Archive of Our Own

Taehyun was five when he knew what hunger meant.

He was five, though he remembered feeling hungry even before that, no memory unblemished from the desperate rumble in his stomach, the ache that stung his limbs frail and weak. The cold, the constant cold; even in the summer, he had been cold. Taehyun was five, and there were nights he believed if he slept enough, he would not have to wake up anymore.

But he would always wake with the other children his age, just as starved; to the bell of the orphanage; to meagre bowls of milk, to the watered-down porridge of grounded barley, and the cheapest scraps of vegetables the cooks could get. He drank his breakfast and his stomach cried for more; Taehyun once wondered if his stomach was meant for a tiger. If other children along the streets outside were just as hungry too.

In class, Taehyun learnt what hunger meant; every stroke of its traditional character, its radical and meaning. Can you come up and write ‘hunger’ for us, Taehyun, the teacher would call, for he was the teacher's favourite.

With the little nub of chalk pinched between his fingers, he would recall what the teacher had taught. Hunger. The radical for food, and the character for me. His knees would buckle as he stood on his toes, shaky hands writing every stroke with precision and care. He turned to see pride in his teacher's eyes. He sat back on the bench, and felt the cold on his fingers once again.

Our clever Taehyunnie would make a great teacher one day, he heard the teacher praised. He knew better than to dream, but he still dreamt, regardless, of pristine shoes and sootless collars; no blistering hands, and no more hunger. If he studied harder, and if he could learn to hide his talent, maybe a kind family would take him away before he's ten.

Maybe then he could be a teacher, and he would not have to march to the mines and the factories every morning, like the older boys did.

Just before the lamps were dimmed, he would read the books he found along the corridors. His stomach would grumble, and sometimes, perhaps, Taehyun would venture to the kitchens with some other boys, just as hungry, scraping darkened bits of grains stuck to the bottom of cooking pots. Hunger, he thought, food, and me. There must be so many other words than that. There must be one for the feeling of finding a forgotten turnip in the kitchen baskets, or for when the tangerine tree outside would bear fruit; one for a full stomach, or a family. He was five, and his stomach may shrink itself one day, or he may swallow hot spring water just to quell the ever-present cold in his toes, but his mind would always hunger for words of sensations he had never known.

_____

When Taehyun turned nine, most of his friends had left, either to families or some other orphanage far away. He slept with children half his age, just as hungry, and his teacher had begun to look at him with pity in her eyes, for she knew what would become of him next year, and Taehyun knew, too. He had not a say in the matter.

“He's a bright boy, the brightest in our home,” he would hear the headmaster say, for every time somebody would come to the orphanage, all prim and proper and smelling of flowers and some luxurious fragrance, not a wrinkle on their dress and not a stain on their shoes, “he has all the wits, no illnesses, and nothing that would otherwise make him an incompetent child.”

He would hear the family whisper, then. They held a little infant in their arms; that was how Taehyun knew he would not leave with them.

“But headmaster, if the boy is so wonderful, why has he not been adopted yet?”

“His talent is the only issue,” the headmaster sighs, “we are teaching him to control it, but with a lack of resources, Taehyun’s spells would break things, at times. He has the talent of telekinesis.”

“That would be a danger to our little girl,” the family said, “we cannot possibly have that. Do you have some other boys, without a talent like his?”

“Of course,” the headmaster would glance at him, as if Taehyun had wronged him, somehow, and Taehyun pulled his sleeves; a failed attempt to hide away the bruises on his knuckles, still healing from when his magic had broken his bowl, “let me show you to the younger ones.”

Taehyun would run to the field, a rock growing within his soul as he sat by the grass. His ankles would itch and redden angrily from the grass, and its seed, sticking to his socks, but this would be the last year he could be a child (and what do children do, really? If not to roll in the grass, go to school, and wait for the day they get to leave the orphanage?) So Taehyun laid and slept in the grass all day long, ignoring the dead skins of summer cicadas crunching beneath his back, and little ants, circling his head as they made their way home. His skin was hot with itch and sweat, and the caregivers would scold him the moment dinner came, but it all did not matter. He was bright, and the teacher once looked at him with pride, and he once had a dream, and it all did not matter.

_____

The year he turned ten, Taehyun no longer attended classes; in an orphanage that was in desperate need of everything, and in a nation on the verge of yet another war, he was deemed much too old for that.

Instead, he was given the big boys’ shoes; worn leather, but leather nonetheless, fitting Taehyun's feet so poorly that he had to fill the space with his old handkerchief.

“You're lucky the factory needed boys like you,” the headmaster told him, like he had been granted mercy, and in some ways, he really did. A factory was better than the mines; some of the older boys had never returned from the mines.

The walk downhill to the factory was a short one, only a ten minute walk away, though to Taehyun, who had never once left the orphanage, it seemed to him like the world had never been so big.

The boys whose hands he held onto had no colour in their faces, not a light in their eyes. Their hands were rubbed smooth and grey with dust before they had even arrived.

“Do nothing else but what you're given to do,” the older boys told him, “we can only rest when the master says we could. Do not make a sound; do not question, do not stop.”

“We're lucky we're not in the mines,” the other chimed, his voice cracking, dragging on. They walked past the corner store; sweets, fruits, and vegetables, all of which Taehyun knew he could not have. They all looked away. They turned, and posters of army men greeted them; something about the military needing more men. Taehyun looked away from that as well.

“Yeah, Taehyun, you're lucky you're not in the mines,” the first one echoed. “You're so small, they would have made you squeeze through all the places they could not.”

“You're lucky you're not a chimney boy,” the other older boy said, “that's the toughest job of them all.”

Taehyun frowned.

“Is working in the factory a lucky thing?” He asked. Was there nothing luckier for a ten year old, in this world?

“It's luckier than most other things,” the oldest boy told him, his face devoid of any expression “for us, maybe it's the best thing.”

They arrived at the factory, one of many along the road. It seemed unassuming, the sign worn and barely legible. Before Taehyun had the time to pick apart the words, he was pulled through the doors; it was hot in the factory, the sounds of churning and whirring and messy thudding all too much for a boy who had not ventured far. There were machines as tall as the orphanage, and moving within them were the only things pure and white in the factory – papers, stacks of them, some with words and some still blank.

With his ears deafened, and his lungs without much air, the man – the master, was all Taehyun learnt of him – brought him to an empty spot by one of the big wooden tables, a boy only a few years older stood next to it.

“Watch and learn,” the master instructed. By then, Taehyun had not even known what the purpose of the papers was, yet one solemn look from the older boy made him nod. He swallowed, and stepped on the little stool by the table.

“It'll do us both good if you learn to do this quick,” the boy murmured once the master had left, his eyes red, and his palms even redder, “the master will beat us and take your pay if we don't finish what's given for the day.”

Taehyun's heart began to pound, much alike the way it would make him sick whenever his magic had broken something in the orphanage. “I don't know where I am,” Taehyun told him, “my name is Kang Taehyun.”

“A Kang as well?” The boy shot him a knowing look, “are you one of those boys from the orphanage? I am Kang Gowoo. I'm thirteen. This is a printing press; it's where they make the daily papers.”

“And we need to cut papers for it?” Taehyun questioned. He had plenty of questions more; he had never seen papers so long before, longer than any scroll. Perhaps, if he laid it, its length would span across the dining hall.

“We do, to keep them all the same size,” Gowoo nodded shortly, pointing at the table, and the big contraption locked on top of it, “that one's a knife to cut the papers. Let me show you, then you'll have to cut some too.”

He lifted the large (and seemingly very heavy) handle on the end of the knife, before arranging the paper, and stepping on a strange little pedal below the table. With one push of his weight, the knife fell sharply, its sound making Taehyun wince.

“That's how you do it,” Gowoo said.

“But what if I do it wrong?”

“It’s hard to mess up. You better not,” he frowned, “they will take your lunch away if you do.”

His heart went so quickly that it seized, as Taehyun took to his own spot on the table; there's another boy standing right opposite of him, and Taehyun had only noticed him now. He seemed even smaller than himself.

“What's your name?” Taehyun asked. The smaller boy smiled without glee, stepping down from his stool to reach Taehyun's side.

“That's Hyunmin,” Gowoo said. “He cannot speak.”

He took Taehyun's hand, and drew lines with his finger on Taehyun's palm. I am Jung Hyunmin, I am nine.

“You're not a Kang, and you're not ten,” Taehyun furrowed his brow, “why are you here?”

Hyunmin grimaced. He wrote again, one character after the other, though there were plenty of mistakes, and many strange pauses. As if he had forgotten his words.

My auntie sold me here. She said they couldn't keep me anymore. War is near.

War is near, Taehyun thinks. What happens when a war does happen? What happens to him, then? To the orphanage?

