Archive of Our Own

i. name/legacy. 

🌙

When Jeno was a child, he thought he would become king. It's in his name: Li Di Nu — di meaning “king”, and nu meaning “strength”. 

His mother had done it on purpose, her own way of manifesting his future. 

Jeno came from aristocratic lineage. His father was a scholar, so it seemed completely natural, a rite of passage, even, that Jeno would become the same. He was taught to strive to further his legacy—to strive to become a royal. 

At twelve years old, he picked up, memorised, and replicated Hanja characters easily. He was also good on his feet and had advanced problem-solving skills for a kid his age. So his mother decided that it's the perfect age to ship him off to training school to take the royal examination and eventually become a royal court official. 

Be the government. Change the world. Ruin the royal family. Whichever came first.

“It is your destiny,” she said, gripping his shoulders. 

His father had come close to overthrowing the monarchy before, before being foiled by and losing his life to a royal guard who had spared his reputation and disregarded his family. We honour the dead when they can no longer inflict damage, he remembers the guard said. 

She had sworn to the guard that they would bury themselves and live quietly, but she would never be satisfied until his late father’s vision came to pass. Losing him was not enough. It had to be worth something. 

Jeno didn’t know about destiny, but it was definitely a dynasty. 

If there was something Jeno learnt to accept, it was this: history will do anything to find out everything about Prince Chenle, but it will never remember the royal guard, Lee Jeno.

Chenle was meant to go down in history, and Jeno never stood a chance. 

☀️

Although ultimately unrecorded, Jeno is the youngest person in Joseon history to have passed the military examination. He was immediately recruited by the royal military, and then somewhere along the way, he moves away from his duties as a soldier and becomes Chenle's personal guard. On paper and in title, commander of the Joseon Army. In reality, guard dog to the monarchs. 

He has a feeling it has something to do with a certain prince who pulled the strings, but he has no evidence when Chenle asks him why he thinks so.

"Just a gut feeling," he says, shrugging. Then tacks on after a beat: "Your Majesty."

Chenle pouts. "I liked it before you said that extra bit."

"But it's true."

"But it's distant," Chenle corrects. "The last thing I want is for you to be far from me."

Jeno turns his head to roll his eyes, but Chenle catches it anyway, drawing his sword in an en garde pose, taunting Jeno to spar with him. He obliges, pulling out his own spear from his sword-belt hanger. He lets Chenle attack, content to defend himself. 

Seven minutes later, Chenle gets the chance to point the tip of his sword centimetres from Jeno’s face, effectively cornering him. Jeno smiles and puts his hands up in surrender at Chenle’s smug look, then pushes Chenle’s sword with his spear and leans backwards to avoid it. Chenle’s sword clatters to the ground, leaving him no choice but to surrender.

“I suspect you only spar with me to remind yourself of how strong you are,” Chenle says, pouting, even though he knows neither of them played at their full capabilities.

“I live by the sword, Your Majesty. If I lost to you, I would not be qualified or able to perform my duties as future general of your army.” Jeno places his bamboo spear back into its holder, a comfortable weight on his left hip. He looks at Chenle with a knowing look, realising what he said. “Is that what you think when you spar with me? That I am strong?”

“That you are.” Chenle acknowledges quickly. He turns, hiding his face, but Jeno can see the flush of his neck. 

Jeno follows him, only half a step behind. “That is not what I asked.”

“Tell that to your mother.”

“Such foul language,” Jeno says, holding a hand to his chest in a faux-surprised gesture.

“I learnt from the best.” Chenle gestures at him, because it’s true, but Jeno only feigns innocence.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Majesty.”

🌙

Jeno first met Chenle on the last day of his first year in training school. 

He was not in line to be the King — merely a safety net for the royal family. He already had an older brother, the Crown Prince, who had established skills and the Queen Dowager for a mother. Theoretically the perfect heir apparent to the throne — except that he was merciless and only cared about power, and never the people.

