Chapter Text
There will come a soldier
Who carries a mighty sword
He will tear your city down
Oh lei, oh lai, oh, Lord
The soldier and the poet live in a tall thatched cottage at the edge of a lilac forest. The soldier was given the cottage by the remnants of the Queen’s family at the end of the last war. It was a consolation; the war was over, the Queen was gone, and a fragile peace existed over the faerie lands. The soldier, with his silver wings and his matching armor, settled into the consolation cottage after he and the rest of the Queen’s former army were dismissed from the center mountains.
Park Jimin walked for three weeks to get to his assigned cottage. A true exile. Jimin didn’t mind the journey. He liked the silence that awaited him after he slunk out of the mountain cities. He’d rest in small villages along the way or under the watch of tall, ancient trees. Most of the other fae he met were kind and helpful. They set him on the right path when he misread his map. Others...
A fae’s fated profession comes from the color of their wings. Jimin knew he would be a soldier at five years old, when his wings changed from their childhood translucency to the color of his destiny. Silver wings are especially recognizable. They shine under the sun and moon, meant to be beacons of safety for civilians of the King or Queen who reigned. It also made Jimin recognizable after the war, when some civilians— a small amount, but enough— saw his wings and shunned him for them.
The war is over now, they’d say.
Please. We just want to move on.
Some were explicitly clear. We don’t want you here.
Jimin didn’t make a fuss. He knew the actions of some of his comrades, knew how they took advantage of the power their wings afforded them. When normal fae, fae with wings of yellow or pink or red or copper, pushed him away, Jimin scuttled off to the nearest field or forest and set up camp for himself there. He hesitated when he finally reached his goal, the thatched cottage at the edge of the lilac forest; purple leaves on great, grand trees. There was a village nearby. There were fae nearby.
He didn’t venture into the village for a whole month after he arrived. Jimin satisfied himself on the rations he had left and unpacked his few belongings. On his first night, he hauled his old armor to the second floor of his cottage and banished it to a dusty room without windows. He built a small bed for himself on the first floor, near the kitchen, and resolutely ignored the top half of the cottage altogether. He foraged in the forest and planted his own crop when his rations dwindled.
They didn’t sprout fast enough.
On a warm, bright day, Jimin locked his front door and walked across the stream to the village. It was small but lived in. Jimin could tell there was history in the deep dirt groves of roads that lined storefronts and homes. He thought about hiding his wings before walking past the gate— Jimin was part of a special battalion of soldiers who learned stealth magic during the war— but walking into the village as a human, as a lie, felt wrong to Jimin. This was where the Queen wanted Jimin to stay after the war, where she envisioned Jimin for the rest of his life, whether she lived or died. Jimin couldn’t keep her alive, but he could fulfill this last wish and live in the village as himself.
Jimin tried to walk into the market with his head high. He tried to make eye contact with the fae in the booths or the other villagers. A small girl cried out at Jimin’s side, pointed and marveled at Jimin’s wings. Her father glanced over his shoulder, over his councilman's navy wings, and his eyes… shuttered.
“It’s not nice to point.” He swept his daughter aside, trying to avoid looking at Jimin.
Jimin sighed, hands in his pockets. The weight of the coins— capital coins, but Jimin saw a few exchanged over wooden counters and figured he’d be fine— kept Jimin calm and grounded. He walked into the first storefront he found, overwhelmed by all the eyes around, even if they weren’t turned on him yet. He was greeted by books. Shelves and shelves of books. More books than Jimin had ever seen. Reading was never much of a priority for a soldier’s life, afterall.
Jimin almost left the shop. There wasn’t food here.
“Hello?” The voice was deep and buried behind books. Jimin tensed at a slow creak of wood underfoot. It was a careful sound, like the fae was weary or sneaking.