Orphans would be the first ones sent to war, he thought. The posters of soldiers plastered along the city walls, the whispers of evil forces looming near, the more time the younger boys spent picking wild mushrooms and laying seeds around the orphanage; how their provisions of rice, sugar, and barley, felt a little lighter than they were with every time they were delivered.

Taehyun knew of no other normal, but even then, it seemed as if they were always preparing for a certain someday, when war would break out and whoever the evil may be would take everything away from them.

Was there anything for them to take from him? Taehyun did not believe there was.

He eventually learned to cut the papers to size, the chopper so heavy he had to push his body's weight onto the handle just so the papers would be cut correctly. Hyunmin worked on a desk next to them; his even tinier body meant he had to jump just to slice the papers neatly, and the boy's face was red, his lips pale, by the time lunch came.

Lunch was a meagre affair; just enough to last until dusk came. Taehyun learned of Gowoo: he was adopted by the owner of the factory, yet he did not get to take his family name. It was as if he was never adopted at all; he waved Taehyun goodbye as he shut the gates to the factory, locking himself and Hyunmin within it.

The other boys came to walk Taehyun back to the orphanage; perhaps they were lucky after all, he thought as they took the shorter route through dim alleyways.

“How was it?” One of the older boys asked, exhaustion obvious in his voice, “your first day?”

“I thought Samjoon hyung would be there,” Taehyun told him, his hands still tingling as if he was still standing on that stool, hands grasping the rough handle. “It was fine.”

“It's almost impossible we'd be working next to each other,” the older boy, Samjoon, said. “They filled us into whatever jobs they could find for us. The place I work is next to yours, though.”

“Hyung cuts papers too?” He asked. To which the boys chuckled.

“I wish. They have me load up sacks of flour onto different carts. It's a lot of work. Sometimes I'll have to deliver the flour too.”

“Hyung, you really should steal some for us someday,” another boy suggested, “there must be so many; more than they'd remember, anyways.”

The boys laughed.

“If I do that, I'd not be walking now,” he said. “But at least it's not the mines. Hakkun was sent there two days ago, you know?”

Taehyun followed closely to the three older boys, trailing just a pace behind. The alleyway meant they had to walk uphill; the gates of the orphanage emerged after a narrow path through the grass. A small opening was left just for them; Samjoon locked the gates after they all made it through, and then it was as if the day had never happened at all.

The rest of his days went on just like that; leaving by dawn, returning by dusk. Somedays Taehyun would return with a bruise somewhere, maybe an angry red line down his back; a reminder of the mistakes he had made in the factory. Somedays, there would be blisters in his palms; they would make tomorrow even more difficult.

Yet Taehyun had always been told they were the lucky ones.

At least it's just this, he thought to himself. At least not the mines, at least I could leave when night comes.

He was lucky; he had nothing, and he was so lucky.

His tasks became more demanding when he turned eleven, the year Hyunmin turned even sicklier than he had usually been. The posters increased; like ink to wetted paper, they had spread all the way to the gates of the orphanage, now.

The oldest of boys in the orphanage left too. Out of the blue, one cold morning, they lined up before the dining hall and bid their goodbyes to the younger ones. They never came back.

“They'd gone to fight in the war,” Samjoon told him, “next year, it'd be my turn to go.”

“Is there a war, hyung?”

“There's already some sort of fight up north,” he told Taehyun, a look of acceptance in his eyes, “I heard those Milyan rats came and burnt down the farms. They seized some too. They're gonna do more than that now that it's started.”

“Why would they fight us?” Taehyun asked, “we have nothing.”

Nothing but the natural springs that framed every town; nothing but human hands, small, battered, forced into labour. Nothing but barley that barely sold for much. How much more of their country could one take away?

“We have something, that's for sure. They say it's some rare mineral in our springs,” Samjoon sneered, “our country is poor. My grandpa told me he fought in the last war. I don't know what there's left to take from us, but there must be some reason why they'd fight us. If there wasn't, they could have fought Jangguk instead. They're much richer. Much easier to reach.”

Taehyun frowned.

“Do you want to fight in the war, hyung?” he asked, his heart heavier than it was, “you might die.”

“I don't care,” Samjoon shrugged, “it's just like work. Maybe if I fight they'd let me eat more. That's where all the grains went, right? It's why they're struggling to feed us now, all the grains and everything to the military” he sighed, “and if I die, then that's just how it is.”

I don't want you to die, Taehyun wanted to say. But if Samjoon was so accepting of death, if he was to be drafted, anyway… Perhaps acceptance would be the best.

Would Gowoo be forced to fight, too? Gowoo was Samjoon’s age, but he's not as strong as Samjoon; perhaps he would not have to go. Maybe he could stay with him and Hyunmin. They're far from the north; they would be safe, right?

“I guess I'll be free from all of this,” Samjoon added, “won't have to worry about the headmaster telling me to find my own place to live. A year earlier too, he sure would be pleased.”

Taehyun fell silent, taking one long, purpose-filled look at Samjoon. Samjoon was not like the friends he once had – ones whom he could share their beds with, ones who embraced him with muddy hands, clippings of grass and small insect wings on their knees. Samjoon was merely someone he walked with, and they barely spoke beyond these dust-ladened streets. But Taehyun had claimed their routine as his; there was rarely anything he could claim as his.

The walk to the orphanage was quiet. He watched as Samjoon disappeared into the dining hall, his silhouette, although broad, did not resemble those of the soldiers on the posters.

Samjoon left the very next year, before Taehyun had even turned twelve.

Distantly, Taehyun wondered if there would ever come a time for him to join the army, too.

The very next day, a boy who had just turned ten followed along as he trekked the short journey to the factories. He was thin, made thinner by his taller figure. Wide-eyed with wonder, asking a million questions. Taehyun wondered if he had been like that when he was first taken to work. He wondered if he was standing in Samjoon's shoes, now. It felt too awfully early for him to tell the youngest boy to behave.

“You're lucky you're going to a factory,” he repeated like a mantra, still wondering if it was true, then, “you’re lucky they didn't send you to sweep the chimneys.”

The younger boy blinked. He was a bright child, even at the orphanage. It was a shame no one took him.

“Hyung, is it really?” He asked.

“I don't know,” Taehyun murmured, tightening the hold of their hands as they passed a foreign automobile by, “but I think it'd be better if we believe it.”

“You sound tired, hyung,” the younger boy noted. They walk past a schoolhouse; even beyond the gates, patriotic songs could be heard being sung by even the youngest of children. They hastened their pace, only slowing down once the choir had faded into the distance, and they were only a turn away from the industrial side of town. Taehyun almost did not want to reach the factory; didn't want to hand off the boy to whatever awaited him there.

“We’re winning the war right, hyung?” the boy asked once more. One million questions, and then some more.

“I don't know,” Taehyun told him.

“Everyone says you're the hyung that knows everything,” the boy chimed.

“I can't know something I cannot see myself,” Taehyun answered. “We're almost there. Remember what we told you: you'll have to do everything the master tells you. Don't fight back, don't say no, just finish your work and bow to everyone you meet. Don't ask too many questions...”

“I know,” the boy rolled his eyes, “I'm not stupid, Taehyun-hyung.”

“Then go in,” Taehyun ushered, “I'll see you again at sunset. I'll wait here.”

“Wait!” The boy exclaimed, “you're not going with me?”

A wave of hurt filled Taehyun's soul; oh, had this not been the question he had asked Samjoon as well? When he was ten, and just as small as the boy before him?

“I can't go with you,” he told him, to which the boy's expression became something akin to fear, “I work there,” he pointed, and the boy turned to look.

“It's time for you to go,” he said. Then he left, because he would most certainly be beaten if he was even a minute late. Through the sound of his feet against crunching paths, he heard the boy call for his name. Taehyun made it to the factory only seconds short of being tardy, and Hyunmin greeted him meekly, his face pale as he stood along with three other boys, even younger than ten. Taehyun did more than just cutting paper now; he hurried away to his tasks, not sparing a second glance at anything else.

By next year, he would be working elsewhere, in a position much befitting of a boy of thirteen: something more labour intensive, perhaps the blacksmith, he heard from the headmaster. Perhaps the flour mill where Samjoon once worked. Maybe some other place Taehyun never knew.

He sometimes wondered if he could possibly be any hungrier, any more exhausted than this.

But the days came and went, and he survived, somewhat, he did. He scraped every last bit of charred grains from the pot like he always did, licked his bowls clean of porridge, and begged for seconds of lunch when the master seemed to be in a more merciful mood. He survived well, but often along the paths to the factory and the paths back to the orphanage, he felt more like a ghost than the living. The summer was cold, the winter even colder. It was a cold borne from the marrow of his bones, eclipsing the chill of the air as he trudged on.