Then again, to many, it wasn't like Chenle was any better. There were conspiracies that surrounded Chenle's birth that the persons of the innermost circles of the Royal House gossiped about. Vitriolic accusations like how his mother was a Manchurian consort, specially chosen by the Qing dynasty to infiltrate the royal palace. Or that he was bastard offspring with a lowly staff of the court.

When Chenle first entered his life, Jeno believed the rumours. He reasoned that it was why Chenle picked up Hanja characters and translated contemporary Chinese so easily. 

Because of the weight placed on his own name, Jeno obsessed over Chenle’s, believing it’d lead to the truth of his origin. Who Chenle was and why he had such easy access to the life Jeno ventured for. 

Jong Jin Lak: the traditional Korean translation. Chen, or jin, from the root word morning light, or star. And lak, yue, from music. Music star. 

Stupid name. He should’ve become a royal jester— an entertainer, instead of infringing on Jeno’s birthright. 

Jeno knew of the Crown Prince before training school. His mother had told him the stories, how it was Chenle's brother's guard who had killed his father. How the Crown Prince was ruthless and power-hungry. He had joined his fellow countrymen in praying to the skies for this boy, someone who would take the throne away from the Queen Dowager’s son, but he did not feel like he was receiving a gift. 

Chenle's sudden appearance felt like poison in his throat.

Jeno tried to wrap his lips around it and say it with respect. But in his stubbornness, defiance to understand it in his native tongue, he bastardised it, settling for a half-translation from Chinese instead. 

Chun-luh. Undermining its true words and pronunciation. It's the closest Jeno ever gets to saying his name out loud. 

He’s not wrong to doubt. His intellectual prowess aside, Chenle was wavering, clumsy, and he fell on their hundredth day together — which Jeno kept count of. He dove right in time to save Chenle from hitting the ground, shoulder first, cushioning Chenle's from sustaining any injuries in a fall. 

Jeno's forearms were completely ripped, long lacerations from his wrist down to his elbows. But somehow, he felt accomplished, happy to get sent off to the royal doctors to get his wounds cleaned and covered. More pride than he ever felt scoring the highest on practice examinations. 

Because Chenle was looking at him with wonder in his eyes, and that’s when Jeno realised that he wanted to bet his life and protect Chenle. Because Chenle, for all his hidden athleticism and cunning nature, needed someone to look out for him. Just in case.

And that person had to be Jeno.

When he wrote to his mother about wanting to change from a tutor-in-training into a guard-in-training, she was rightfully scandalised.

He still doesn't know how, but she snuck into his quarters to see him in the middle of night, interrupting from where he was practising 10,000 more Hanja characters.

"You could become the Head Scholar. The military is nothing, it is provincial," his mother whisper-yelled, holding him tight by the shoulders again. Her fingers had left indentations every time, and this time they fell into place, too. Even when he wrestled her fingers off him, he could feel her print lingering. "You cannot do this to me, too, Jeno." 

"I have long given up on the dream of becoming King, Mother," Jeno said, faint. It felt like an out-of-body experience, Jeno a doll and a spirit speaking to his mother.

She was never going to get the coup she dreamed of.

"I have loved you before you were born," she said, and her voice was hushed, but the anger seeped through. "I wished for you in the forty years I lived before you. Before I knew who you were, I loved you. When you were born, I celebrated you. When I met you, I finally fell in love.

“I thought this was it—the child, my son, my only beloved son— he will avenge my husband’s legacy.”

A scathing look. “You indeed are just like your father.” 

Jeno averted his eyes, and her fingers found her way back onto his forearms. 

“Look at me when I speak to you.” When Jeno gathered the courage to look his mother in the eye, face his greatest fear, he realised too late that it was a trick. She stared him down, her words unforgiving: “You do not deserve your name.” 

Names do not mean anything, Jeno repeated to himself. 

That’s why it was never Chenle, or Jin-lak. It did not matter what his name was. It only mattered who he was to Jeno: his Majesty. Then later, when Jeno felt braver: 

“My Prince.”

He would turn, smile. Jeno would remember, and is set free. 