“Oh! Hi, there!” A fae leaned over the railing of the second floor. More books , Jimin noted over the fae’s shoulder. The fairy was handsome. Sculpted muscles pushed against the confines of his crisp, white jeogori where the sleeves tightened and met his shoulder. His hair was overgrown and pale peach pink, draping over his ears and curling around his nape. His eyes were sharp, flitting over Jimin as if they could read him through. They lingered on Jimin’s wings for a beat, two beats. Then he smiled. He had dimples. The sharpness of his eyes faded into something boyish and lovely. Jimin’s wings fluttered, his skin buzzing where they met his back. Jimin felt a blush burning his cheeks as he tried to get them to settle down. “Give me a moment. I’ll be right down!”
The fae turned, hustled down a narrow, weathered staircase. His wings were…
The fae was beautiful, but his wings were masterpieces. The apexes of his hindwings were long, skirting over the stairs after the fairy as he descended. And their color, a kaleidoscope of greens and blues, was left mostly unbroken by veins. Where they did intersect, they were dark and heavy, like the soldering iron that aligned the panes of stained glass in the Queen’s former castle. Jimin was almost embarrassed of his wings in comparison, small like the rest of him and simply silver.
“Were you looking for a particular book?” The fae asked.
Jimin glanced around him, fiddled with the coins in his pocket, shook his head.
“I could offer some suggestions, if you’d like.” The fae tilted his head, childlike intrigue in his eyes. Jimin didn’t understand why he felt so scrutinized, why he was comfortable with it. But he didn’t want to leave the shop, not yet.
Jimin nodded.
The fae smiled, warm and soft, and led Jimin through the shop, up the narrow stairs, down a labyrinth of shelves. He asked Jimin guiding questions, not too probing just… curious. Pleasantly curious like the fae genuinely wanted to get to know Jimin.
Jimin left the shop with two books. One, an almanac to help his crops grow, and the other, a book on children’s tales. To help you dream , the fae had said. Jimin didn’t mention his nightmares, the memories of the war that stayed stuck in Jimin’s mind even while he slept, but the fae saw them anyway. He handed that book to Jimin kindly, his hands— strong hands with long elegant fingers— brushed against Jimin’s for a small moment.
By the time he’d returned to the market, the sun was setting and the other shoppers had petered out until Jimin was left relatively unattended for his shopping. He met a baker next, with sharp yellow and orange wings. The baker, Taehyung, dumped more bread and pies into Jimin’s box than Jimin asked for. Jimin tried to pay for the rest, but Taehyung only shook his head and said it was a welcome gift. There was milk from a farm next, sold by a tall fairy with large pink wings named Seokjin who sat with one of his goats and offered puns that made Jimin wince and laugh. Then there were berries and jams from Hoseok, a fae whose wings were as bright and colorful as the display on his table.
Jimin returned to his cottage with enough food to last him weeks. He put the jams away in a cabinet by the small dining table that had come with the cottage. The bread he left on the counter under the window. It overlooked Jimin’s garden, a modest patch of land covered with the light green of infant growths. Jimin imagined it would be a pretty sight once the harvest came, colorful, lived in. He kept the milk in the cool hole dug into the ground. Finally, he settled into bed, covered himself in the plush pillows and quilts and opened the book of children’s stories.
Jimin visited the village more often than he had to. He was drawn to the bookstore, to the shop’s owner. Jimin only learned his name on his ninth visit. He was leading Jimin down the shelves again when he suddenly stopped, turned.
“I’m Namjoon,” he said, blinking down at Jimin with a surprisingly blank expression. “I don’t think we’ve really… I’m Kim Namjoon.”
Jimin felt a smile start to pull at his lips. He held his hand out and waited for Namjoon to take it in a gentle shake. “I’m Jimin.”
“Jimin.” Namjoon smiled. “It’s nice to meet you.”
And then Namjoon sent him away with a crudely bound book of handwritten nature poems. Jimin liked to run his fingers over the rough rope that tied the book together. It wasn’t as refined as the other books in Namjoon’s shop, which made it all the more special to Jimin.