Three more boys joined him that winter; nine-year-olds, one of them still missing a front tooth. It wasn't difficult to be alone; it was harder to see them gradually lose the innocence in their eyes, replaced with a bone-deep exhaustion whenever Taehyun took them home.

Some nights, Taehyun could feel tears pouring from his eyes as he bathed.

But then dawn would come, and everything would begin all over again.

_____

Taehyun turned thirteen, but Minhyun never turned twelve.

Taehyun should have known Minhyun would not make it past the winter; he had been sicker than he already was, often buckling his knees and hunching his shoulders just to finish his work.

Minhyun died at noon, blood spilling over fresh, half-cut paper.

His body spasmed even after he had closed his eyes; Taehyun was told to take him out, to have him die somewhere no one could see. Perhaps the ditch by the fields, or the temple, or even just left by the gravel roads. Not a burial nor a prayer; the master had made him promise to return before the temple bell rang – he was given less than half an hour.

With the frail little boy dying in his arms, Taehyun left him by a shrine, and held him until he was colder than the winter air. There's no saving Minhyun, they both knew that; the nearest hospital was too far away, and Minhyun had stopped breathing by the time they reached the entrance to the shrine. Part of Taehyun wondered if there was ever a God who would take little children away at their doorstep; why did no Divine ever cared for children who were forced into hunger, to sleep on factory concrete, and die on the very stool that enslaved them?

When the bell of the shrine echoed a deep, reverberating sound, a keeper had noticed the boy in Taehyun's arms, and, foregoing the broom in his hands, the old man met Taehyun's eyes, full of pity and concern at the sight of one's red, red eyes, and the other's blue, blue lips.

“My,” he knelt down with difficulty, “is he your brother, child?”

“My friend,” Taehyun held Minhyun closer. “We worked at the factory over there. He- Minhyun coughed a lot of blood. His lips turned blue.”

The keeper glanced at the rows where the factories stood, devoid of any colour. There's a knowing look in his sunken eyes; Minhyun was not the first boy the temple saw.

“Let us prepare a cremation for this boy,” the keeper told Taehyun. Then, in a softer voice, “you are both orphans, aren't you?”

“Yes, sir,” Taehyun nodded. “Thank you for caring for Minhyun.”

He unwillingly handed Minhyun over to the keeper, who, after taking a look at Minhyun, quietly closed his eyes with a gentle brush of his wrinkled hand. Taehyun's arms felt all too light, and it was then tears finally welled up unbridled in his eyes, as he sobbed into his empty hands, mouth agape without a sound escaping from him. He hid his face in his hands; he had been crying more than he could admit nowadays.

“Boy,” the keeper called as Taehyun inhaled sharply, his lungs pricked by frozen air. “Are you planning to return from where you came?”

Taehyun shook his head harshly. The bell had sounded too many times by then; he wasn't ever going to go back.

What was there to return to? Everything he had he would lose, and every friend he made would go, too. He was hungry, so hungry, and he was so tired as well. It seemed there wasn't a place for him anywhere else.

How was one determined to be worthy of living on Earth? Why was he not barred from being born, from being alive for so long?

“The temple could take you in,” the keeper suggested softly, his voice rough but laced with quiet sympathy.

“Thank you, sir. But I want to run far away from here,” Taehyun answered instead. “As far away as I can.”

The desire for escape suddenly stretched and folded in his soul, so much so that it felt as if the world had tripled in size, and the air stung even sharper than it did. I lied to myself that I was fortunate with what I was given, he cried, but anywhere would be better than this.

The keeper nodded gently, much to Taehyun's surprise.

“I cannot stop you,” he said, “but please follow me for a moment. You may go before the next bell sounds.”

With Minhyun limp in his arms, the keeper stood up with a grunt, and Taehyun followed him quietly as they crossed the threshold between shrine and temple. Within the temple were statues of Gods, and Taehyun was angry at all of them; at everything.

But the temple was warm, and it is only then that Taehyun's shoulders could finally relax, his arms still shaking.

He watched as Minhyun was carried away; he wished he could remember his very last friend in a way that was kinder than that.

The keeper gestured towards a tap from afar; Taehyun washed his hands, feeling the cold sting his skin. It felt like washing Minhyun away; he squeezed the tears out of his eyes, before he splashed water on his face, too, unaware of just how dirty it had been.

Between the bronze-carved eyes of the Gods, Taehyun wiped the water off of his face with his arms, and swallowed whatever snot was left in his nose. The keeper returned soon after with a small little sack; a temple keeper's uniform, not thick enough for the weather, but Taehyun could wear it over his clothes. A few rice balls wrapped with paper, still warm in his palms. His stomach growled as he ate one right then and there. Surely there had to be some rule about not eating before the Gods, but the keeper didn't mention it.

There was a small peace talisman, too. An even smaller enchantment written on it. Having never learned magic, Taehyun looked at the keeper curiously.

“A warming spell,” the old man told him, casting a spell to the talisman. It warmed up in his hands, like the kettle back at the orphanage. “Put it in your pocket, it could keep you warm for hours.”

“Thank you, sir,” Taehyun stuffed it into his pocket, and felt his entire body warm. It was incredible; Taehyun wished he could make such spells, too.

“You can sleep in the hall tonight,” the keeper added, “but if leaving is what you wish, I wish you well.”

Taehyun accepted his offer, though to the keeper's surprise, he left before dawn the very next day, before the first offerings could be made, or the first prayers chanted.

Taehyun marched to the town, the posters of army men saturating the further along the path he went.

The town hall had no queue, its gate still half opened when Taehyun arrived. He went into the largest of three doors, and was relieved to find two older boys in military wear, on a desk at the end of a large room.

“I wish to join the army,” Taehyun told them, squaring his shoulders and straightening his posture. He was a little taller than other boys his age, but he was far too thin, and looked too malnourished.

“My,” one of the boys said. “How old are you? You do know you'll have to be fifteen to take part in the training.”

“I've turned fifteen in ipchun,” Taehyun lied. The two boys eyed him from head to toe suspiciously, one of their hands scratching their chin, the other tapping on the enlistment papers like they would give them an answer.

“I'm an orphan,” Taehyun told them, “I was starved, so I never grew any taller. But I am strong, I swear. I've been working in the factories ever since I was ten.”

“You wish to escape,” one of the boys muttered, in slight revelation.

“I have nothing and nobody left,” Taehyun affirmed, careful to not let his heart soften, “you can send me wherever, and no one would bother.”

The orphanage might not even have noticed Taehyun's absence. One would not be spared much attention once one was sent to work; perhaps the headmaster would only realise he was missing when he noticed his missing wages, or if the master wrote him an angry letter.

The two young recruiters looked at one another, conversing with only one short glance. “What is your gift?” One asked, “are you trained in magic?”

“I'm a wind-gifted, and I have the talent of telekinesis,” Taehyun told them, grabbing their attention almost immediately, “I have never been trained, but I'm awfully fast at learning.”

“You'll be useful,” he heard one of them murmuring, tapping on the paper once again before he passed Taehyun the form, along with a pen.

“Your name here, and your address, if you have one,” he pointed along the rows of boxes, “they’ll have provisions be sent to whatever address you wrote.”

Taehyun recalled the orphanage's name, and scribbled it right there, never remembering its postal address. At least the children would have a little more to eat, he thought, and the soldier pointed to the columns where they asked about Taehyun's constitution. When all was done, he wrote his traditional name along the dotted line, and the two soldiers seemed impressed.

“It is good that you can read and write,” they told him, “you'd tend to get better positions if they knew you were educated.”

“But I haven't gone to school since I was ten,” Taehyun admitted reluctantly.

“Learn as much as you can while you're training, and show them you're clever. Perhaps that might just be the thing to help you survive,” the boy advised.

“Thank you,” Taehyun bowed curtly. “What happens next?”

“You'll go to that room over there to be examined by a physician, and if you are deemed to be fit, we'll approve your enlistment. You'll be sent to a base, assigned to a unit. Then you'll have to undergo training,” he listed, before shifting to look behind Taehyun.

It is then Taehyun noticed the small line of people behind him, many of them much older, seemed as if they're in their twenty-somethings. Most of them had a letter clutched to their hands. Before Taehyun could wonder what that was for, he was pulled to the room next door, and faced a few doctors who eyed him carefully. He felt like hunching over; perhaps that would hide the ribs that were slightly protruding out of his chest.

“You’re malnourished,” the doctor noted. “A bit too small to be fifteen.”

Taehyun swallowed, hoping the physician would not make use of his stethoscope.

“The training camps will feed him well,” the assistant said beside him, “come, young man, roll up your shirt.”

In a few fleeting minutes, they inspected Taehyun's spine, his lungs, his heart, his meridians, and his eyes; Taehyun passed, though not without a knowing glance from the doctor, who gave him a slip and wished him luck.