☀️

Unfortunately, being the Prince’s personal guard also meant picking up Chenle when he was drunk out of his mind and transporting him safely to his room. It takes a lot to get him drunk, and when Jeno arrives at his private quarters, just adjacent to his study, he can already smell the strong baijiu. There are emptied jars scattered around Chenle on the floor—a whole month’s import worth, and Jeno can tell from the amount alone that Chenle had been saving the hidden stash for such a day as today.

Where he’s yelling at twenty royal staff: 

"Where is the love of my life?" His words are slurred, and Jeno has to reach out and grab the hem of his long, pillowed sleeves to prevent them from dipping back into his half-filled bowl. 

"Did you not know when to stop indulging him?" He hisses at the servants standing at the door. 

He orders them to leave, then gathers Chenle in his arms, trying to figure out the easiest way to transport him from these quarters to his chambers across the palace grounds. Usually, Jeno would not mind the servants in his inebriated state, knowing it is within a royal’s right to privately let loose every once in a while, a privilege which Chenle rarely allows himself.

Except the timing is awful. Chenle is two weeks out from his royal wedding and his coronation as Crown Prince. It would be a disaster if any noble saw him like this, the possibility of an ambitious official giving Chenle’s father an excuse to remain at his post. God forbid someone ran to his father and raised concern that his son is still unfit to rule the kingdom. 

But Chenle is the hardest to control of all. 

Even as they reach his chambers, and Jeno has pulled off his outer coat, Chenle is still thrashing in Jeno’s hold. He’s much stronger than Jeno anticipated, much stronger than Jeno remembers.

"No, where's my love?" He whines. 

Jeno tightens his grip, careful not to press his fingers down so hard that he hurts Chenle or leaves a bruise on his forearms. He tries to placate Chenle: "You can meet the Crown Princess soon. I will take you to her, I just need to move—" 

Chenle is mumbling a name alongside the words: My love, where are you? Take me before they take me away. 

Jeno stills. He keeps his hold, and Chenle stops writhing, still muttering the pleas and the name under his breath. The words sound like gasps, syllables blending into each other. Jeno listens close, not daring to breathe. 

"You must be very drunk, Your Highness," Jeno says slowly, carefully. "Because that's my name you're calling out."

The Prince falls asleep the moment his head hits the soft bedding, and when he wakes the next morning, they never speak of it. He might not remember, so Jeno thinks it a fluke, and chalks it up to delirium. 

ii. love/loyalty/lies.

🌙

If there was an optimal time to get to the Prince, predictably enough, it’d be midnight. When Jeno was younger and Chenle wasn’t en route to the throne, they always left the royal palace before the sun rose to escape its endless restrictions.

Chenle was seventeen, still Prince but not heir, and Jeno had just become his personal guard. They snuck out of the palace, Jeno carrying a hand-woven basket filled with Chenle’s favourite fruits. Green grapes that taste like pure sugar were in season, their soft skin peeled off for Chenle’s convenience and the optimal eating experience. 

He fed them to Jeno, shaking his head when Jeno refused them out of politeness. “I eat this every day now. But I like the oranges that the farmers get from the southmost part of Koryo much better.”

Jeno ignored the way his heart pangs at Chenle’s expectant, almost innocent look. Chenle shrieks when Jeno’s lips come too close to his fingers. “I will throw it to you. Catch!”

“Why!” Jeno yelled, but got up to move backwards and catch the grape he threw. The sound of Chenle’s praise was sweeter than the saccharine juice that filled his mouth. But he missed the way Chenle’s eyes trailed his neck as he swallowed. 

The wind howled, and Jeno raised his lamp to look up at the sky and observe for rain clouds. 

Chenle interrupted his train of thought, “Would you like to dance?” 

“There is no music,” Jeno protested, and he could not hide his surprise. 

“You do not need music to dance,” Chenle pointed out, reaching his hand out for Jeno to take. “There is no one around but me, Jeno.”

His hands were sticky from the juice of the grapes, but Jeno did not mind. He made a short, sniping comment about them, but for the most part it’s quiet. 

