Chapter Text
Within the vast, cool gloom of Notre Dame, time itself seemed to fade, as though the centuries had paused in reverence beneath those ancient vaults. It was not just the people, but the grand stone arches and people in the windows, who knelt when met with its grandeur.
On this day, by way of the great evening sun, did the stained glass windows of the Notre Dame Cathedral shine so radiantly. Each brilliant ray was filtered into great silent streams that painted the flagstones in a holy kaleidoscope, as if Heaven itself had wept color. And as the light passed through those ancient depictions of saints and cherubim, it seemed the sins of the world grew fainter, and the sorrows of man, for a moment, were granted rest. In particular, one brilliant light refracted perfectly through the somberly glassy eyes of the holy mother and her swaddled infant child, to whom in the window she bent down to kiss so tenderly. Had the window maiden been able to open her eyes and look out at the congregation who sought her guidance in prayer, she would instead see commotion and banter unlike any so often found within Notre Dame’s walls.
On this particular Sunday, it was not the bishop who was preaching, but rather, a peasant boy who lived and worked in the old seamster's shop all his life. His "sermon" was as much condemnation as it was fact, and each statement made in reference to the first three rows of seats in attendance, wherein there sat the more fortunate of men.
Many a noble daughter or son whispered to their friends on either side, perturbed by the unorthodox confrontation the man before them brought. And no sooner did he get caught by the guards, than did he first catch the eye of one man, sat in the very front pew.
This man, in particular, was somewhat of an outsider in his publicity and reputation. Though he was quite public, few could describe him; he was, as many had stated before, quite a hard man to remember. So he sat on this day, under unintentional cover, gazing at the light that reflected through the windows, which fell perfectly on the boy preacher who lectured him.
After merely two minutes of the shouter's speech, a group of ten armored men crowded the altar, snatching the poor, skinny boy up from where he stood and forcefully escorting him outside, past the city walls, and to god-knows-where. The man in the front pew, who hadn’t moved an inch from where he sat previously, looked down at his lap once again. There sat a small, decorated book, open to a specific page, which he had been reviewing diligently before the protester had caught his attention. Now that the storm had passed, and the bishop had regained his composure and begun speaking, the man looked back down at his book and resumed reading. He had a rule of pride by which he lived: that being, he gave his devotion to things that interested him, such as the boy who had stood before him, and the book he now read.
This man, and perhaps the only one with the nation's blessing to be so particular in his interests, was the king himself.
And the man who boldly spoke to him, and all the other lucky members of the nobility to be so present on that day, was Kim Namwoon. A nobody, by any metric, whose motive in being here on this day was perhaps as mysterious as could be. The king had no reason to know this man, nor to heed his words.
“A great change is upon France,” he had spat, “and it will not cease until the worries of the rich have matched the worries of the poor. Until they have been starved, beaten, robbed, and killed, like us! When every nobleman and noblewoman has felt our sorrows and seen our suffering, only then would the doors of the wronged be shut, and the rage of the people sated. I warn you now, whenever this may start, it may never end!”
He spoke it like a condemnation from god; as the Father warned Noah of the legendary flood, or the Son warned Judas that he knew of his betrayal. The statement prickled the back of the king’s head, playing over and over again in his mind, and getting louder each loop it completed. He could’ve sworn he’d heard those words before. He’d read of this same light through the windows, of this very day, and how peaceful it would be, until now.
“Do you hear of our plight through your silken curtains and past your golden bedposts?" Kim Namwoon had sneered, "Or, will you only hear when such is of your own kind being slain? You cannot shut the window when judgment day comes.”
It was uncanny. The king had seen this before; he could’ve sworn. How often do such things happen, especially to people such as him? There was no chance of it. Surely, just a nagging thought crafted in some fanciful daydream he’d had long ago.
“So, do you hear me now? When I appear before you, to condemn you myself, in a place you thought clean of judgement? Do you hear me?”
But there was, again, a sentiment that lingered. That urged him to listen, again and again, to the words. To remember where he’d heard them before.
“Do you hear me?”
In that moment, as if to reject the voices echoing in his head, he shut the book. And with it, his thoughts finally settled, though it came at the cost of a few curious stares from the people sitting on either side of him.
Finally, his mind became resolute, and he set the book aside to dust off his trousers. “The events that have transpired have unsettled me.” He spoke firmly and rose from his seat, silencing all else that was occurring in the grand building. “I will make my leave now.”