Walking through the village became part of Jimin’s daily routine. He visited Namjoon when he could, when he was called to. Which was often. But some days Jimin was pulled to Seokjin’s fields and played with the goats and cows all day, or he went to harvest berries with Hoseok. Once, Taehyung intercepted Jimin as he made his way to Namjoon’s shop, dark smoke filtered out of his shop’s front door. The bread he was baking wasn’t salvageable and he and Jimin spent the rest of the day restocking his shop. Namjoon never seemed to mind Jimin’s absence, though he did ask about Jimin’s activities. He listened intently and laughed at the right moments. He seemed to know the other villagers but Jimin had never seen Namjoon outside of his shop.
“He’s a poet,” Hoseok said when Jimin asked. “When he doesn’t have any customers, he stays in his shop. Writing, I guess. He used to come out more before the war.”
Jimin flinched.
“Sorry,” Hoseok said. They were lounging in the forest, baskets full of fruit from one of Hoseok’s glens. “It didn’t get that bad out here, you know. Maybe that’s why the Queen sent you here. We mostly made it out untouched.”
“But Namjoon?”
“Namjoon felt like he needed to chronicle it all, I think. I don’t know if it was a poet thing or a Namjoon thing, but a battalion made their way through here and Namjoon joined them when they left.”
Jimin sucked in a sharp breath. “They shouldn’t have let him. They should have known —”
“Whether they should’ve or not, they did. Namjoon came back after we heard the Queen was dead. He brought— Hold on, you haven’t met Yoongi yet, have you?”
“Yoongi?”
“He’s… He was with the battalion, and when Namjoon came back, so did Yoongi. You’ll run into him eventually. He watches the shop when it’s raining. Namjoon always gets wrapped up in his writing when it’s cloudy. Anyway, Namjoon came back and he locked himself up in his shop basically. The rest of us tried to ask what happened, but Yoongi’s pretty protective about it. All I know is whatever Namjoon saw made him write. He’s been writing about it ever since.”
Ever since. It had been over a year since the Queen’s death, a few months into Jimin’s stay at the thatched cottage. Jimin wondered what Namjoon could be writing, the words that leaked from his pen. Namjoon never mentioned his poetry, only the books that were already finished.
“You should ask him about it,” Hoseok said, watching Jimin with a smirk. “I can tell you’re curious.”
“I am, but…” Jimin shook his head. “It’s not my place to ask.”
“Oh, Jimin.” Hoseok sighed and pulled Jimin into a quiet hug.
Jimin’s wings drooped behind him. Soldier silver. He couldn’t understand why Namjoon was so kind to him. Jimin didn’t know what Namjoon had seen, but he could guess. He had been stationed at the frontlines, part of a specially trained force that was supposed to infiltrate, to quell, to finish the conflict before it really started. They’d failed. Jimin spent the rest of the war by the Queen’s side, helping in the capital when he could and sent off if the Queen asked.
The war was, at the heart of it, a petty uprising of rich elites and zealous navy winged council members who thought brute strength could overthrow the Queen’s golden wingspan. They tried destiny and they lost. Everyone had. The Queen was dead and the world waited for the next gold winged fae to take her place. Until then, there was nowhere for council members to serve, no rules in place. The fae lands were in stasis, asleep. It was a bittersweet peace, hardwon and yet uncomfortable.
Jimin understood, really, why some fae would rather turn away from silver wings like his. He deserved it. He’d failed and the world was left awkward because of it.
At Hoseok’s suggestion, Jimin met Yoongi on a rainy day. The weather made Jimin’s right knee ache, an old wound, but he trudged into the village anyway. Part of him hoped Namjoon would be behind the shelves instead of a new stranger. Jimin knew Namjoon wasn’t there the instant he walked into the bookstore. The air was different, as if the books themselves grew heavier in Namjoon’s absence. Or maybe it was the pale haired fae sitting morosely behind the counter. His pout was cute, pushed out by the fist the fae’s cheek rested on. His eyes, dark and catlike, blinked slowly at Jimin’s entrance.
“Welcome in.” The fae groused.
“Oh, hi!” Jimin pretended to be surprised. “Is Namjoon not in today?”
The fairy’s posture changed minutely, but Jimin was trained in tracking enemies’ movements. To anyone else, Yoongi would have still seemed bored. Jimin saw the discrete straightening of his spine, the light smirk that pulled at his lips.
