Chapter Text
Yoongi isn’t used to sitting in the royal box, or at least, he hasn’t been used to it for a while. To his left there are two empty seats to be filled by the two champions of today’s pools while to his right, Park Boseok. Yoongi doesn’t remember him, doesn’t know if they ever even crossed paths before. But in the two weeks he has been here he has heard more about him than he could ever wish to.
Park Boseok is what many would call “the people’s hero” and if that doesn’t make you just a bit sad about the affairs of this kingdom, nothing will. He’s the son of some lord or another and has the hypocritical task of going down to the villages to clasp hands and wipe tears while offering absolutely no monetary assistance from his plentiful coffers. Currently, he is exercising this badly bestowed gift of gab to talk Yoongi to an early grave. He has reached the history of his mother’s eldest cousin’s son’s niece’s husband and Yoongi is wondering if flinging himself onto the track when the next joust begins is a better fate than having to endure more.
But it’s not like he is really listening.
He is too busy staring holes into the empty seat beside Seokjin’s, the young prince having not shown his face though the first joust is moments away from starting. Seokjin himself does not appear too perturbed by this, his casual ignorance of Jungkook’s absence suggesting they’ve had one of their legendary fights that are so often talked about. Still, he feels the emptiness like a pit in his chest, despairing and hollow, though that may also be his body caving in listening to Park Boseok talk for what feels like at least the last five hours. He is just about to turn around and just knock Boseok clean out when the first horn of the morning is blown, the crowd instantly stilling. Yoongi stills too, it is not the ordinary note being played.
“Your Grace! A wildcard!”
The horse that rides out is dark and hulking, a beautiful thing of the night with a mane like freshly driven snow. It is clearly of noble breeding, something delicate and pretty to its footwork. But it’s nothing in comparison to its rider.
The knight is decked head to toe in armour as black as jet, the plume feather upon his head a vivid bluejay shade of the sky. He is tall yet lithe, muscular and lean and so startling to look upon a bit of a hush falls upon the royal box as he rides up.
“Requesting His Majesty Kim Seokjin’s permission to compete for the honour of the champion’s title,” the page boy hesitates, his gaze flickering up to the rider.
“Does he come with a name?” Seokjin asks, leaning forward, his curiosity peaked though there remains a suspicious slant to his eyes.
“He does not yield it Your Grace.” The page boy’s voice wavers, clearly uncertain, “he asks to be addressed as The Black Knight here on out.”
“How fascinating,” Seokjin says, the edge to his voice obvious even at a distance. “A mystery knight how very very fascinating.”
The black mare stamps her feet, tossing her impressive head of hair as the rider sits unmoved. Even through his helm Yoongi can feel the weight of his eyes on Seokjin, the unwavering challenge with which they ask to be refused.
“Hoseok?” Seokjin says after what feels like half a century, the first shades of red already spilling from the sun as she climbs higher and higher into the pleasantly blue sky.
“Your Grace, as per the mandate set by His Highness Kim Seokbyeok, may his soul rest in eternal peace, in the spirit of fairness no wildcard may be refused on any grounds so long as they have not been coerced into participating by a third party.”
Seokjin raises an eyebrow at the rider, something a little too familiar in his expression. “And has our Black Knight been coerced into being here?”
The knight shakes his head, a graceful sweep of his long neck and he waits for only the slightest indication of Seokjin’s hand before he is turning away. For a moment his horse hesitates in front of Yoongi and Boseok, for a moment he can hear the soft, tempered breaths being drawn from behind the helmet.
Then he is riding down the length of the track and Yoongi feels that same strange hollowness from before, something amiss to the beat of his heart.
He thinks for just a moment that the knight looks at him again from the end of the track, seems to bore right through his clothing and flesh and look right too his freshly bleeding heart. But too soon it passes, his vision clouded by the thick dust of the track. Too soon the Black Knight is winning, again and again and again, effortlessly, his game more dance than sport, almost enchanting, almost seductive.
Too soon he is being proclaimed the champion of pool three and disappearing into the stables, leaving Yoongi behind at the royal pavilion.
“Our four champions!”
Seokjin squints at the table before him.