Even as he turned to exit, everything that had happened haunted his thoughts, still. This has all occurred before. Like a puppet to some greater power, replaying one of its favorite scenes.
It was to be the first time the king had such concerns. But surely, not the last.
—
Across green fields, past the great bells of Notre Dame, and beyond a small gate and bridge not far from the holy palace, the young man was finally halted in his forced egress, and plopped on his back in the middle of a grassy field. He quickly sat up, though it was little better to be upright, regarding the band of men that surrounded him in a circle, like a coven of witches tending to their brew.
One, the tallest and bulkiest of the bunch, spoke up in his direction.
“You. Surely you are aware of your crimes. You have soiled the holy halls of Notre Dame, blasphemed before the King, and therefore, defiled the lands of France and her people. Do you dare to speak in defense, or will you dutifully accept your charges and pay with your life?”
“Who are you to speak of the people ?” Though his words stung hot enough to boil skin, his stare remained calm and icy. He was clearly no big talker— rather, a vicious schemer. He had deliberately chosen a place where both the nobles and the common folk would attend, to make a point that he feared no man.
He sneered at the knight, to which he scoffed in return. Although the speaker was quite a lanky young man, who seemed to have little to no legitimate body muscle, his fiery spirit was enough to leave a lasting impression, for sure.
This skinny boy, Kim Namwoon, felt little to no fear in the presence of this royal guard because in the confusion of his shouting and subsequent dragging away, he had caught the eye of a certain man he'd been hoping to be noticed by: not the king—though he had also captured his attention, he was sure—but rather, one reliable man of which he was owed a favor.
"Stop." The man in question now approached the two—both Kim Namwoon and the knight (who had been bickering quite unprofessionally for minutes now)—and silently put his hand on Kim Namwoon's face, promptly shutting him up. "I'll speak for this man. He's a pathetic simpleton, pay him no mind."
The knight glanced at the other. He was quite tall, muscular, and built like a Roman statue, though his perfect face seemed to constantly be ruined by an unresting furrowed brow, the same that could be seen at this very moment. He scoffed.
"Surely, you know. I can't just let this man go. He's a criminal."
The knight's firm stare only faltered slightly with the sound of a heavy sabre falling at his feet. After studying it for a moment, he looked back up to find the outstretched hand of the tall man from before, now with a sternly focused look on his face. "...Then I will duel you for his life."
Though the knight hid it well, he was impressed by the young man’s intensely devoted insolence. “I see your valor, misplaced though it may be... very well, I will give you a chance to die honorably in battle, as I believe that is how all men should.”
"However, if you lose this duel, by law, I must take your life, as well as his."
Kim Namwoon, who was still lying on the ground of the grassy field, crawled over and out of the range of the two men's view. He debated on whether to stay and watch the battle, or simply flee now.
Meanwhile, the tall peasant man began studying the armed gangsters that surrounded him, looking for weaknesses in their defenses. Once he had finished, and not even a minute had passed, he turned back to look at their knighted leader, who had kicked away the peasant's blade in favor of his own, and had assumed a battle position.
He did so in like, his weapon still stranded on the ground.
"Are you sure you're going to fight me without your sabre? I could allow you to retrieve it. I would do that much."
“Doubting my strength shall be your last mistake.”
The knight's resoluteness eased, having interpreted the threat as a joke. “I see. I'll pray for your safe passage, then.”
Quicker than he could react, the knight’s vision was clouded by the bottom of the peasant man's heel. And though it would've made contact with the pure steel of his helmet, he did not recoil in pain at all, as both men recovered their balance from the attack.
Thus, a noisy brawl broke out in the grasslands, and despite the immeasurable odds in their favor, the guards found their advantage faltering in the face of the sheer resolve shedding from the young athlete’s body, as a cosmos may shed its stardust when preparing to burst. He did not back down in the face of refined royal weaponry, heavy-duty armor, or even the ten years of training they had each achieved to serve where they did.
As they were fought and pushed back, patches of tall grass bordering abandoned croplands crept up behind them, and somehow snuck their way through their layers of armor and onto their skin, irritating them to no end.
He was, indeed, managing without his weapon just fine. With his enhanced speed, he found opportunities in evading their wide swings, to instead jab at the thinner parts of their armor, or sweep their weighed-down legs entirely.