“Are you interested in him or something?” He sneered.
Jimin faltered. “Does he have a lot of admirers?”
“You’re the new one, then.” Yoongi’s smile widened. “Jimin, right?”
“And you’re Yoongi.”
Yoongi’s smile dropped. “That’s right. Who have you been talking to?”
“Hoseok.”
“What a gossip,” Yoongi snorted, “Did you come to see me or Namjoon?”
“I came to look for a book.” Jimin lied. Yoongi knew it was a lie, too. Jimin could see it in the quick narrowing of his eyes. He pushed away from the counter with a grunt, crossing his arms and nodding Jimin forward. Jimin could have rolled his eyes at the fae’s posturing. He was protective of Namjoon, that was very clear. Jimin took his time walking to the desk in the heart of the bookstore, sizing Yoongi up the whole way. Yoongi paid him back in kind.
“You—” He gasped suddenly, freezing at the sight of Jimin’s wings over his shoulder. “You’re a soldier.”
Jimin flinched. “Yeah, I’m—”
Yoongi’s wings flickered behind him. Moth’s wings, large and magnificent and dark. The wings of a Death fairy. Jimin felt the blood flood from his face, crashing down toward the ground along with Jimin’s knees. His whole body went limp, terrified but fully accepting his fate.
“Wait. Crap. No. Hey, get up. I’m not… Hey, kid, come on.” Yoongi ran out from behind the desk frantically. His hands reached for Jimin. Jimin flinched away with a whimper. “I’m not here for you, kid. I promise.”
“I’m not a kid,” Jimin blurted.
“You’re younger than me,” Yoongi said.
“Of course you know that.” Jimin took a moment to breathe out the tremors that wracked his body. “You’re really not...?”
Yoongi shook his head. “My wings would look a lot different if I were here to take your soul away.”
“I know,” Jimin whispered. And he did. He’d only seen two Death fairies during the war, but the sight was memorable. Their wings, usually a deep, peach pink, glowed hazy gray as they prepared to pull souls from a fading body. Jimin didn’t know where they took the souls, little balls of light the Death fairies carried off into the sky.
“You’ve seen a transference then,” Yoongi said.
“On the battlefield. They were councilor’s soldiers. I didn’t— I wasn’t the one who...” Jimin bit his lip, unsure if he owed Yoongi an explanation. Jimin wasn’t proud of what he’d done in the name of the Queen, but he wasn’t totally ashamed of it, either. He’d done what he’d had to to protect and survive. That was all.
Yoongi hummed. “The only death aura I see around you is your own.”
“What?”
“You want to die,” Yoongi elaborated, “The aura is faint though. You could survive it.”
“It’s...?” Jimin leaned away from Yoongi, clearing his throat. This wasn’t what he’d come to the bookshop for. He didn’t want to think about Yoongi’s words, too sharply accurate for Jimin to touch. “I just wanted to meet you,” Jimin said. “And I have, so... I’ll be going now, Yoongi-ssi.”
“Wait, Jimin!” Yoongi scrambled back behind the desk as Jimin rose to his feet. Shakily, but he tried to hide it by leaning against a bookshelf. “I think Namjoon wanted you to have this. It’s labeled for you.”
Jimin crept forward, inspecting the book in Yoongi’s hand. It was wrapped, with a piece of smooth parchment and flattened cornflowers tucked into the folds of the thick, brown paper. Jimin’s name was written in quick and neat handwriting, the characters small in a corner of the parchment.
Jimin took the book quietly, his fingers ghosting over the dried flowers. Three purple coneflowers, symbols of strength and healing. Jimin was afraid to move them, didn’t want them to fall apart.
“He left this for me?”
“I guess so.” Jimin glanced up to find Yoongi smiling at him softly. He had a nice smile, despite his wings. Bright and almost brotherly. “Are you going to read it?”
“I read everything Namjoon-ssi gives me,” Jimin said. Part of him hoped Yoongi understood what he meant by that. That Namjoon’s suggestions were the only things to keep Jimin afloat, alive , when his memories of the last days of the war resurfaced.