Chenle started humming a tune, a soft melody that harmonises easily with the eolian sound. 

Of course Chenle would be musically inclined, matching notes of nature to his own voice. But where did Chenle learn to dance, to hold Jeno at the waist and the other hand clasped in his? It’s strange to Jeno, to be the one being held. For a while, he was in the moment, safe instead of watchful. 

I hope this second lasts forever. 

Just the two of them, slow dancing under the moon shrouded by the clouds. 

☀️

Following the assasination of Chenle’s older brother the Crown Prince, the King announces Chenle’s ascension to the throne alongside the gift of marriage. In the hallways of the royal palace, they report the truth that he is in poor health. 

Chenle was still mourning the death of his older brother, a lifeline that would ensure he never would receive the pressure of ruling a kingdom.

“Stop this union,” Chenle pleads when they reach his room, voice so loud the royal staff must hear from outside the paper-thin walls. Jeno says nothing, shaking his head. “I believed you’d do anything for me.”

Then accusingly: "Must I lay my life like you do for me to have some value in your life?" 

I lay my life so you will never have to, Jeno thinks. Instead, he says, "That is not your role, Your Majesty.”

"The union— I am not asking as the Crown Prince," Chenle starts, and the title hits Jeno’s ear unpleasantly, still adjusting to how it referred to Chenle. No longer his prince, but the Crown's. "I am asking as someone who wants to be in your life. You have always given me everything, but I do not know if I have a place in your life."

Do not let them take me away from you. 

Jeno looks away. "I am already yours, my Prince. You can ask of me anything your heart desires, but I do not wish to disrespect the King's decree and the lives of those in Your Majesty's house." 

"I am not yours, is what you mean to say," Chenle argues, cross. 

The urge to reach out and soothe Chenle’s distress is nearly overpowering, and it takes much willpower to stop his hand and remain in his position. 

"You belong to the nation, and I could not bear to ever take you away from them," Jeno says, finding the words futile but believing it’s the only way to soften the blow. To marry someone you had never met — it was a small sacrifice to protect the kingdom.

Chenle is meant to be king. It is the loss of the country if he were to be stripped of his post. Jeno will not be the one to take that away from him.

I do not know how I could ever return you, once you came to me.

The sound of Chenle heaving fills the room, and he drops his head in his hands, falling to Jeno’s feet in helplessness. 

"Do you love me?" He asks. It's not often that the Prince is brought to his knees, but Jeno only looks away.

"Answer me, Commander, that is an order." Then softer, Chenle says, "Please, Jeno. You know there is a royal decree that you cannot deny the Crown Prince's request." 

Jeno couldn't do that even if he tried. He has long known better than to tell the truth, though. 

"I do not love you, Crown Prince." Jeno says, and there is no shake to his voice. It sounds like a declaration, with his hands behind his back and head straight, looking past Chenle.

But the Prince gave no decree that the Commander could not lie. 

"Is that so," Chenle says, and his voice shakes. Jeno's eyes dart to Chenle's figure, but his body is completely still. "Then you are dismissed, Commander."

It is the Crown Prince’s quarters, but it is he who leaves, unable to stand a single second longer in the room with Jeno. And the hurt that never escapes Jeno throbs, but he does not take any steps, stuck with his hands behind his back, and eyes forward.

Chenle is gone. Jeno falls to his knees.

As it turns out, betting your life on someone and placing them at the centre of your every day is exhausting.

Jeno has long known to tuck the feelings he has for Chenle in the corner of his heart, insisting to himself to let it seep out into actions that would benefit Chenle. Protecting him, putting his and the country's interests first. 

He put a name to the feelings he has for Chenle when he was seventeen, watching Chenle wear his father's robes for the first time. He had his father's figure, and aside from the slight tightness of the ikseongwan or daily crown, it fit perfectly. It wasn't any singular feeling of admiration, fondness, or love, the affection never changed. A steady thrum under Jeno's skin, never wanting to burst out. 