The buzz of dragon and horseflies seemed to drive them mad, in sweaty desperation to end the fight and return to the paved roads of Paris. But by losing their senses, they lost any good judgment that could’ve possibly led to their victory. They found rest only when their leader jumped before them, guiding the attacker away from the tall grass and hopefully into a one-on-one spar. His indignant look of passing impression had turned to one of a proud-like respect, and the knight saw a new passion for battle with this man in particular. “You’re quite the fighter, I’ll give you that! What is your name? What possessed you to speak up for this young fool?”
The 'young fool' raised his head from where he rested against a tree, and glared at the steel-clad knight, acknowledging his insult and shaking his fist, first angrily at the armored man, then at the peasant, as if to say "get 'im!"
Neither saw this action, though. The challenger had, instead, as part of his evasion of the agressor's jab, finally slid back through the grass to retrieve his weapon. It was of a tolerable quality, or would've been, had it not been ten or more years old. However, when handled by a master, even a twig may become deadly.
Suddenly, he lunged forward, throwing out a blow with his sabre in a wildly reinforced swing.
The knight parried, then attempted to stab at the rebel’s left rib, but had to divert his attack when an unforeseen punch crept up through his peripheral vision, aiming for his side, which became exposed any time he raised his arm. “My name is Yoo Joonghyuk,” the peasant responded, continuing his assault. "I was... indebted." He glowered mid-strike, recalling the memory that now forced him here.
“You're not at all concerned about my knowing your name?” The knight inquired, blocking easily. The man named Joonghyuk let out a tense breath between slashes, more focused on the battle than his conversation. “No. Because you will die.” He pummeled two lesser guards sneaking up behind him in the chest with the side of his blade, never allowing the knight to leave his field of vision.
The knight, red-cheeked and breathing in that particular rhythm known to both soldiers and blacksmiths, stepped back, boots crunching over long-shattered, rotten barley stalks and upturned soil. His sabre, gleaming with the dull sheen of parried righteousness, hung in the air between them like an accusation. The knight huffed, splitting his attention between grinning and popping his neck, in preparation to continue the onslaught. “Impressive. You threaten a royal knight in full confidence, and you attack his guards with full intention to harm.”
Joonghyuk did not dignify the remark with a smile, nor a glance. His blade moved with all the terrible certainty of a story that had already been written, but his energy was matched by his opponent at every moment he expected it not to, and with seemingly no issue, despite the mindless chatter he spat all the while.
"Truly—do not waste your death on this. You have the potential to become great. Do you value simple promises so much?"
"Why does not matter," Joonghyuk responded curtly, "I could have died worse deaths for less, before. I don't fear you."
Both men jumped back then, sensing a change in the atmosphere that would allow for a moment of rest. The wind died down, the flies circled idly overhead, and even the sun, with all its tyrannical heat, seemed to draw back to witness the moment unfold.
The knight was clearly on guard for another attack at any moment, but Joonghyuk instead opted for a more personal defense of his own. He pulled his weapon in front of him and, stabbing it into the ground, lifted his head to take in his surroundings. On either side of him, not further than ten or so steps, there were at least five of the guards toppled over in the grass, from when he had beaten them into the ground. And though the other four could not have been far behind, he had no inkling as to where they were. It simply wasn’t a fair fight.
Joonghyuk looked around at his opponents, and spoke again to the knight. “You speak of a noble death befitting of men, and still you duel me with the aid of nine others. I haven’t an inkling of a chance for success. Does this seem right to you?”
The knight, clad in a suit of steel that glinted dully beneath the clouded sun, did not immediately respond. He stood motionless, save for the slow, deliberate flexing of his gauntleted hand—a twitch that betrayed some conflict within, either of conscience or calculation. He pondered on the thought as he stood, dropping his guard, as his opponent dropped his in return. The field lay heavy and hushed around them, as though the tall grass itself dared not rustle too loudly, lest it disturb his quiet contemplation of how to respond. He looked over to the bodies of the toppled guards—some groaning faintly, others stilled by the weight of shame— who lay strewn across the earth behind Joonghyuk. One was even shedding his armor under the heat of the summer sun, inviting his underlayer of chainmail to intertwine with the tall grass he sat on, which seemed to swallow him whole as he leaned back once again out of exhaustion. This only extended the growing feeling of informality to their life-and-death duel, allowing the knight to release a dramatically prolonged sigh.
At last, he spoke, his voice wavering with the faint hint of a mocking chuckle. “Humor me this. You have the strength of ten men at least! You felled my guards like sheaves of wheat, and now you whine.” Though he began his sentence lightheartedly, he adopted a resentful undertone to finish the statement. “Do you still insist I handicap myself for your leisure, criminal?”