Yoongi nodded, maybe in agreement. “Namjoon has a way of knowing exactly what people need. That’s part of the magic of this shop. I think it might be some of his magic as a poet, too. Did Hoseok tell you how I came to live here?”
“You came back from the war with Namjoon.”
“That’s right. When everything ended, I didn’t have any plans. I don’t think anyone did, but me? I’m destined to follow death, and a war was the perfect place for that. Afterward, I just thought I’d wander around like I did before, but Namjoon offered to bring me back here. He said I should try living. He was right, you know. I’d spent so long thinking about death, I never lived for myself.” Yoongi chuckled to himself, shaking his head. “Sorry. My point is, Namjoon wouldn’t have left this for you if he didn’t have something to say. So hear him out, okay, little soldier?”
Jimin frowned at “little,” but nodded anyway. He held the still-wrapped book reverently, hunching over it to protect it from the rain as he ran back to his cottage. The rain was cold on his back, winter setting its roots before the first freeze. Jimin had the date marked in his almanac. He’d need to build a shelter for his crops soon.
He kicked off his muddy shoes haphazardly at the door and dove under the covers of his bed, burrowing deep before carefully unfolding the wrapping around the book. He took special care with each cornflower, laying them out on the pillow next to his thigh.
It was another book of poems. Jimin recognized the handwriting— Namjoon’s handwriting— from the nature poems Namjoon gave him when he first properly introduced himself.
Jimin mouthed along with the first line, “soldiers carry the weight of memory,” and shuddered.
soldiers carry the weight of memory
questioned why, they only know
a sense of duty;
beating drum engrained
behind beaten brain,
knocked and attuned against
flat stares, tangled politics
do they serve us or the word of faceless rule?
Jimin licked his lips, wondering if he had an answer to the question at the end of Namjoon’s poem. But Namjoon had already answered it. Three words written at the very bottom of the page, tucked into the right corner.
they can’t answer
It’s more like Jimin wouldn’t answer. He’d been faced with that question a few times in his journey from the capital to his cottage. When he was shunned out of another village, he’d wonder if they hated him for his wings or for the Queen he used to serve. Jimin shut the book as a new thought rocked through him. What did Namjoon think? Was this his way of telling Jimin to stay away?
Jimin kept the flowers in the small cabinet next to his bed. He slotted the book of poems next to the first, left unread except for the first piece. He didn’t have the heart to throw away the wrapping or the note with for Jimin written on it. Those, he laid flat under his pillow and tried to forget. He didn’t visit the village. His crops were growing well enough to feed him by then. He watched the town from out his kitchen window as the days grew colder, the soothing smoke that wafted out of chimneys, the slow progression of villagers to and from the forest.
No one visited him. And why should they? Jimin thought. He was a soldier. His hands were doused in blood. Queen’s blood, councilmember’s blood, soldier’s blood. Jimin was drowned in it. Some days, he felt like he was choking on it, like he needed to plunge himself in a river, never come back up for air, to rid himself of the guilt.
Yoongi was right before. The heaviest death that hung around Jimin, that Jimin longed for more often than not, was his own. And maybe that was the Queen’s purpose in sending him here. An exile for a soldier who couldn’t save her, somewhere for Jimin to decide which day would be his last.
Jimin stayed inside during the first freeze. He watched the ice layer over his source of food with dull eyes. He could have easily gone into the village before, bought a simple enclosure from some copper-winged carpenter to protect the vegetables and herbs. The effort seemed out of Jimin’s ability. He loafed on his bed, molded into it. Sometimes he just stared at the new book of poems, Namjoon’s words left unread. Jimin couldn’t stand to face the accusations that may have waited there.
Eventually, the frost crept into Jimin’s cottage. His fire had long burned out, and Jimin only dug deeper into his blankets. Six feet under, he wished. It’ll be my second to last burial, he thought impassively. Jimin’s eyes closed and he let the darkness of sleep claim him.