At thirteen, he managed to join the military, and boarded a train northward bound; far from the orphanage, from the factories, and all of the narrow alleys he knew, yet it felt as if he had lost nothing at all. There were plenty of boys beside him, waving their goodbyes until the mountains swallowed their carriage into the darkness. There were a few girls, too; all with special gifts, Taehyun assumed.

He clutched onto his knees, and watched as spring slowly became what looked to be winter; the snow on the ground growing thicker, and a river capped with ice.

How far away am I, he wondered. Does this river connect to the narrow springs Minhyun so loved to sneak to?

They spent the night on the train. When Taehyun woke up, they had passed by a small village, and stopped at a station a little away from it. This station, made measly of wood columns and worn roof tiles, did not protect them from the much colder climate. The air smelled of stinging sulphur – there were springs nearby, a thing Taehyun found familiar.

With empty stomachs, they marched in rows of six to a base half hour away: a row of wooden buildings amongst a vast plane, with many tents framing the fields.

Many other trainee soldiers stood still as a stick before the biggest building. Taehyun stood next to the smaller boys, though he was still so small, he heard a few muffled laughters behind him.

“Hey, are you okay?”

Taehyun turned to locate the strange, nasally voice. It was the boy next to him, already clad in uniform Taehyun had yet to receive. He seemed well-kept; neatly brushed hair, fitted uniform, and noble blue eyes. It made Taehyun second guess if it was him that the noble boy had called for.

“They’re asking all of you to stand in line. Just stand next to me if you wish,” the boy offered, to which Taehyun looked around.

“You're talking to me?”

“I am,” the older boy smiled. His eyes reminded Taehyun of a fox. “I am Yeonjun, I'm sixteen. Are you okay? Did you lose your friends?”

He spoke with an accent, Taehyun noted. He had never met many people who spoke with an accent; Gowoo did, and maybe a caretaker from the orphanage, but Yeonjun sounded so different from all of them regardless.

“I am Taehyun, and I am fine..” Taehyun bowed slightly, “..sunbae?”

The boy, Yeonjun frowned immediately.

“That's much too formal for where we are, isn't it?” He chuckled easily, and Taehyun thought it looked elegant, despite where they stood, “just call me hyung, please.”

“Hyung,” Taehyun repeated. Yeonjun grinned.

“Why were you wandering about, Taehyun? Do you have friends to go back to?”

There were a few boys whom he had spoken to on the train; Taehyun had enjoyed their company, and they gave him enough to think about to distract himself from what had transpired for the past two days. But he had been alone ever since the train had stopped; a friend like Yeonjun didn't seem all too bad.

“I came alone,” he answered. Yeonjun seemed concerned. “Can I just follow you, hyung? If that is fine.”

The older boy's eyes seem to light up at that. “Sure,” he said, “I've only been here for a week, and I have not made too many friends.”

And so a convenient friendship was made over the afternoon, as Taehyun was put into the same team as Yeonjun's, purely because they had stood side by side. He was assigned a bed (a top bunk right beside Yeonjun's, who had expressed his excitement for bunk beds), given temporary badges until uniforms his size could be given, and had a simple, but hearty lunch of multigrain rice and fish. He hadn't had fish in a while; Taehyun devoured it, and then some more.

All the while, he wondered what kind of life Yeonjun had before he arrived in Cheonju. The blue-eyed boy had many other boys’ rapt attention, yet Yeonjun himself told Taehyun he did not make many friends. Yeonjun's every gesture was graceful, almost regal; elegant despite the silly jokes he made. There were plenty of Janggian boys Yeonjun's age, yet none of them were like Yeonjun.

He must really be some sort of noble, Taehyun deduced by sunset, when briefings and orientations have ended. Some son of a noble clan, perhaps like one of the boys here, whose parents had enlisted them for only a few moons, and only for the sake of deceitful honour.

Taehyun could not understand how noble clans worked, yet he wondered if Yeonjun would leave in a few moons’ time, too.

Despite the early wake-up time tomorrow, he found Yeonjun sitting in a quiet corner of the common hall after their bath, a blue envelope in hand. Taehyun sat next to him, still towelling his hair.

They were hidden away by stacked away tables, dust flying here and there.

“Yeonjun-hyung,” he called. Yeonjun lifted his head with a smile, “Taehyun,” he said, “you're done with your bath?”

Taehyun nodded. So far, this place offered many more luxuries than the orphanage. He had savoured the bath, talking with the other boys as warm spring water flowed abundantly from a nearby lake.

“I've just received a letter from home,” Yeonjun gestured towards the envelope. Its stamp looked like a drawing of a beach, the address written so small Taehyun couldn't quite read it. But he noted the modern characters; they had learned both traditional and the modern script in school, yet it's still quite a novelty for Taehyun to see not one traditional character written anywhere.

“Where do you live, Yeonjun-hyung?” He asked. Yeonjun was so warm beside him; he scooted a little closer.

“In Haeyong,” Yeonjun told him.

“Hae, as in the sea?”

“Yes, we're right beside the seas. It's nestled in a bay; from my window, I could always see the waves.”

Taehyun rested his head on his knees.

“I've never seen the sea before,” he muttered. He had never seen sand so golden, either. The sand he knew was grey and prickly, hidden amongst the pebbles, right beside the grass.

“Never?” Yeonjun quipped. “I suppose since Cheonju is landlocked… I have never seen so many natural hot springs either, before I came here. I suppose that's why the people here call it the War of Sulphur, huh?”

There was a short silence between them as Yeonjun read the letter, over and over again. There was a small smile on his face when he finished, folding the letter carefully before tucking it into the envelope.

“Did your family send you the letter?” He asked.

“I suppose you can say that,” Yeonjun chuckled. “The letter is from a very dear friend. He lives with my mother and I, so I consider him my family. He's almost fifteen, actually. He's just like you.”

Taehyun wondered if he should tell the truth; someone like Yeonjun seemed trustworthy enough.

Maybe another day.

“Yeonjun-hyung,” he looked at him, “why are you sent here? Why did you have to fight?”

Yeonjun shrugged, “Cheonju, Jangguk, and Beiyun, are all within the same alliance. It was formed many years ago,” he retold. Taehyun never knew. “After Cheonju and Jangguk had broken away from Beiyun to declare independence, we formed an alliance so we could have mutual protection; if one nation fought, others would send aid, and their men.”

“So you were chosen?”

“I suppose I was unlucky,” Yeonjun chuckled, “they were starting to call for people my age to join. In my clan, we have a tradition to send one eligible member of the clan to war. Long ago, it was done as a show of morale; that we were equal to every other clan when in war.”

His clan must be quite significant, to be used to boost morale, Taehyun thought. Though it also confirmed another thing.

“You're leaving in a few moons, aren't you?” He asked, “like- like the boy from the Oh clan, or the lord’s son that was talking to you today.”

Yeonjun shook his head. “Truthfully, I wish to go home now, to go back to all the people I love,” he told him. “But tradition is still tradition, unfortunately. It was a promise written within my clan back then. I'm not doing this for the sake of honour – I'm not leaving until the war ends. However long that may be.”

A boy from a significant noble clan who's not sent to fight the war for honour, but more so as a sacrificial lamb for an ancient tradition.

Taehyun was getting more curious by the minute, though he wondered if it was his place to question Yeonjun; Yeonjun was of a much higher rank than him, in all sense of the world. Being next to Yeonjun felt strange.

“You look troubled,” Yeonjun noted, a hand on his shoulder. The words he used with Taehyun had been casual, as if a conversation between two long-known friends. “Are you alright? The first night here is a bit scary, I know.”

“...who are you, Yeonjun-hyung?” he could not stop the question from slipping out of his mouth. “Everyone was trying to talk to you today, and your clan- your clan must be important in Jangguk, to have such a strange tradition.”

“I am a duke in Jangguk,” Yeonjun answered truthfully. A duke, even higher than the lords, Taehyun thought. His family must be close to the royal family there. It makes sense now, why the other noble boys were swarming all around him, like a nest of bees to a flower, “but here, you can just call me Yeonjun. We're of the same level.”

“Are we?” Taehyun furrowed his brows. Yeonjun laughed.

“If you can do more than thirty push-ups in one minute, and not accidentally set fire to a tent your first day here, I'd say you're even better than me,” he huffed, “we're in the middle of nowhere, and we're going to fight together someday. Let's treat one another as equals, Taehyun-ah.”

Would it not benefit Yeonjun if everyone treated him like a duke? Perhaps he would be spared from fighting. Taehyun knew that the ones with the lowest ranks would always be the first ones to be sacrificed.

But hearing the pleading in Yeonjun's tone, he agreed.

The older boy gave him a bright, relieved grin; it almost eclipsed the faint sadness in his eyes, though Taehyun didn't mention it.