Free hand, rather badly drawn imitations of the four crowning champions set upon stands before him. Park Boseok, Lee Jieun, the ‘mysterious’ Black Knight’ and of course, Min Yoongi. At least, that’s who a very brightly smiling Jimin proclaims them to be.
“Which one is that?” Seokjin points somewhat distressed at the thing that doesn’t entirely look like a head upon the canvas.
Jimin follows his gaze, frowning. “Boseok, obviously Your Grace.”
“Don’t ‘obviously’ me when he doesn’t have a neck, Jimin,” Seokjin sighs, not missing the significant quality difference between Boseok’s portrait and the other three, though none of them are particularly good.
“Does he have one?” Jimin muses, paint brush tapping against his lip, “I’ve never noticed.”
“Well very good, please ask the page boys to have the table set.” Seokjin waves him away, reaching for his pot of Earl Grey, letting the steam from the pot briefly blank out his fatigued mind. “And have the four of them sent up once they’re done.”
Jimin purses his lips, eyes narrowing for a moment as he glares at Seokjin clearly unhappy with the very limited praise received for his art. Then he clicks his tongue spinning around on his heel and marching out of the room.
Seokjin groans, letting himself settle back into his too lush chair, the softness doing little to comfort the pain from days’ worth of sitting at the pavilion. He shuts his eyes, allowing himself to drift a moment while the staff mills around him preparing the high tea he has asked for. It is unconventional, maybe even unnecessary, to call for an audience just hours before midnight. But Seokjin would rather alleviate the weight that sits heavy on his chest now rather than later.
They trickle in slowly. Jieun first, her stunningly pretty face somehow even prettier with excursion. Boseok next, speaking even before he has cleared the entrance of the door, pulling back a chair like he owns the place and collapsing into it. Min Yoongi is still holding his shoulder somewhat awkwardly, he is still looking at Seokjin like he wouldn’t mind tearing him to pieces too. Seokjin decides to not take it too personally.
The Black Knight is last, Seokjin unable to prevent snorting when he enters with his helmet still on. In fact his armour is still on as well, he moves stiff and guarded, lowering himself reluctantly into the seat beside Jieun.
“Would you like some tea?” Seokjin asks him, tone a honeyed shade of sweetness he himself can hardly bare, revelling in the fact that he cannot be spoken back to in the moment. The knight simply stares at him, spine rigid, fists clenched. It is somewhat unnerving, Seokjin now feeling the same level of threat from both sides of the table.
He clears his throat, turning to face the centre, all pairs of eyes on him as he begins to speak. “First, my heartiest congratulations to making it to the final four and my deepest thanks for travelling so far,” he gestures at Yoongi who huffs, rolling his eyes, “to be here with us. The next rounds, in the spirit of fairness, will not take place in a knock-out style but rather will have a point system so that each of you may joust against all of your competitors.”
A murmur passes over the table, low and intrigued, the change in rules taking most everyone by surprise. The Black Knight sits rigid still, unmoving.
“Second and perhaps somewhat upsettingly, for the first time this year the tournament shall have no second or third place. Only a singular winner.” A deadly hush falls over the table, the room suddenly so silent the gentle sloshing of tea in Seokjin’s cup is deafening. Yoongi in particular has paled, his jaw clenched so hard it looks like it may snap in two, a wild, enraged panic dancing in his eyes. Seokjin feels a touch hollow, not missing the way the Black Knight’s head makes the slightest movement in Yoongi’s direction.
“What?” Jieun asks, disbelief seeping through her words. “But Your Grace that isn’t fair.”
“I agree,” Seokjin says softly. “And I wish it could be otherwise but the crown this year simply cannot pay to accommodate for more than one winner.” He doesn’t give the reasoning, doesn’t have to, the debts the kingdom has collected far and known.
“So unfortunately only one of you shall be walking away with title and treasure, I wanted that known before we proceed.”
“And the crown prince’s hand of course.” Boseok’s tone is light, too casual. Seokjin feels a sharp sparking of irritation, of intense dislike. Beside him Yoongi jerks for a moment before clenching his fists at his side, his eyes shutting briefly as he swallows hard, biting back words he cannot allow himself to say to Boseok.
Seokjin glances sideways at the Black Knight, still statuesque but a little broken now.
“Yes,” he says quietly. “And the crown prince’s hand.”