cried, his tears sinking into the divine robes. It wasn’t fair. He deserved more. They deserved more. “Just enough to protect him. Just enough to escape.”

The Goddess lifted him up by his arms, gently, light as air. “Why do you cry?”

“For it is too late,” he wanted to break down again, but was held up. 

The Goddess’s voice came from far away.  “What makes you think so?”

Chanhee was in the middle of the room again. He couldn’t feel the tears on his cheeks anymore. He couldn’t even feel the splitting of his heart in two.

“Am I not dead?”

“Not unless you want to be,” the Goddess answered from her throne. 

He didn’t. 

“I want a second chance.”

“Do you?” She smiled. Gentle. Motherly. 

“No,” he corrected himself. He still had the first one. He still wasn’t done. “I want more power.”

The Goddess smiled at him more. “I gave you my blessing, my child.”

The more he looked at the face of his Goddess, the more all of the answers fell into place. Funny, he thought, how everything changes once you understand the core of the principles. There were many things he wanted to say, but none good enough. No answers he couldn’t understand himself. No dead ends. No death. 

Chanhee was in the middle of the room again, but he had to go back. 

“I have your blessing,” he repeated, and the Goddess nodded. “If that is so, then all I need to do is to take it.”

She didn’t answer. 

Chanhee thought back to the grand day in the grand temple. He thought back to the move of rebellion, to the blessing, to his misunderstanding of its nature. Funny, he thought, how history is meant to repeat itself. 

He bent down and grabbed an ivy vine. It squirmed in his grasp, unwilling to break, full of life. It snapped in his grasp, as if he cut it in half with a knife. It sprung new leaves to life as he held it out, bent it into a crescent, as he reached behind himself for an arrow. As he placed the arrow on his bow. 

He hesitated. 

“Will you condemn me, my Goddess?” His arrow glistened, a path of shaky light and no matter. 

She shook her head. “I will only judge you at the end of your life.”

As Chanhee looked at her at the point of his arrow, her face almost became clear. It looked familiar. It looked like a reflection of himself. 

Chanhee shoots the arrow. 

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

There is a warm presence at Chanhee’s side and he knows who it is even before he opens his eyes. He takes the feeling in at first, and then takes in the sight. 

Sunwoo, worn and gray, his hands both clasped around Chanhee’s. Sunwoo, shocked and white, eyes darting quickly. Sunwoo, green and pink and marble, standing up and touching Chanhee’s face.

Sunwoo, marble and gold, and in love. 

“Good Goddess.” There are tears in his eyes. “Don’t move, my prince, I will get the priest,” he starts, but Chanhee doesn’t let him finish. 

“No,” his throat no longer hurts. “He won’t be needed.”

The rushlight in the corner is near its end. Most of the light comes from the outside, from the rising sun, orange and soft. How fitting, Chanhee thinks. He puts his feet onto the floor with ease. 

“My prince, you must rest,” Sunwoo coaxes gently, afraid to grab Chanhee’s arms, as if he was fragile. He isn’t, not anymore. 

“I must have terrified you,” Chanhee lets his eyes tremble. He isn’t afraid to grab Sunwoo’s arms, not anymore, so he does. He traces his fingers over the armor straps and over Sunwoo’s heart. “And for that I am sorry.”

“I thought I would lose you,” he whispers, and his heart beats heavily. It betrays him. Chanhee listens to it, finally. 

“And for that, too, I am sorry.” He looks at Sunwoo when he speaks, finally. “But you needn’t worry anymore.”

“Prince,” he tries, but Chanhee shakes his head. 

“Say my name again,” he asks, and lets himself smile a little. “Without tears this time.”

Sunwoo hesitates, and his shaky breath betrays him. “Chanhee.”

“Sunwoo,” he answers, and then stops. 

The words have been waiting for such a long time. How will they feel on his lips? How will they sound in the air? Chanhee weighs them in his mouth, feels around them, inhales and exhales around the spring and summer, around his peace. 

“My love.”

Sunwoo remains still under Chanhee’s touch, but his heart betrays him. His breath betrays him. His eyes, hurt, dark, betray him and he doesn’t understand.

“What of your love?” He whispers, voice deep, barely controlled. 