He never had the urge to confess, content to watch the competent Crown Prince from his post. The distance was never noticeable, Chenle always made his way to Jeno, seeked his advice and company. His trust in Jeno rivalled no other person, and that was enough for Jeno.

But that awful question about love—

On the day Chenle is to be wed to the Crown Princess-to-be, Jeno feels the distance greater than ever before. A steady thrum of adrenaline makes his heart beat against his chest, pushing him to say, to take the chance, to make a difference before change overturns the everyday that he cherished so much. Before marriage whisked away his Prince, made him King and put an inevitable distance between them. 

He imagines it, if he could reveal to Chenle the way loyalty and love twisted into each other and settled in the pit of his stomach forever, never to be relieved.

“It is not admiration of a subject,” he would say, “I thought it was my loyalty to you, but it was affection. I love you, Your Highness, you who are a man, the lord of this country, I love you."

He tamps the words down, devouring his insides in an attempt to keep the words from crawling their way out. 

One hour left until he is wed. 

As if Chenle can read him, he speaks first. Jeno is standing guard, absolutely still in front of Chenle, his spear at the ready. He doesn't think he postures any differently from how he usually was, but Chenle has always observed him. 

"Do you have anything to say to me?" Chenle asks quietly, and his voice is uncharacteristically meek. 

Do it, Jeno's mind screams. The only indication that he's heard Chenle is the twitch of his brows, almost imperceptible to anyone who has never perceived him.

But Jeno promised that he'd put duty first and that duty remained. Above his personal desires. He was still a soldier.

He says: "Congratulations, Your Majesty." 

Chenle seems disappointed and Jeno doesn't understand why—what did he expect? 

The palace is decorated beautifully for the ceremony. There is much to celebrate. Chenle will truly come of age as he weds the concubine, and be crowned as heir apparent. Dreams are coming true, but Jeno's not sure whose.

Definitely not Chenle's, if the grim expression on his face was any indication. He wanted neither to be stripped of his freedom or the peace of solitude. Still, because it is his duty, he walks down the aisle towards the grand pedestal where the Crown Princess awaits. Jeno watches the distance between them grow.

I am going to let go of you now, is all that's going through Jeno's mind when Chenle walks down the aisle. It feels impossibly slow. When this is over, so are we. I will only be your soldier. But you have always been my King.

He holds his breath, and then—

The King collapses as the first rite comes to a close. The royal doctor runs to him, then takes his pulse after shaking him. 

“The King is dead,” proclaims the Royal Messenger. He drops to his knee, and everyone in the hall follows suit, with Jeno leading the soldiers’ falls. Then, to Chenle: “Long live the King.” 

Jeno’s heart sinks as their eyes meet, Chenle’s brimming with tears despite his stoic expression. The downturn of his mouth makes Jeno want to run to him and wrench him away from the chaos that ensues around them. 

There is no time for mourning — Chenle was heir, whether he liked it or not. That night, there is only one vital expectation for Chenle, as an heir who has no heir. 

When Chenle consummates his marriage with his consort, Jeno is standing guard at the door. It is the first time he was denied entry into the room, and that he was not the last person to see Chenle off for the night. 

There's a heavy betrayal that should have no place in his body especially with his cowardice, but no matter how many ways he tries to get rid of it, it lasts. 

It lasts, lasts, lasts. Alongside Chenle’s coronation, Jeno gets promoted to a General of the Royal Army. It was his goal since switching into the military, but the ache does not go away.

He watches uselessly as Chenle changes. Grows quieter, the stoic expression almost permanently etched onto his face. Jeno catches himself missing Chenle even when he is in front of him, yearning for a moon to shine on them for a quiet moment without all these women, these advisors influencing the King with things that did not matter. Jeno saw through their plans—they were all short-sighted and their proposals unfit for the lives of the kingdom’s citizens. 

Chenle doesn't make it easy for himself in the meantime, his consort unable to produce a child for him. That's the way eunuchs describe the situation, and Jeno hates the way he takes gratification in the way the Queen Dowager is addressed. 