Yeonjun kept the letter tucked beneath a folded coat in his cabinet, and Taehyun spent his first night asleep, not hungry for the first time in his life.

_____

Yeonjun, it turned out, truly stayed with Taehyun even after the weeks they had spent training; spent seeing half of the noble clans’ sons returning home, feigning illness or some sudden emergency.

The training base was only reachable by train, and there were only two trains who would come; one with supplies every first day of the week, and one with more trainees assigned to train in their base. They get younger and younger with age; at some point, Taehyun thought he could actually blend in with a few of them.

“Are we fighting on the losing side,” he asked his bunkmates, to which most of them dismissed, while a few quietly hummed in contemplation. No matter, Taehyun thought. He was fed well, and his uniform was a little too big, but they kept him warm, and Yeonjun was still so kind, and he seemed to be staying for long. Taehyun would not mind dying in battle; he never thought he would live long, anyways.

The days would go like this: they would wake before dawn, march, go through the morning drills, and break fast. Then it was more training throughout the afternoon, before lunch came and they would be sent for evaluations and exercises until evening came. Then at night, Taehyun had found himself a corner at the dining hall, where Yeonjun would lend him books, and a few older boys would teach him how to do harder calculations, memorise complex words, and recall basic geography.

Yeonjun had promised to teach Taehyun all he knew when he learnt that Taehyun had stopped going to school years ago. He would bring Taehyun to the small little office too, where there would be books to read. The commanders simply let them; some seemed to be fond of Taehyun, in fact.

“I'm actually thirteen, Yeonjun-hyung. I lied because I was worried they'd send me back,” He told him one night, more than a moon after he arrived at the base. Yeonjun merely laughed.

“Oh, I know, Taehyun-ah,” he said to him. Taehyun frowned.

“You do? How long?”

“Some of us kind of knew you're younger than fifteen,” Yeonjun said, “I believe my voice had stopped cracking by the time I was thirteen, in fact.”

Taehyun felt his face warming up; Yeonjun continued to giggle, patting his back as if to comfort him.

“It's alright, Taehyun-ah,” he said. “You're not going back to the orphanage. You'll stay with all of us.”

And stay he did.

Him and Yeonjun were eventually handpicked by the commanders to join a special unit; the unit for soldiers with gifts and talents suitable in combat. Yeonjun was reluctant to use his gift, but who could say no to the commandant, really.

Taehyun joined immediately; he had always wished to be able to control his magic, and the instructor assigned to his group would let Taehyun ask all the questions, and stay later after lessons. He gifted Taehyun books on spells of his kinds; Taehyun stayed up just to read them, asking Yeonjun all the words he didn't understand.

All the while, Yeonjun tucked every letter he received beneath the coat in his cabinet. Taehyun wondered what it was like to receive letters that would make one so happy.

“Look, Beomgyu has finished his studies,” he smiled as he showed Taehyun a postcard of a grand looking building, in a style Taehyun had never seen before. “He’s taking the entrance exams for medical school. This one is one of the best universities in Jangguk, but I think he will get in easily.”

Taehyun looked at the crest below the postcard; Anseong National University, it read.

“How do people get into universities, hyung?”

“You'll have to take the university's entrance exams once you finish your secondary studies, that's the study you'd do from when you're eleven to sixteen,” Yeonjun told him. “Then if you pass, they'll let you attend.”

Taehyun hummed.

“Were you supposed to go to university, hyung?” he asked.

“Yeah, I was,” Yeonjun sighed, “I was a moon away from completing my studies. I wanted to attend this university too, Beomgyu and I wanted to go together, live together… my mother had an apartment ready,” his voice lowered, and Yeonjun seemed sad. Maybe Taehyun had asked the wrong question. “Hopefully, when it's all over, Beomgyu is still there. It's our dream.”

Taehyun went quiet, and Yeonjun must have noticed.

“What about you?” He asked the younger boy, “Do you want to go to university? I think you'll love it there. They have books everywhere, and you get to learn a lot of things; make a lot of friends.”

“Can I go?” Taehyun narrowed his eyes, “I didn't even finish my studies. I have no money.”

“I'm sure you can catch up quickly,” Yeonjun assured him, “and if we make it out together, I'll bring you to Anseong with me. You can go to school, then.”

Taehyun really did not want to hope too much, or depend on too many people.

But that night, he wondered what he could study in Anseong, if he ever made it out alive. He wondered how much studying he would have to do to take those entrance exams, and whether they would accept a boy like him.

How much was there to learn of this world? He had not travelled far; he wanted to see the world.

That night, he dreamt of a life he could not yet even imagine for himself.

_____

Taehyun was well-versed enough with his gift and his talent by the time he and Yeonjun were sent off to the warfronts.

It only took seven moons, and his progress had surprised the instructors and his peers, despite quite a few mishaps along the way. By now, Taehyun could teleport things with ease, and summon strong gusts of wind like how the moon would summon stars.

Yeonjun had also turned seventeen; he cried in the dining hall that night, as a few of their bunkmates placed a comically large wax candle over his plate. Yeonjun had never cried until now; Taehyun wondered if he missed Haeyong too much.

Throughout the seven moons there, Taehyun had also gained a considerable amount of weight. No longer was he always lethargic, or cold, or hungry: he finally felt like he was healthy, though he sometimes wondered if the boys in the orphanage were eating well.

The night they boarded the train was filled with a quiet realisation that perhaps the life they knew would be ending tonight. Many, however, were excited to finally be at the front lines. There were chants directed towards the Milyan soldiers; at least that was what they had in common, the hate towards all but the allies. It was taught to them from the moment they came, and even before then.

Yeonjun seemed uneasy; Taehyun, too, felt a stirring anxiety in his chest. Soon they would fight; they would go through fires and crawl through gunfire to reclaim villages, kill the opposing army, and conquer what they had taken. The Milyan military was one filled with resources, and, unfortunately for them, they were more well equipped to fight in the harsh conditions of northern Cheonju. Perhaps tonight, they would die again, only to wake up as true soldiers the very next day.

Some, to lift spirits, began singing songs and reciting absurdly rephrased poetry. The world began to grow darker the further they went, until they were stopped at another hastily assembled station, this one with barely any indication it was a station to begin with.

“The Milyan army had destroyed the tracks, we can't go any further than this,” he heard the leaders tell them. They marched through a thick pine forest by the light of dawn, and three hours later, they walked through the heavily guarded stone walls to the base: composed of quite a few stone buildings, with the biggest building at the very back, tucked against the foot of a mountain. Though it was merely autumn, snow had begun gathering all around them. They were assigned beds and commanders once more, and had a warm, filling lunch of stew.

“We're so close to Beiyun,” Yeonjun told him as they washed their dishes, cold spring water against even colder weather, “look at the mountains over there, I think that's where Beiyun is. Just a mountain away.”

“Have you been to Beiyun?”

Yeonjun shook his head.

“I never had to go, but I could always see Beiyun’s mountains from where my family lives in Anseong,” he told him.

“Don't you live in Haeyong?”

“Well, my uncles and my aunts and cousins live in Anseong,” Yeonjun said, “my mother didn't wish for me to live a life like theirs, so she raised me in Haeyong.”

“I don't understand the lives of nobles,” Taehyun muttered, the tap creaking to a close as he turned it.

“It's complicated,” Yeonjun smiled helplessly, warming Taehyun's hands. “I never told you since it doesn't matter, but my mother is a princess. We're from the royal clan, so it's even more complicated than it already is.”

Somehow, Taehyun wasn't that surprised. A duke and a royal clan, to him, sounded all the same. People with an absurd amount of power, and an unimaginable amount of land and wealth.

“Does that make you a prince?” He asked.

“My parents didn't wish for me to have that title,” Yeonjun answered, “I'm a duke. I'm not going to be king, my cousin will.”

But still of royal blood, Taehyun thought. He had always known Yeonjun grew up with everything one would ever want, and he envied it, at times, though he couldn't find himself envying Yeonjun.

Fresh snow crunched beneath their feet as they were ushered to training, and from afar, crows filled the silence of the woods with their caws.

_____

Fighting in a war, against Taehyun's expectations, involved way less actual fighting than he had thought.

Not everyday did he need to be startled awake in the middle of the night by the sound of drums and shouting, and it was not everyday he faced the Milyan soldiers, either. Somedays involved briefings, drills, training, and they felt familiar to him. Some days he was assigned a chore; shovelling snow or sweeping the halls, or carrying supplies. The commanders told him he was stronger than they had all thought; Taehyun asked for books in exchange for extra duties, and the commanders happily granted him just that. Books on strategies, local geography, history, and statistics; books even Yeonjun had trouble comprehending.