“ Jimin! ”
There was a crash somewhere outside of Jimin’s blanket, somewhere in the cold, loveless world Jimin was trying to leave behind.
“Jimin, where are you?” The voice ebbed and flowed, like its owner was rushing through Jimin’s cabin. Jimin breathed along with the flow. In and out. Bobbling along. His consciousness of the ache in his body, the wracking shivers of his limbs, came back slowly.
“...Yoongi said… still here? …please. Please, Jimin.”
Jimin cried out when he recognized the voice finally. It was a meek sound, like the chirp of a dying bird.
The blankets were wretched off of Jimin, burning him with a sudden, shocking freeze. Jimin would have flinched if he wasn’t shaking so badly. A hazy silhouette stood before him, looming comfortingly. Jimin wanted to reach out, draw them close. He was so tired, so cold, so afraid.
“Jimin. Oh, stars. You’re so thin. You… Warm. You need to get warm.” The silhouette moved swiftly through Jimin’s dark cottage. They shut the door and stuffed a sheet against the sill. Jimin watched them with blurry vision as they restarted the long dead fire in Jimin’s oven and locked his windows. When they returned, the cottage was better lit than Jimin had seen it in… days? Weeks?
“Namjoon-ssi?” His hair was disheveled, longer than the last time Jimin had seen it. He wanted to brush the blush tinted strands away from Namjoon’s eyes, behind his ears. Jimin was too tired to move. “What are you…?”
“You haven’t come out of here. There’s— It’s been freezing for two weeks now, Jimin. Your friends haven’t heard from you. You haven’t come into my shop. Yoongi said… He said you were dying. He said there was death in this cottage.” Namjoon swayed toward Jimin, like he wanted to touch him, maybe. Instead, he kept his fists clenched at his sides.
“No,” Jimin’s voice was hoarse, “I just… I’m just tired.”
“When’s the last time you’ve eaten?”
Jimin frowned. When was the last time? He remembered finding ice over his crops and losing his appetite at the sight. How long ago was that?
Namjoon sighed and stomped away from the bed. He picked up a basket Jimin hadn’t noticed before and rummaged through it before producing a spoon and a jar of jam. “Hob-ah sent you these. He wanted to come himself, but I—” Namjoon gritted his teeth and pulled the top of the jar off with a pop. “It doesn’t matter. Eat this, hm? It’ll get your energy back up.”
Jimin blinked at the offered jar. His limbs wouldn’t listen to him when he tried to move. He only fumbled over the sheets on his bed, gasping as he spiraled toward the floor. Namjoon caught him, a strong arm around his shoulders.
“I’ve got you.” He rearranged them on the bed, sitting with his back against the headboard with Jimin’s side tucked against his chest. Jimin shivered at the warmth Namjoon gave off, the strength of his muscles pushed against Jimin’s body. He was too distracted, overstimulated, to notice the spoonful of jam Namjoon offered him. “Come on. Eat some.”
Jimin opened his mouth dumbly and let Namjoon feed him. He took three more bites before he could feel his fingers enough to take the jar from Namjoon and feed himself. Two more before his voice tumbled out his thoughts.
“Hoseok-hyung said you never leave your shop.” It was partially a question, but more of a puzzlement. Jimin had never seen Namjoon outside the bookstore. To have him here so suddenly, in Jimin’s own home, in Jimin’s bed was jarring.
“I haven’t since…” Namjoon’s voice rumbled to a halt, somewhere near his heart. Jimin had only been dimly aware of his ear’s closeness to Namjoon’s heartbeat until then. It thundered and rushed, taking all of Jimin’s attention. A siren’s song. “Yoongi said you were dying. I couldn’t just leave you alone, especially not if— Jimin, did you want to die?”
Did he? Jimin blinked down at the jar of jam. It was almost golden and tangy sweet. Apricot. Some of the older soldiers in the Queen’s guard used to say apricots were bad omens, unlucky. They never said why, and Jimin always thought they were only repeating what they’d heard from the soldiers that came before them. Or maybe it was because their color mimicked the gold of the Queen’s wings, too sacred for a measly soldier to touch. Jimin scooped another bite of jam into his mouth, coating his tongue in the golden taste, and sobbed.