It's clear her use is purely necessity. She exists to provide the King an heir, a prince to succeed Chenle. Chenle barely looks her way unless he has to directly address her, which is becoming rarer, as it is apparent that she is barren. 

So come the long strings of concubines, all claiming to be willing and able to give the King a child. 

Jeno looks away, but does not allow any one else to take his place at the door. Jeno's not a masochist, but there is no one else who can protect the King like him. And his time is all Chenle's. 

For the first time, at the age of twenty-seven, Jeno hears a sound from Chenle's bedroom as he tries to conceive a child with the first junior concubine. The loud whimper of pleasure sends shock waves down Jeno's body, and for the first time since he completed his first round of basic training at thirteen years old, Jeno wavers. 

His hand trembles from where he's holding his moon blade, and the movement is so great the senior guard standing two feet away from him looks over, the quiver catching his attention. 

"If you must rest, General, I can call another soldier to take your place." The guard’s hands remain at his side, disallowing himself to reach out and steady Jeno. 

A sign of trust. 

Jeno refuses to break. Not now, twelve years into his service, and certainly not anytime soon. If he could watch Chenle walk away from him as he denounced his affections for him, then Jeno can take this. 

"That is not necessary," Jeno says, and his voice is firm. He stretches his fingers, coming down in a firm grip around the hilt of his sword. 

For the first time, he wishes his weapon was something else.

iii. war/worthy.

☀️

Seven years since his acension to the throne, and no heir. 

Chenle’s skills are called into question after his pregnant concubine loses her baby before it is born. The royal doctors believe it would have been a girl. 

The cynic in Jeno says that a princess would have been less desirable to the masses, but his heart tears and mourns the child still. 

It’s devastating enough, but the royal court is ruthless, putting her character, her luck, even her motivations on the stand for them to dissect and understand where it all went wrong. Her anatomy is debated, where it should have been blamed on Chenle alone. He’s distraught and distracted, Jeno having to physically direct him on some days. 

It comes to the point that the Royal Scholar steps up towards Chenle at a council meeting. He marches up to the King, steps determined with a dissatisfied fire in his eyes. 

Jeno draws his sword, raising the blade up to the Scholar's neck when he approaches with no intention of slowing down to pay his respects. There is a blade hidden under his robe — a foolish move since Jeno can see the outline and the knife peeking out, glinting in the light. 

"General, this is absolutely no way to treat a scholar," he shrieks, but Jeno does not retreat. 

"My role as the Royal Guard is to protect His Majesty from anyone I deem a threat to his safety. Do not take a single step forward,” Jeno orders. His voice is unfamiliar to him — he never speaks in these spaces, content to watch and debate silently in his head. 

Chenle doesn't shift, unbothered by this uncharacteristically violent side of Jeno, and recognises the threat as easily. 

"I would never dare," the scholar pretends to be naive, before quickly being evacuated and searched. 

Jeno gestures to Chenle to end the assembly, leaving in their wake a group of upset scholars and officials. 

“At rest, General,” says Chenle, letting a hand fall on Jeno’s shoulder. It’s a sign of camaraderie, of familiarity, but Jeno wants to flinch. He wants to obey and let his shoulders slump, but this is not then. The threat has passed into the palace walls. There truly was no one they could trust. 

“Respectfully, Your Majesty, I will stand guard.” 

“Right.” It’s bitter, and Jeno winces. “You can’t ever be comfortable around me now, can you? You now protect me because it is your post, not because you wish to.” 

It’s far from the truth, but—

“Is it the women, General? That turned you off so badly you cannot even bear to look at me? Because I will get rid of them, if that has made you lose so much respect for me that your responses are so…” 

You will not, Jeno thinks, because I will not let you. You have yet to produce an heir. Instead, he answers: “No one could ever ignore you, Your Majesty.” 

“Is that what this has come to?” Chenle asks. “A royal order to get you to say something to me?” 

"Your Majesty, if it is not with regards to your personal safety, it is not me you should consult. If nothing else, I will be taking my leave." 