Taehyun was hungry to learn all there was about the world; he hungered for words he could swallow and digest. One would find him reading even the supply charts – books he was allowed to read were rare in the barracks, and so eventually Taehyun began learning traditional characters from the ever growing list of dead, making calculations off of what the Milyans had taken away. One farming village with a population of eight hundred; one rural town with a half of its people being the elderly. Yeonjun taught him fractions; he put them into good use, scribbling down numbers with what little paper he was given.

Somedays, they would be fighting against the opposing soldiers, though Taehyun was strategically placed a little further away than the rest; his talent meant he could do harm by dropping boulders and snow to the enemy's heads. It made him dizzy with exertion every time, but his spells were enough to distract and disassemble the enemy's positions, giving them enough time to strike back.

Yeonjun always fought front and center; his blazing blue flames were noticeably distinct, even from where Taehyun stood. They rose like they had much to latch onto; Taehyun wondered if Yeonjun was tired, too, as the cacophony of screams cluttered the air, the stinging smell of metal and gunpowder overwhelming his head.

He could not forget the first life he had taken away, yet at some point, he could no longer count the amount of people that had died under his hands. The list lengthened with every time he stepped beyond the barracks, a rifle tucked to his side and an enchantment for a warmth spell hastily scribbled to the back of his coat.

At times, Taehyun would be stationed to assist in evacuating nearby towns and villages. The residents of those villages were often farmers with a cart's worth of goods to wheel away, or the elderly with heirlooms and their grandchildren tied to their backs. Taehyun would write levitation spells, and usher them to walk ahead.

And when they returned to the barracks, he and Yeonjun would submerge themselves in the bathhouse for more than half an hour, talking about the things they had done, sharing stories and comparing bruises with the rest of the troops.

Meals became simpler the further into winter they went. When the first harvests of spring were given to them from a nearby town that they had helped liberate, they began digging holes in the ground, and making kimchi with whatever they had in hand.

When they were lucky to receive supplies on time, they would indulge in coffee. They were watered down and bland, and once a cook had mistakenly added salt in place of sugar, but they drank it all regardless, over folk songs and tellings of legends.

Soon, a year had passed since the day they had arrived at the base.

They celebrated Taehyun's fifteenth birthday in the literal trenches, white speckles of virgin snow falling against a smoke-tainted sky.

They retreated to the base at dawn, and Taehyun was given an extra serving of soup.

_____

Taehyun fought like he was searching for the quickest way to end it; whether it was his life, or the battle itself, no one could really tell.

But Taehyun was quick, sharp, and he charged with calculated impulse. No one could figure him out whenever he was left to his own devices on the battlefield, with no command to follow but to kill; a few times his actions had almost cost him his life, though with that, he had also done enough damage for the enemies to retreat for the night.

With those actions, Taehyun only wished Yeonjun had less friends like him.

Yeonjun would cling to him more on the nights he came back with bandages somewhere on his body.

_____

“You read those letters all the time,” Taehyun said as he sat opposite of Yeonjun's bunk bed, pulling away his cold, damp sock from his feet. He had unfortunately been swung into knee-deep snow by his peers; he would never bet on anything again. “Are there any new ones?”

Yeonjun turned to him, before his eyes widened. “What did you do with them,” he gasped, “you look like- is that snow on your collar?”

“I've lost a bet,” Taehyun murmured, his upper body shaking, and his lower body no longer his. “So they swung me into the snow by the washing stand.”

With that, Yeonjun could not help but chuckle, though not without urging Taehyun to remove his coat, slapping a paper with a warming spell right onto the back of Taehyun's neck, one of many on a stack beneath his pillow. Maybe I'll live, Taehyun thought, feeling the warmth surge through his meridians. Yeonjun toweled his hair. It was a peaceful night, quiet enough to hear the shuffle of pine branches outside.

“When I was in Haeyong, eomma would make Beomgyu and I would drink spicy ginger tea to heat our bodies up,” he told Taehyun. “Usually, I think ginger tea is supposed to not be black, but eomma made ours with molasses in our house. It would always burn our throats. Beomgyu had sneakily given me some of his tea many times.”

Taehyun hummed as Yeonjun told him all about his home in Haeyong. Sometimes, hearing tales from the other boys’ homes made him wonder if his childhood had truly been taken away from him the moment he was sent to the orphanage. He could barely remember what happened before that; they told him he lived with his grandparents before they had to give him away. He was only three, then.

The only memory of his grandparents he had, were of an old, wrinkled pair of hands.

Despite this, Taehyun did not care. He was not bothered enough to be upset by it; there were many worse outcomes for an orphan in a decrepit industrial town.

“Yeonjun-hyung,” he called. Yeonjun stopped drying his hair; Taehyun missed the gentle pressure Yeonjun gave to his scalp, “what happens to me if I make it out of war?”

Yeonjun's brows furrowed. There were only the two of them in their bunk; an oil lamp flickered beside Yeonjun's feet.

“What do you wish to do, Taehyun-ah?” Yeonjun asked. “I thought you said you wish to study.”

Taehyun nodded. “But what do people usually do when they're all grown up?”

Yeonjun hesitated to answer. “It depends on what one wishes to do,” he said, “some people wish to study, like you. Some of them study for the rest of their lives, and find immense satisfaction in it. Some people work and save money for a nice house. Some marry and have children.”

“That's a little idealistic, and life isn't always perfect,” Yeonjun shrugged, “but I digress.”

Study for the rest of their lives, work and save money for a nice house, marry and have children… Taehyun could barely imagine the first half of that.

“Why do people marry? Isn’t it rather meaningless?”

Yeonjun chuckled, watching Taehyun fondly. “I was told when you really love someone with your entire soul, you will wish to spend the rest of your life with them. That's why marriages exist, I suppose, some sort of promise,” he hummed, “well, in a legal sense, a marriage binds two people to their own family registries. It makes their bond official – no one else could deter it.”

Taehyun curled his knees to his chest, having shrugged out of his pants. He tried to imagine love as a tangible thing, tried to stuff all of the words he could perhaps relate to love into this metaphorical dumpling; he wondered if kindness could be a part of its filling. If kindness was a part of love, then he could recount the many times he had been loved.

“Does our little Taehyunnie fancy someone, perhaps?” He heard Yeonjun tease.

“No,” Taehyun only shook his head, much to Yeonjun's disappointment. He could see his hyung deflate at the very dull answer he had given him. “I don't think I'll ever marry.”

“You say that,” Yeonjun smiled, “but maybe your day will come someday.”

Yeonjun-hyung is such a romantic, Taehyun sighed to himself. As much as he admired his hyung, Yeonjun's so different from him.

“I don't even know anything about crushes, or being romantic with people,” he murmured.

“I hope you'll have the chance to experience it all one day, whenever that may be,” Yeonjun said. “I hope you'll be happy, Taehyun-ah.”

“Happy being in love with someone?” Taehyun muttered, his brows furrowed.

“Not exactly. Does happiness need a reason? I just wish you'll be happy, is all,” Yeonjun chimed.

They hung Taehyun's damp clothes onto the drying line, hoping the warming spells stuck to the coat and pants would mean there wouldn't be any ice patches on the fabric when tomorrow came.

_____

When Taehyun turned seventeen, he had withstood an injury severe enough to land him a stay in the infirmary for a whole fortnight.

He had never needed to stay in the infirmary for long: there was once when he stayed the night for a high fever, a few days for a torn scapula, the other handful of times for more minor injuries – every time, he would be discharged with a slip, and he would get mundane duties like standing guard or counting supplies for the next week or two.

But this time it was different: he was on the brink of seeing black when they carried him to the tent. He did not remember how long he had been pushed on a cart, only that every bump on the road made him nauseous with the burning, peeling pain. He remembered flames catching onto his trousers, and being trapped beneath something heavy, but time had seemed to run in strange, illogical ways since then.

He screamed despite himself as they transferred him to the cot, the impact on his burning calf making him gasp for air, his chest too exhausted to inspire. He caught a glimpse of his leg, the pain burning even sharper just then.

There wasn't anything he could call skin. It was entirely red, bloody, with patches of soot and splinters stuck at different places.

I'll die, his mind spun wildly, I'll die, this is it-

And when his vision began to dim, he truly believed that was it; the end of his torment.

But he woke up, eventually, on a hard, rubber-like mattress, his leg hung up inches from the mattress with a cloth to a hook. It hurt, it hurt so much that Taehyun wished he hadn't woken up. The room stung of medicine, vomit, the rust of blood; beside him was a boy with bandages around his chest, and on his other side was… Yeonjun, his head against the mattress. He seemed to have fallen asleep. What time is it?

Whatever will they do with me now?

Will they dismiss me? Throw me off somewhere?

Taehyun whimpered as the gnawing pain began to chew on his nerves, his hand gripping onto the metal railing beside him. Right above where the bandages end were a few blisters on the side of his knee, boiling, angry red. He cried.