Joonghyuk faced him, slow and sharply, with an expression that bore no joy. Only warning.
“That’s not what I meant,” he said, wrenching the sabre free from the soil with a small grunt of effort. A clod of earth clung to the blade for a moment, then fell, disheartened, to the ground below. “I ask only that if you are to try to murder me, you do so honestly.” He lifted the tool to point at the knight mockingly, as if to offer a choice: continue fighting "unfairly," or rewrite the rules one final time.
Again, the knight pondered. “Very well.” He turned to the others who had accompanied him, and were now beginning to regain their posture. They halted their advancement out of their grassy sanctuary to listen in on command. “Stand down, men. I will best him myself, with god as my witness.”
Joonghyuk sneered at the remark and lifted his blade to cross weapons with the Steel-clad man. “Then we fight,” the knight offered, “with dignity and respect. I will treat you as an equal, should you prove yourself worthy. Although I shall still attack first.”
“Do as you will,” Joonghyuk offered.
Before he could close his mouth, the Knight had charged at him. The weight he seemed to bear from his armor became all but an illusion with how easily he moved, so much that any appearance of struggle looked as little more than a trick of the eyes. The tall grass parted with a sound like a thousand whispers, and then there was no more time for talk, as Joongyuk was body-slammed backwards into the seemingly bottomless flora. He lifted his sabre before his body in just enough time to parry his opponent’s slash, but couldn’t save himself from falling right onto his back, where he was met with a heavy impact, barely cushioned by the crushed greenery.
With little time to recover from having the wind knocked out of him, he was met again with a barrage of stabs and swings, which would have seemed erratic if not so masterfully maintained by the weapon’s wielder. Steel rang against iron with a sound that split the hush of the field like thunder through an empty chapel’s air. The knight attempted to catch him off guard with a downward parry, but Joongyuk retaliated by heaving his sabre over his shoulder, and dropping it to halt the former’s. He achieved a momentum like that of a man not merely swinging, but unburdening, and forced the knight’s weapon into the ground with a crash louder than if the bells of Notre Dame all rang in harmony.
But he didn’t halt his attacks, even as the Knight struggled to remove his weapon from where it was lodged in the long-dried dirt. He dislodged it little more than a moment before the man’s swing could’ve decapitated him completely. Each strike thrown by Yoo Joonghyuk's hand seemed much like an act of righteous purging—of injustice, of betrayal, of days spent waiting for a fight that meant something. With a wide swipe past his head, the knight’s helmet was knocked clean off his skull, and flew off a few yards to the right before falling to the ground, like a meteor of crushed steel. He stumbled back, revealing a face red with sweat, yet startlingly young. Despite all his experience that had once uplifted him, he realized it was now clearly more attuned to being for ceremony than survival, and seemed to pale beneath the ruthlessness of Joonghyuk's assault.
For a heartbeat, they both paused. The knight's chest heaved with the labored breath of a man dragging honor up a hill too steep. Joonghyuk's eyes narrowed.
“You're... young,” he murmured.
The other nine men had gathered around the brawl, and shivered when Joonghyuk met their eyes as he looked up to survey them. They dared not approach him, nor did the Knight continue the battle, for the need to breathe—to be human—overpowered any desire to prove himself. He shifted his weight to lean onto the sabre and continued heaving, his whole chest moving in rhythm with his heart, which seemed to be beating so heavily, Joonghyuk could practically see it through all his layers of protection.
“I am not untrained—” the knight paused, to gasp in another breath. “...yet, you've proven we are no match. I simply cannot best you.”
He no longer tried to prop himself up, and simply fell to the ground, too exhausted to press on. “I surrender. You may go, and you may also take my life, if you wish.”
Joonghyuk thought on it, and raised his sabre. The knight caught his breath once again, and let it out in a heave.
Although, after only a few moments, Joonghyuk lowered it again. “I will not. You’re not worth my time.”
“ Still? I’ve conceded! You’re victorious! Will you not reap the spoils of your honorable victory? You may fancy yourself among the luckiest of men with simply the clothes I now wear.”
Joonghyuk turned around to face the knight, looking at his armor and colorful fabrics, and nodded.
“Hm. Yes, I will do that.” Joonghyuk dropped the rapier-like weapon he was holding, and began to dust the dirt from his trousers and exposed arms, revealing he had only observed a few scratches through all the tumbling he’d experienced. “Strip.”
“...What?”
“Give me your clothes. I could use the money.”