"I am in danger," Chenle declares with so much certainty that Jeno nearly stops. He recognises the edge of desperation, detects the lie. It irritates him. Was this a time to not take the threats seriously? 

“Is that what you want me to say, General?"

Jeno sighs. "Your Majesty—"

"Your King," Chenle commands, voice booming and echoing in a way that's new to Jeno. He did not raise his voice, but he didn't need to. Jeno freezes anyway, because Chenle, for all his power, never spoke to Jeno in this way. "I did not dismiss you."

For the first time since he took up his military post, Jeno feels trapped. Between the truth of his duty, his expertise, and what he wants to do.

Maybe Chenle’s accusation carried some truth in it. The distance between them grows larger with Chenle’s every word, the moments shared under a moon shrouded in mystery now a faraway memory. The palace gates seem to move further out of reach. 

“At ease, General,” Chenle says again, lifting his hand like a reflex to touch Jeno again. He stops midway when he sees the way Jeno purses his lips, drops his hand, and walks away. 

☀️

Chenle finds the answer to expanding his kingdom in declaring an invasion of Manchuria. The neighbouring land is larger than Koryo is, with an army with numbers that crush them easily. 

It is the only way to assert dominance in the peninsula. It is the only way to reclaim the glory of Koryo that Chenle’s father had once created. 

There is also the question of Chenle’s origin. If there was something to be said about betraying a land that played a part in birthing him. 

He buries himself in work, the dark under his eyes growing deeper with every sleepless night. Beside him, Jeno stands guard, no longer outside the quarters for fear of an invasion that comes from the inside. 

Jeno wonders if he will be deployed to fight in the frontlines. If Chenle wanted to win this battle he brought upon himself, it would mean he sends his best soldiers to win. Even if it had been a long time since Jeno sparred with anyone aside from Chenle, he was still an expert strategist and a talented swordsman. 

Chenle catches Jeno looking at him and the plans he has drawn up, and Jeno immediately trains his eyes forward. The younger versions of themselves would have already discussed the possible points of entry, the attacks and tactics. Who would lead the invasions on the ground, and the likes. 

But Jeno feels out of place, out of his element despite his extensive knowledge on the subject. The time spent cooped up in the safety of the palace had dulled his blade and left his mind unpolished. He could only theorise, never practise. 

When the candle of his lamp nearly burns out, Jeno retrieves another, lights it up and places it next to Chenle. 

“I am starting to notice that you only talk to me when I speak to you,” Chenle says softly, catching Jeno’s eye.

“That’s not always the case.” 

“I know that. But it seems too often to be the case. Moreso these days.” He studies Jeno’s expression, the tightness of his mouth. “You are upset with me about the war.”

Jeno shakes his head. “I have no right—” 

“I am sorry,” Chenle interrupts. He waves his arm, his sleeve coming up to cover his mouth. It comes across flippant, more than graceful. “It was the right thing to do.”

“Do not come to me for absolution,” and Jeno says it so sternly that Chenle has to put down his sword to stop himself from falling. It’s the first time Jeno’s used that tone on him, and the first time Jeno has given him an instruction that begins with a prohibition instead of a plea. 

“Do not do me any favours. Be a king. Never seek forgiveness for choosing what is right for the kingdom.” 

He’s implying that it’s a sign of weakness, but Chenle hears another message loud and clear. 

You do what you want in the name of the kingdom, and I can’t say anything but. 

"I do not want to go to war,” Chenle confesses, and for the first time in years, Jeno sees the young Prince in the King, lost and nervous to be thrusted a great responsibility without instructions and a kingdom to protect. 

It's quiet, and Jeno has to take a look at the doors to make sure they're shut tight before he looks back at Chenle, who’s wrecked by the words. He wants to offer himself for Chenle’s peace of mind. Jeno could lead the battle and find their weak and unprotected points. 

“I will not even consider it,” Chenle says firmly before he even has the chance to suggest it. “I do not want you out there if that means there is even a chance I will lose you."