“Jimin? Hey, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?” Namjoon’s hand rubbed over Jimin’s shoulder soothingly. He rearranged them so he could get a better look at Jimin, but Jimin balked. He gulped down the jam and hid his crying face behind the jar and spoon. Namjoon couldn’t see him like this. He was a soldier. He was supposed to be strong.
“Talk to me.” Namjoon’s voice broke on his plea. His hands snaked around Jimin’s wrists. Not grabbing, just... holding. Jimin grounded himself on the light touch.
“I... I read your poem, Namjoon-ssi. It— It was meant for me, right? The question at the end... I can’t answer it. I don’t know.” Jimin wailed, knocking his forehead against the jar. If he was lucky, it would break, shatter all over Jimin’s skin and stop this conversation.
Namjoon snatched it away. His eyes were sharp, dragon-like. They commanded Jimin’s unwavering attention, and he gave it, despite his tears.
“What poem?”
“About soldiers. In the book. Yoongi gave it to me.” Jimin nodded toward his bookshelf.
Namjoon frowned and stormed toward the shelves, scanning each book. His shoulders stiffened halfway through the third highest row. Shakily, he pulled the book from the shelf.
“You weren’t supposed to see this.” Namjoon whispered.
“It had my name on it,” Jimin said, oddly defensive.
Namjoon threw open the book, leafing through the pages. “They all have names on them. They’re never supposed to be—”
“All? You write books for other fae?”
Namjoon froze. When he looked at Jimin again, he looked guilty. Or bashful. Jimin couldn’t tell through the tears that still blurred his vision. He set the spoon down on his bed, unbothered by the jam that dropped onto his sheets, and rubbed his eyes. His vision cleared, he turned back to Namjoon, who hadn’t moved. His eyes were wide, mouth agape. He looked... afraid.
Jimin was used to seeing that expression aimed at him. There had been many fae in the war who looked just as startled, just as defensive and worried, as Namjoon did. But seeing that look on Namjoon broke Jimin’s heart. Because Namjoon had always looked at Jimin with a smile, even when he saw Jimin’s wings. He always welcomed Jimin into his store and helped him find books like he was any other fae.
“Jimin-ah.”
Jimin flinched at the familiarity. It wasn’t often he was offered it. Jimin thought the last time might have been the Queen, days before her death. She’d walked through Jimin’s battalion and asked if they were ready for the coming ambush. Don’t be afraid, she’d said. No matter what happens, the stars will set the world right. Trust them. Each of you. And then she’d been killed, and Jimin stopped looking up at the night sky.
“You weren’t supposed to read these. Yoongi should’ve known better.”
“Why was my name on it, then? And... And,” he reached into the cabinet by his bed and pulled out the corn flowers, “Why were these on it?”
“Cornflowers are flowers of hope for the future. They’re nurturing flowers. They were supposed to— Wait. Let me explain my magic first. I’m a poet.” Namjoon held his hand out to Jimin as if he was reintroducing himself. Jimin stared at it, perplexed.
“I know. Hoseok-hyung told me.”
Namjoon smiled. “Of course he did. I don’t think he knows the full extent of my profession, though.”
“What is it?” Jimin’s voice wavers.
“Poets write what goes unsaid. When I meet someone, my magic reads their unlocked thoughts and emotions and I write them down.”
Jimin stared at the book in Namjoon’s hands with a dawning fear. Those were Jimin’s thoughts, things he hadn’t even admitted to himself yet, and Namjoon had written them out. He knew. He had to know the gaping hole in Jimin’s chest, the way it threatened to swallow him whole.
“I don’t read them,” Namjoon said. “They just come to me. When I’m done, I wrap the books up and bury them. It helps the subject of the poems. I was planning on burying yours before it rained. I try to spend rainy days on my own writing. You know, outside of the magic and everything.” Namjoon closed the book with a blush.
“You didn’t read it?”