Yeonjun woke up alertly, his eyes widening as Taehyun began to thrash around in his cot.

“Taehyun-ah,” he called, “you should try not to move so much-”

“It hurts,” Taehyun cried, yet as he twisted his leg just slightly, an unbearable pain bit down on his leg once again, like the sting of a snake’s bite, amplified. Just take my leg off of me, he pleaded to no one in particular, just chop it off of me, right here, please-

“I'll call for the nurse,” Yeonjun reassured him, although he didn't need to go too far, for a nurse was already entering the room, noticing Taehyun's squirming.

Without a word, she injected a bottle of something transparent to Taehyun's arm.

“We're running short on pain relief,” she told him, “I’m afraid this will be the last injection we could give you. You'll have to take analgesic tablets after this.”

A wave of relief, however little, flooded Taehyun soon enough. He breathed in, noticing the sheen of cold sweat all over his skin. Yeonjun's hands were so warm when he held his hands; Taehyun wanted to cry once again, the discomfort too much to bear.

“Your leg suffered third and second-degree burns,” she told Taehyun, “it hasn't shown signs of infection, so we didn't transfer you to a hospital. But you won't be fighting anytime soon.”

“What will I do?” Taehyun asked, his voice a ghastly whisper, “you'll send me elsewhere?”

Back to the town he came from? Back to the orphanage? Well, he was a little too old for the orphanage to keep him, but that had been the only address he had written down. Would they send him to a factory? Would he work in the factories nearby? They had been producing gunpowder from the sulphur of the springs; he imagined a future where he would have to start all over again. Soot on his hands, black in his lungs.

He pinched himself when the nurse spoke again, after taking a look at his chart.

“The decision isn't up to me,” she sighed, “but you won't be discharged for quite some time. We'll need to monitor you; the doctor with regeneration magic will be here to see you tomorrow, to see what we can do to your leg.”

“Thank you…” Taehyun murmured, bowing his head. “Sorry for the trouble.”

“Not trouble at all,” the nurse nodded, before she proceeded to check the other dozen of boys in the same tent. They were lucky the weather was kind; one of the few rare weeks where one could truly say it was just right.

The hours went by, and eventually, the medication wore down. Pain crawled and clutched onto his leg like burning ants, and Taehyun began to feel ill, his lungs losing all of its weight.

“I just wish they'll cut it off,” he whispered at some point. Yeonjun looked terrified; Taehyun decided to keep the rest of his thoughts to himself.

He cried himself to sleep instead; Yeonjun held his hand the whole time.

_____

The doctors casted cleansing and regeneration spells until his leg eventually resembled a leg, somewhat. Patches of dark red scars crawled along his calf like licking flames, the top layer of his skin still peeling off whenever he so much as hovered his hand over the wound. He thought the vein-like bumps that wrapped his skin resembled roots. His peers winced at the sight; Taehyun felt like a monster. At least he did not have to see the wound unless it came time to change the bandages.

He was discharged weeks after, with a little bottle of analgesics, a cane, and a slip that basically deemed him unfit to fight for the unforeseeable future. He stood before his unit commander as the older man read the slip, eyeing Taehyun's wound with sympathy in his usually hardened gaze.

“You are no longer able to stay in this unit,” he told him, his voice rough and uncharacteristically soft, all at once. “In fact, I would urge you to return home, Private Kang.”

Taehyun bowed his head. “But sir, I have no home to return to,” he answered.

“I have been informed,” the commander nodded. “The other sergeants and I discussed your outcomes prior to our meeting today. It was stated in your documents that you no longer had any ties to your orphanage after the age of sixteen; I understand.”

“Yes, sir,” Taehyun answered.

“You are clever, Private Kang,” the commander noted. To which Taehyun raised his head, lifting his gaze just below the older man's eyes. “The others told me you have been studying with your peers even before you arrived at the base. You wish to attend school, do you not? To further your education?”

“Yes, sir,” he answered once again.

“Under ordinary circumstances, I would have approved your dischargement under honourable conditions, sent you home,” he said, “but it would be terribly irresponsible of me to send someone away, despite their potential to thrive elsewhere.”

With that, Taehyun's heart felt lighter, as he met the commander's eyes.

Maybe he could stay after all, with Yeonjun, the base, the mountains, his friends…

“I will be glad to stay and continue my service here,” he told the commander with much assurance.

“Good,” the commander then offered him a letter of his own; Taehyun took it with both hands, his leg limping with every step he took. “I am assigning you to another unit. You will find plenty to learn there; there are opportunities for you to expand your knowledge, perhaps, offer you a better chance at furthering your education, should you wish to do so after your service ends.”

With permission to open the letter, Taehyun read the few lines of words carefully, a mix of both the traditional and modern scripts. It was a letter of recommendation… to the logistics and supply unit.

That unit, to Taehyun's knowledge, was located a little further away from theirs. He didn't know much about them, but he was told one needed to have been educated and literate to a certain degree in order to join. For the commander to have that much trust that a boy like him would do well in such a place…

“You are to aid in the logistics unit for the remainder of your service,” the commander informed him. “You will find there are plenty more skills to learn there, more than what you can learn in our specialised unit. Your talent would be needed there, too.”

“I will try my hardest, sir,” Taehyun bowed once again. “Thank you for the opportunity.”

The commander hummed. “If there is nothing else, you may leave.”

_____

“They're sending you to the logistics unit?” Yeonjun asked as they had their dinners together; Beiyunese spicy stew, with rice, a rarity only afforded by the summer seasons. “That is good, Taehyun-ah. You'll be much safer there.”

“I won't fight anymore,” Taehyun murmured, chewing the bits of vegetables despite the spice numbing his mouth, “they say I'll learn a lot about arithmetics once I'm there.”

“I suppose if you're going to be keeping track of supplies and maintenance all day, you'll eventually be very good at it,” Yeonjun smiled, “you have a keen eye for detail. I think this position suits you.”

Taehyun chewed slowly. He was seventeen then, an adult in society's eyes. He tried to picture at times how different life would be had he never left the orphanage. They would have kicked him out at sixteen, and he imagined he would work in the factories for the rest of his life. The town he was raised in had naught but rows of factories, old shops, and battered stalls – it wasn't a place one would stay for long. Only the elderly and the younger children remained, and the town was only lively on the days near Seollal, or Chuseok.

How fortunate was he to be here, Taehyun thought. For he could not fathom a life chained to soot and trims of paper; sacks of flour or the ever-there hunger.

Here, he would leave the base knowing if he could just make it back alive, a warm meal and his friends would await him. Perhaps once the war ended, Yeonjun would really bring him to Jangguk. He could try his best at studying, then, try his hardest to be accepted into university. He could not imagine a dream that stretched further than that, but Gods, along the front lines and beneath his covers, he dreamt.

The commander eventually granted Taehyun's request to stay in the same dormitory out of his own generosity, though it meant Taehyun having to walk further to reach his unit everyday. He borrowed a few pieces of paper, sat down at the dining hall, and folded them neatly, before tearing them into halves, and quarters, until they were tinier than the crest sewn to his uniform..

“What spell are you writing?” His friend asked curiously. Taehyun scribbled every stroke carefully, and slipped a piece of it into his shoe, before casting his magic onto it.

“It might help me walk better,” he said, shifting his weight. It felt strange, but it was better than pain.

So a new routine was made: a spell wedged into his shoe until he could find a spell to teleport himself elsewhere. Reporting to the logistics unit after breakfast, and learning all there was to learn from the unit commanders: counting, tracking, supplying, keeping. Taehyun learned quickly, and so his new position was officially approved within a fortnight of him being there.

He would be the one to see Yeonjun return from battle at times, his friends walking through the gates to the base with barely any life in their steps. Some days, they would be gone for an entire moon, and Taehyun would only receive news of them from the comfort of the logistics unit. They would prepare supplies, then, and Taehyun would write a spell of teleportation to the tightly bound supplies, hoping they would reach his friends safely.

Yeonjun would return to the base with a bullet to his shoulder one day, and it would be Taehyun that would stay beside him by the cot in the infirmary, just like Yeonjun had done back then.

“They say I might never be able to lift my arm above my head ever again,” Yeonjun said, fresh out of the surgery tent. They were lucky it wasn't his dominant hand. “Apparently the bullet had destroyed some of the nerves in my arm.”

“At least it wasn't something worse,” Yeonjun sighed. “I mean, they did say I could be discharged in a few days’ time. It'll be good for me to stay a few weeks here, just doing chores all day.”

“They say the war might end within a year's time,” Taehyun murmured beneath his folded arms, resting his head against the rubbery bed of the infirmary, “Yeonjun-hyung, do you believe it?”