“What of it?” Chanhee doesn’t want to laugh into Sunwoo’s face, but he can’t hold back his smile. “You have it, so it is your decision; What will be of it?”

Sunwoo keeps still, but his hands betray him when they go to Chanhee’s waist. “My prince,” he starts again, and Chanhee shakes his head again. 

He steps away from the bed and  takes them into the sunrise’s warm shine. No need for the night to keep them dark. No need for shame.

“When you kiss me, you are not to do it by your prince’s order. Call me by my name, then, and kiss me as you want me.”

Sunwoo trembles. As if he’s been the one waiting. As if he’s been the one on the cold stone floor. As if he couldn’t breathe until Chanhee lifted his curse.

“I shall kiss all of you, then,” the last breath between them trembles, too. “And no order shall stop me.”

Chanhee leans in, and it’s the easiest thing he’s ever done. Sunwoo tastes like no regrets and a deep breath. Sunwoo tastes like ivy, smooth on his lips, smooth on his heart, the most decadent heaviness in his hands. Sunwoo tastes like green and pink, marble and gold, like all of the things he fights for. 

Sunwoo tastes like pride. 

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

There is no more weight on Chanhee’s shoulders as he walks down the tapestry hall, as he passes the portraits, as he enters the courtyard. The weight in his arms, he can carry. 

There is a weightless pit inside of him, now, though, and it demands attention. The sorrow spilled out of him, and washed down the stairs. The dull sand spilled out, into his shoes, and down the hallways. The tree was uprooted, and through the gaping holes, sun shines into the moist earth. What burden will you take on next, prince? 

The string of the sword tightens above his head, but he’s lived with it his entire life. Would it even kill him if it fell, he wonders? Is death even a danger?

The coat of arms greets him and he greets it back, this time with understanding. A horse trampling a lion. Ivy. A pink pearl in a white shell. For the greatest good. 

There is no more weight on his shoulders as he pushes the door to the throne room open. The Goddess’s halo, he is green and gold. For the greatest good.

“Mother, father,” he starts, and the words feel like they have been said before. They never have. “Excuse my intrusion.”

“Prince, what causes this?” The queen stirs in her seat, passes a glance to the king, dismisses the officials waiting for their turn. It’s like she doesn’t know his name.

Sunwoo is right beside him, as he always is. As he always has been. Yet, Chanhee might as well be alone. “I have come to inform you of my near departure.” It is no longer a bad thing. 

“What is the meaning of this?” The king becomes reasonably agitated. What’s best for the crown? What’s best for the kingdom?

The queen softens her eyes. “Perhaps it is the influence of the tinctures, to my understanding, they are made of potent herbs,” words of a mother, not a ruler. 

“I assure you that I am of sound mind as I speak to you,” Chanhee stands just a little taller. “The holy herbs have influenced me, yes, but the influence has come to pass.”

He only has a few seconds to pick his next words. He only has a few heartbeats before he is questioned again, before his old habits chime in, before there are things he can’t fight, again. 

“I will be leaving the palace and joining the ranks of the Grand Temple.” He breathes out. 

The king looks troubled, but wary. Not even he dares to question the will of the Goddess. “Son,” he starts, and it’s guilt and poison. “What brought this on?”

“I have seen the Goddess,” Chanhee states blankly. He ignores the murmur that carries through the hall. “She has blessed me with her powers. To best develop her gift, I shall devote my life to following her will.”

“And can you not follow her will from the palace?” The queen stirs again. It seems like people forgot, he realizes. Or maybe it’s him who forgot?

There are two marble statues on each side of the podium, as if they are there guarding the thrones. They depict the Goddess, her blurry face and her gentle smile, and her outstretched hands, holding nothing. Her golden halo. 

When Chanhee closes his eyes, he finally understands. He sees, through his lashes, how everyone sparks of life and of gold, and how the patterns swirl under their skin to form flowers. His father, rust boiling in his veins like fern leaves. His mother, a light blue knot over her heart. The officials, the guards, all a garden, and the statues, too, half dead, but still waiting. 

The priest returned Chanhee’s bow to him before he even thought to ask. As Chanhee takes it off his back, he wonders if the priest understood what’s going to happen even before Chanhee did. 