“No. I’d never break your privacy like that, but I don’t think you’re supposed to read them either. These poems,” Namjoon patted the book, “they’re from the very depth of your heart. They’re emotions you need to feel and unpack gradually, not in one sitting. I think when I bury them, these thoughts and emotions become more digestible for their subject. I hoped... I could feel the despair in your poems, even if I didn’t read them. I tried to infuse some healing energy for you with the cornflowers. ”
“For me?” Jimin whispered. “Why?”
“Why?” Namjoon echoed with a laugh. “Because I care about you, Jimin. I went to war, you know. I saw all that death and I met Yoongi there. It still weighs on us. It must be much worse for you. You're a soldier. I can’t imagine how much pain you faced out there. But when you’re in my bookstore... Jimin, you shine. And it’s not just your wings. You’re so curious and you listen to me ramble, and when I give you a book, you always read it within a few days.”
“They’re good books.”
“Thank you,” Namjoon smiled, “I like having you around. I want to learn more about you, if you’d let me. When you stopped coming to the shop, I worried I’d done something to offend you or, worse, hurt you.”
“No!” Jimin gasped. He scrambled over the sheets, forgetting his uncoordinated limbs. But when he stumbled, Namjoon was there to catch him. He steadied Jimin onto the edge of the bed and started to pull away. Jimin caught the sleeves of his jeogori— it’s blue today , he thought, soft like a clear sky — and pulled Namjoon closer. “You could never... You’ve been so kind to me. I don’t think I can thank you enough for that. But the poem... It made me think you would learn to hate me eventually, for what I am, what I’ve done. Because of these.” His wings swept behind him weakly. He knew their shine must have dimmed in the days he’d neglected himself, so close to fading away.
Namjoon’s own wings twitched behind him, reflexive. “I felt my wings quake when we met. Do you know what that means?”
“Quake?”
“I guess you could call it Destiny’s Shiver, if you’re a romantic.”
Jimin froze. Destiny’s Shiver. The moment a fae met their fated partner, the match to their soul, their wings’ compliment.
“But I didn’t—” He remembered the buzzing of his skin when he first met Namjoon. He’d written it off as persisting anxiety from walking the market and surprise at meeting such a handsome fae, but... But he’d felt it again and again while he was around Namjoon. The pleasantness extended past his wings. Jimin returned to the village because Namjoon made him happy, and that happiness grew when Jimin made more friends around town. Jimin’s security, his confidence in the village, his new home, started with Namjoon. It carried through the frozen air outside and warmed Jimin’s cottage anew.
“Why didn't you say anything?” Jimin whispered, eyes watering.
Namjoon made a soft, worried sound and dropped to his knees before Jimin, holding his hands tight. “I didn’t want to scare you off or move too quickly. Even if we’re meant to be bonded, I would never want to rush you. I’d hoped we could get to know each other better and reach our own conclusions outside of the Shiver. And to... The war wasn’t so far off, Jimin-ah. We both need time to heal.”
“Can we...?” Jimin hiccuped through his tears. “...together?”
Namjoon’s wings fanned out. They were massive and magnificent, covered Jimin safely behind their dark blues and greens. But more beautiful than that was the soft smile that pressed Namjoon’s lips, awakening his dimples. He pulled Jimin’s hands and kissed his knuckles carefully, like the sun’s first touch on morning dew. Jimin’s heart quivered and more tears fell from his eyes.
“Yes. We’ll do it together, for as long as you’ll have me.”
Forever , Jimin’s heart whispered. He wanted Namjoon forever, but such thoughts could wait. He understood Namjoon’s unhurried advances now. Namjoon was right— as Jimin would soon learn he usually is— they both needed to take time to face their war memories and peel away the lingering haunts in their minds and hearts. They would take it slow, deliberately learning each other as they learned themselves again. But Jimin wouldn’t be alone in it. He’d have Namjoon there to hold his hand, and that was more than the soldier in Jimin thought he deserved.
He returned Namjoon’s kisses, carefully holding his lips to the backs of Namjoon’s hands, large hands, strong hands.
“Together, then.”