"I am your best soldier," Jeno replies, and his voice rises. It takes a minute for him to take a breath and steady it. "Please use me in the best way I can help." 

"This is not the best way," Chenle insists. “You are my soldier."

"The royal army must protect the people.”

A flash of hurt crosses Chenle’s face. Jeno had pledged his loyalty to him. His life was once worth everything to Jeno — but now was worth less than the kingdom’s. 

"Why must you do it in this way? You should have stayed my advisor. You know the country's needs and future best. You know me best. So why must you fight for your life, not mine? You can't do this to me too, you can't just leave me now.

"Is it too much to ask for you to be by my side? To rule Koryo with me?" His eyes brim with tears, uncaring of how his voice booms in the room. Jeno hates the way Chenle sounds like his mother, forcing him to a destiny he no longer wanted. Especially since Chenle knows the answer — Jeno had given it to him years ago. 

Chenle’s hands shake, the shadows large and clear on the wall from the waning light of the candle. The flame barely holds onto the wick. 

“Give me my freedom,” Jeno pleads instead. “This will be my freedom.”

🌙

While ill-advised, Chenle's father, the King, had always been keen on accumulating power by acquiring land. It was no surprise that Chenle would learn to do the same.

On a spring night when they had snuck out again — empty-handed this time — the moon was bright and the sky was clear. Maybe it was the fresh air, the crops around them, or Chenle’s newly discovered penchant for war, but Jeno wanted to pack his sword and run away for good. 

He admitted to Chenle: "When I was younger I thought that when I became a high-ranking official, I would want to work in the countryside like this harvest.” He waved his arm to the plot of land they were lying in. 

"Why? A life of peace does not seem to suit a guard of your calibre. Is the war not what you live for?" Chenle asked, peeling a leaf from the stem of a wheat plant in his hand. 

"I do not believe in war," Jeno said, his voice low and quiet. "You are the one who pursues conflict. The way you are handling affairs with the East Kingdom makes me feel like you are counting on an attack." 

"What is a king if he does not expand his kingdom?"

Jeno accepted the words without demur. He knew they would never see eye-to-eye on such a matter. And it did not matter either, because Jeno's job was to fight. And in the event that it was needed, when it comes down to it, Jeno will always deliver. 

Chenle cleared his throat, adjusting his headpiece. He turned to Jeno and said: "Tell me what you want, now, then. Whatever it is, when I become King, I will give it to you. You know a king never goes back on his word." 

"What I want you could never afford to give to me," Jeno replied. Chenle was looking at him, unconvinced, as if saying try me, and Jeno continued wryly: "Freedom."

"What's the point of freedom?" Chenle asked, rolling his eyes. 

"Ask the lips that have never tasted it." Jeno smiled, watching as Chenle flinched slightly.

"Right." Chenle's laugh was short. "It's not that I could not give it to you, I only wonder... Are you saying you would rather take a different path than come be in the palace with me?" 

Jeno had made up his mind before his voice even broke to protect Chenle, to be the one responsible for Chenle's life. Despite Chenle's relative independence, his safety was always never fully insured. Danger lurked in every corner, and Jeno was suspicious of every one except himself and Chenle. 

Maybe it was wrong to trust someone who could and would give him up to protect the masses, but dying by Chenle's hand wouldn't be the worst thing in the world, Jeno thought. 

Jeno thought to a life without Chenle: without them huddling under the covers after training when the insulation wasn't enough to ward off the cold, Chenle sneaking precious fruits when Jeno's meal wasn't enough to provide energy for his entire training schedule. 

But Jeno's biggest fears were real, too. Dying in battle, Chenle vulnerable without someone directly at his aid, Chenle captured, tortured, Jeno helplessly letting him down — he didn't think he could take it. 

Even thinking about it sends a pressure building at the back of his head. It's always there, just usually quieter, negligible. Permanent since he made the decision to be by Chenle's side. It'll never leave, either, unless he hadn't made the decision, or unless he left. 

"I think it might be worth the sacrifice," Jeno said finally. "And you know I would never lie to you, My Prince."