Chanhee draws the bow blank, but when the string touches his cheek, there is an arrow resting on the shelf. It glows brighter than the bow does, and it’s of matter as light as the dust in the air. It’s made out of everything Chanhee could never fight. It’s made out of the expectant stares and gasps of the audience.

Archery isn’t about self control. It’s about getting what you want. 

Chanhee aims at the ceiling, and he fires, and the arrow whistles as it flies and turns from gold to green. It’s an explosion, the way the ivy grows from the contact point, climbs down the arch, spills over the Goddesses statues and blooms in their outstretched hands. Then the flowers bloom, peach blossoms and asters and all, and they fall down to the floor, where they disappear. 

Archery is what duty isn’t. That’s why he does it. 

“The Goddess has chosen me as her own,” his voice is loud and clear even above the shock and the joy. “And to best develop the gift of power she has given me, I shall devote my life to following her will. Nowhere will be more fitting than the Grand Temple.”

His mother has tears in her eyes as she speaks. Chanhee doesn’t understand why. “I cannot dispute your claims in the face of a miracle.”

His father hesitates, but understands. “The envoy of the Grand Temple will be returning to the holy city soon. I will arrange a shared travel.” 

The flowers slow down their bloom and stop, finally, but they do not disappear. Much better, Chanhee thinks. Much more fitting for the Goddess to be alive even in her marble depiction. Much closer to the greater good. 

“I won’t be needing much in terms of a convoy,” he places his bow in its holster again. “My personal guard will be enough.”

“Of course,” his father nods. “Of course.”

They will discuss the details later, Chanhee knows. He will have to remind people again, he knows, but it will be easier. Everything will be, the duty will stay suspended where it was but he will move away from it, and it will almost be easy. 

It will be easy tomorrow, he thinks, as the door closes behind him, as he enters the courtyard, as he stands under the sky. He will be happy tomorrow. 

Today, he is still empty. 

“My prince?” Sunwoo asks, a sparkle in his eyes but a downwards twist to his smile. “You were incredible.”

There’s a stone bench with a view not quite as beautiful as the one in the orchard. Chanhee sits on it, and Sunwoo knows to sit by his side. 

“Soon you will have to drop the title,” he reminds. The sun crawls slowly over his face when the wind rustles the tree leaves. “Everyone is of the same birth status when in the ranks of the temple.”

Sunwoo’s smile overshadows the sun. It always does. “You might become a deacon, a priest, a templar, but in my heart you will always rule as a prince.”

Sunwoo rests his hand on the stone between them, and Chanhee puts his own hand on top of his. Gently. Quietly. Hidden, but just for the near future. Just until Chanhee escapes. Just until they escape. 

He will be happy tomorrow. 

“Why not a king?” He quips, and Sunwoo flusters, a rare sight, a precious moment. Chanhee savors it. 

“Should I call you that in the castle halls, I’m afraid I would be taken in for treason,” he explains. As if Chanhee meant it. As if he thought Chanhee meant it. “Who would protect you then, with me gone?”

It could have hurt, Chanhee thinks, if he was still half of himself.

In a way, nothing’s changed. They will stay the same, as they’ve always been, as they always will be. There is a bow on his back and flowers in his heart, and a warm presence at his side. 

But it doesn’t hurt anymore, and in that way, everything has changed. Sunwoo squeezes his hand back tightly. It’s a promise, Chanhee knows. That he will never go.

The wind rustles the trees, and the sound almost fills Chanhee with something. There are still holes in him, sorrow and sand all gone, and now the anger gone, too. He’s empty now. What’s next?

As the world changes seasons, so do people, he remembers. He used to misunderstand so badly. He used to look at the flowers tearing him apart and think he’s fighting for winter. It was dead leaves, he sees now, dead leaves rotting into stagnation, a moment of naked mourning. 

He’s shed his snow now.

He closes his eyes in the middle of the barren fields and listens, and he hears the whisper of a new life kindling under the surface. It’s quiet. It’s barely there.

Par sit fortuna labori, he remembers, and then he answers himself. Bonum tempora currunt. 

He’s empty now. He will be happy tomorrow.

Chanhee squeezes Sunwoo’s hand, too, and confesses, “I think this is spring.”

I think this is the greatest good.