The knight, clearly no longer in a formal setting, and having lost all grounds to refuse, bashfully began to remove his many layers of armor, down to his base layer and shoes. Thus, there he lay, back turned to his once opponent, in reluctant shame to face the man he once thought below him. Was it any ease on his conscience, at the very least, he was not alone in his miseries; each of his nine subordinates was robbed in like manner, yet they were not even left the dignity of base layers, and instead sat curled up in a fleshy ball, curtained by the sympathetic tall grass, in only their underwear.
The man named Joonghyuk tossed the golden and silver-handled sabre back down to the knight's feet. “You may keep this." Its selling price would not be worth the trouble.
Though he expected an embarrassed acceptance of the return, the knight quickly regained his wits about him and shook his head. “I shall not accept. You may maintain it as an ornament, or destroy it for scrap metal— it is the finest of its kind— but it will bring none but bad luck for me, as I have let it down in possibly its greatest battle yet.” He leaned forward, still on his knees, to gently push the tool away with his fingertips.
“I will not have it.” Joonghyuk kicked it away once again.
“No, you must understand! It was a gift to me, from his majesty, the king himself. It is of great value, a firm and true companion. It will serve you well in whatever manner you choose to utilize it.” He, again, pushed it towards the revolutionary. “I insist. Take it with you. It— no, I — would be honored to know it was in the possession of a master such as yourself.”
Looking from his beaten opponent to the weapon lying before him, Jooghyuk sighed, and reached out to take it by the hilt. Having borrowed a belted scabbard from the knight’s clothes, he disposed of the other junk weapons he’d intended to take and comfortably slotted the knight’s sabre into it. It seemed to radiate a proud, warm glow as it sat near his pocket, as if comfortable in his care. The weapon resembled its previous owner in many ways— it was clear.
When he was not in combat or under orders, the Knight had quite a carefree disposition and attitude. It was unthinkable to assume he would be as such if one were only to know him by the past one or two hours, as Joonghyuk did.
He was almost suspiciously innocent in the way that he helped up his subordinate guards, patting them on the back for their powerful fight. “That they were all practically incapacitated, and yet, with no lasting injuries… you’re truly a duelist to an impressive metric.” The knight ogled at his partners’ bruises as if they were rare stones in a previously dry mine. “...Truthfully, I was worried I would be forced to break your bones throughout our brawl… That is, when I assumed I was capable of doing so. I had intended to kill you painlessly, had you conceded, back when we first apprehended you. Was I ever more wrong, though! How curious, to conceal such strength beneath so little armor.”
“...Likewise,” Joonghyuk admitted, “I did not expect you to be so skilled yourself.”
He then looked away, towards the solitary tree where Kim Namwoon had sat, but now saw it was deserted. He squinted his eyes in disapproval, imagining the strange creature of a man mischievously tiptoeing away during his life-and-death battle, but finally conceded his anger and turned back towards the Paris roads. Besides, his debt was repaid, so it didn't matter.
Though Joonghyuk had already begun to leave, the knight eagerly stood up to introduce himself, following slowly and far behind the other. “Sir! So you may know... I am the Knight Lee Hyunsung, in service to His Majesty, the King of France!"
His introduction received no response, although, in lieu of the prolonged silence, the knight thought a little more on his position. "…Though, I… suppose I may very well now be a... traitor to the kingdom, for releasing your friend. My order was to see to it that he was punished. Seems I have accomplished quite the opposite. Pray, you won’t tell anyone?” He called Yoo Joonghyuk, who was now far away.
"We're not friends," Joonghyuk mumbled, though probably not loud enough that the knight would hear.
Without stopping, he continued his walk back towards Notre Dame. His new boots, while good quality and of firm condition, were tailored to one of the guard’s sizes, and so were only slightly too big for him. Thus, as he stomped away, his stride felt all the heavier. Also to his credit, he had the additional weight of ten men’s clothing and armor being hauled in two thick sacks at either side of himself, but he managed that easily enough, to Lee Hyunsung’s astoundment.
His steps in the old farmland were smooth, but firm, and left slow, purposeful impressions—marks not of retreat, but of release. The tall grass, once trampled in the fever of combat, now swayed gently around him, parting with a deference it had not shown in the fray. Behind him, the sun dipped lower, casting a long, golden shadow that followed him like a ghostly lover. To have reveled in a duel where he was neither beast nor butcher; to not need to kill, but rather, have left a fight with honorable fulfillment— it was a joy unknown to people like him, and would likely be even more so, as time trotted onwards.