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Over the course of the many years Taehyung had ruled as king, he’d heard numerous depictions of the souls he harbored in the Underworld.
Some whispered that they were skeletons, with dark, gaping eyes and noses and mouths, bony hands always reaching up, reaching for release, for an escape from death.
Others pictured them as formless, lifeless and blurred silhouettes that stood in the waters and fields like illusions that would fade with an single touch.
Neither of those depictions were correct.
No, the spirits of the Underworld kept their forms, the lines of them distinct in a unique way, even through the glow they each emitted. The scars, the nicks, the burns gained throughout their lifetimes remained, a mark of their individual histories and a stark contrast to bare skeletons.
They didn’t stand lifeless, or reach for the cavern ceilings high above. They wandered through the grasses without hurry, slow and directionless. Their eyes were often described to him as empty, like they were husks of their former selves. Even beautiful, accepting Jungkook had seemed mildly unnerved by them in his first weeks living in the below.
But Taehyung didn’t see the souls as empty. He saw them as loose; cut from their ties. That’s what mortals wanted in their after life, wasn’t it? A rest from the scavenges, the hunts, the fears, the turmoils, the struggles that plagued them. The souls were free, not empty.
But freedom didn’t always equate to joy.
The afterlife just wasn’t made for joy. It was meant for resting life forces before rebirth.
There was a reason the heroes within the Isle of the Blessed never stayed for long, contrary to the belief of those in the Overworld. What was an eternal paradise compared to life — to the pain and hope and strife and love felt over the course of one’s years?
Some mortals cursed him. They accused him of a litany of things, of torture and playing with souls like toys before throwing them back into the woes of life, as if he was the one who had created the Underworld’s processes, not just the one who oversaw them.
Most humans wouldn’t speak his name. That told him enough of what they understood of him and life.
So souls wandered on, loose-limbed and lazy and glossy-eyed as they rested.
And from time to time, they would talk.
It was a seldom occurrence, one that only happened when death was new to a soul, when their emotions still lingered.
Taehyung treasured each encounter, treasured the moments where he spoke about life with souls, when he listened to their stories and offered what reassurances he could. When a mortal being looked at him and didn’t fear him, when they saw him as both king and as an equal.
Despite his powers painting the story of each spirit in his mind, he always asked them:
“How did you die?”
And their answers would come, each a tiny, vulnerable window. Their stories were vast: bloodshed and illness, betrayal and devotion, piercing cold and unbearable heat, mistakes and intentions. Each word soaked in what remaining feelings they had, revealing their final thoughts on their demise.
Anger, hurt, acceptance. The living left behind were not the only ones who grieved.
A grizzled man talked to him now, rumbling on about a hunting trip with his sons gone wrong. Taehyung knew this man. He remembered the lilting voice of his previous self, saddened about missing the wedding of her eldest daughter.
Idly, he wondered which life this soul would prefer — the hardworking woman of the home, or the hunter.
“The green is returning.”
Breaking from his thoughts, Taehyung tilted his head, watching the consideration on the man’s face. “Is it, now?”
“The Cold is finally over. I did not think there would be anything left alive, but the hunt went fine before my youngest let an arrow go astray,” he grumbled.
Taehyung nodded absently. He had worried Jungkook and Demeter would face hardship with regrowing the flora, that the chill that had settled over the land had weakened it too much. But the news was good.
For both the land and its people, and for Taehyung, too.
It’d been nearly two moon cycles since his husband had left his side to rejoin his mother. Hearing, even vaguely, that he was well was reassuring.
“Rumor has it you are the bastard that took off with Demeter’s son and sent everything dying in the first place,” the man continued, and Taehyung couldn’t help but feel amused at the glare he was given. “I would almost be impressed if I wasn’t annoyed.”
“I’m assuming you are not a fan of the cold.”
“I am not a fan of my horse dyin’, more like.”
“I apologize, then.”
The old man grumbled, judgement still all over his face, but a little placated. “…I suppose you didn’t do that. But I’m still angry. You best not make that boy upset. I don’t trust the crops not to rot if you get into a squabble.”
Taehyung couldn’t help but laugh, watching the soul turn and wander away, apparently done with their talk. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
❀
It wasn’t often that Taehyung dreamed.
If he did dream, he hardly ever remembered it, the images in his sleep-addled head too fleeting, too fickle for his mind to bother keeping around.
But this time, he remembered.
He dreamt of an oak that bathed him in its comforting shade, and a field of blurry red that melted away before his eyes, replaced by blinding whites.
Somewhere in that field, a delighted voice had laughed his name.
And somewhere in his heart, love bloomed again and again and again for a beloved fawn in a meadow, out of sight, but never too far out of his reach.
He pulled himself off the kline, set on stopping by the dandelion garden.
He’d have to visit soon.