There was a glimmer of hope in Yeonjun's eyes. Between the two of them, he had always been more optimistic. “Where did you hear that?” He asked, “I mean, I did hear of a potential discussion of armistice, but that had been last year…”

“I heard it from the logistics unit,” Taehyun told Yeonjun quietly, “I heard them say it seemed as if neither side had much of a chance of victory. We fought for so long, but it seemed we were just fighting in circles.”

“...which is true,” Yeonjun sighed defiantly.

“They said the general might consider another discussing the possibility of a permanent ceasefire agreement with the ministers soon.”

“That is good news,” Yeonjun smiled. It was small, not as bright as they were before. Taehyun allowed himself to hope.

“Hyung,” he called. To which Yeonjun hummed. They talked in whispers, for the test of the infirmary's patients were resting, and the night had gotten much older. “What happens when no one wins in a war?”

“I don't know, Taehyun-ah,” Yeonjun answered, “I suppose we will all go home, and let the events be written into history books, someday. Life will go on.”

“Sometimes I'm not sure what we're fighting for,” Taehyun told him. “Was a war really necessary to claim the resources of a land you didn't own?”

“We both know it's more complicated than that, Taehyun-ah,” Yeonjun sighed. “Regardless, I'll be happiest the day the war ends, and I get to go back home.”

“Can I truly follow you?” Taehyun questioned.

“I promised you can,” Yeonjun smiled, brighter this time, “I think Beomgyu will like you a lot. You're both so curious. You're both much smarter than I am. I'm sure he's going to be such a good physician someday.”

With that, Taehyun watched as Yeonjun began to frown, his lips pushed into a tight line as a troubled look emerged from his eyes. Yeonjun had always been rather expressive; far from Taehyun himself, who had been told he was much too difficult to read.

“My mother must be so worried,” Yeonjun whispered, “she must've been waiting for my letters. She must have been waiting for me at home. She worries a lot. Her, Beomgyu, my family…”

“I cannot wait to go home, Taehyun-ah,” he said once more, as if the more he repeated his words, the sooner his wish would come true. “I must make it to see Beomgyu graduate, at the very least.”

Taehyun, not knowing what to say, simply patted Yeonjun's shoulder.

It was after he had returned to the infirmary from the dining hall that he saw remnants of tears on Yeonjun's face, his eyes swollen and red.

Briefly, he wondered how it was like to miss home.

_____

They fought well into winter once more, running as fast as they could just to remain at the very same spot. Their supplies were dwindling; the Milyan’s, too, for they had been fighting in a less spectacular fashion that they used to a year ago, their strategies prioritising lesser usage of valuable explosives and weaponry. Their soldiers were getting younger, fighting in a way that was desperate, impulsive, not unlike Taehyun when he first began fighting.

Taehyun remained in the logistics unit, watching it all unfold through the numbers in his scrolls. The numbers looked grim – it seemed as if they were lacking everything but gunpowder, though Taehyun wondered if the springs would run out of sulphur too, someday. What would this war be named by then?

A week before Dongji, they had fixed the damaged tracks, and supplies were delivered to the base. They had stews with fresh produce that night; coffee, too, sweetened with sugar instead of the usual molasses.

A few days after, Taehyun would wake before the usual hour, and notice Yeonjun's absence from his bed.

Another attack? He thought blearily. But that didn't make sense. He would have heard the sirens, and their other bunkmates were still asleep, if not doing morning stretches.

It was meant to be a restful day, anyways; there would be temporary ceasefires for the few days leading up to Dongji every year. There might be a lasting ceasefire, too, if the leaders of both parties could reach a fair agreement in their upcoming discussions.

They had been so excited about that. For once in a very long time, the dining hall served as a place of genuine celebration.

“Sangcheol-hyung,” Taehyun whispered to the nearest boy awake, changing out of his shirt. “Have you seen Yeonjun-hyung anywhere?”

The boy blinked, a puzzled expression in his face.

“I did hear him leaving, I think,” he said, “I heard the unit commander’s voice too. But I couldn't really understand what they were saying.”

Taehyun hummed, though something didn't feel right, a tightness in his chest he couldn't quite ignore. Yeonjun would never wake up so early, especially when he had been struggling to sleep the night before-

The door creaked open behind him. The boys who were awake turned, and saluted to the commander, who wore a face too grim for a day like this.

Yeonjun stood next to him, and Taehyun could almost shudder when he saw him, for Yeonjun looked as if he had aged ten years – his eyes void of any feeling, his steps much too light, and his hands hanging limply by his sides; yet, the commander didn't speak of it.

“Lower your hands,” the commander instructed softly. “Private Yeonjun is to be discharged immediately.”

“Discharged?” Taehyun uttered, his heart racing, “but, sir-”

Did Yeonjun get in trouble?

“A horrific incident had happened to the royal clan of Jangguk last night,” was all the commander could say, “he is to return immediately.”

“Yeonjun-hyung,” Taehyun called, “what happened?”

They were supposed to be shovelling snow today, he thought, they were supposed to jump into the springs right after.

Yeonjun was eerily quiet as he packed his belongings, in a way so methodical, unlike his usual, patternless way of keeping things. It's as if the Yeonjun he saw last night had been replaced, and a terrible, sickening feeling stirred within Taehyun's chest.

“Taehyun-ah,” when Yeonjun called his name, Taehyun had almost felt afraid. “Can you join me?”

Join you what? To Jangguk?

A request that seemed so ridiculous here, though the commander did not argue to stop him. Taehyun looked to the commander, then, Yeonjun.

“You are allowed to follow,” the commander told him gravely, “your dischargement can be arranged promptly. You have our permission.”

“Sir?” Taehyun asked, “what happened- why?”

But feeling the air around Yeonjun thickening into a dark, suffocating cloud of fog, Taehyun knew something had fundamentally changed the Yeonjun he knew.

He struggled to breathe when Yeonjun had stuffed his clothes into a small case, the letters, now worn and a faded blue, going in last; handled with utmost care, with trembling fingers that still held onto them despite.

He finished packing, turning to Taehyun. Yeonjun had always been taller, yet, now, he seemed to have shrunk.

“I need to know you'll be safe,” his voice was but a murmur, “I need someone alive, Taehyun-ah.”

Did someone in his family die? Taehyun wondered.

“Please,” Yeonjun whispered pleadingly, and Taehyun, without another word, nodded and took the few belongings he had with him: nothing of value but a few books here and there, his boots, and his coat.

The other boys woke up one by one, watching the quiet commotion without daring to do so much as whisper.

“Very well,” the commander lowered his head, gesturing for the door. “We will leave.”

With steps far too light, they left the creaky wooden floors of their bunk, a few boys wide-eyed with shock as they gave Taehyun their meek waves of farewell. Then the door closed, and that was it.

No more war, no more logistics unit, no more drills, no more sulphur, at least for him.

Whatever could he do now? He knew of no other life.

Before he could contemplate his options, they were met with two men, their black formal attires a sharp contrast against the snow beyond the window behind them. The morning light had shielded their faces, though it also painted them gold.

The commander bowed, and left the two boys to these two important looking men, wearing crests that looked like roses.

“Your Grace,” one of them bowed, “if there is nothing else, we are to return to Anseong immediately.”

Yeonjun shook his head weakly.

“There's nothing else,” he said, clutching onto Taehyun's hand like it was all he had. The two men glanced at Taehyun curiously, but they, too, did not pay much mind to his presence.

They had called Yeonjun by his title, Taehyun thought he had noticed Yeonjun's shoulders stiffening when they did.

Quietly they went, snow crunching beneath their thick boots as they took to an automobile parked right outside of the base.

“Yeonjun-hyung,” Taehyun tried again, his heart wild with worry, “what is going on?”

Yeonjun's eyes were red at this point. They say before the two men, who were silent, their looks equally as grave as the commander’s.

“I'm going to be king,” he whispered shakily.

“King?” Taehyun furrowed his brows. Did he hear that right? It didn't make sense. Was Yeonjun not sixth in line to the throne?

Unless…

“My family is dead,” Yeonjun held his head in his palms, “and I'm going to be king.”

_____

The rest of their journey was just as somber, and for once, everything was draped in black: the train they boarded, the clothes of the staff within it, the paintings covered with black. They had brought Yeonjun mourning clothes; they fit him a little too small.

The train went through the forest, the hills, and westward bound for the entire night. By noon, they arrived at a city that Taehyun could only admire in silence.

Yeonjun was whisked away the second they stepped foot into the palace, and, hours later, he was legitimised as the new king of Jangguk; no longer a simple duke, or a Prince of War, whatever they once called him.

_____

Yeonjun's first request as king was to make Taehyun his secretary.

It was a decision meant to protect Taehyun; the previous secretary was resigning, and with no replacement in place, the previous secretary was more than glad to take Taehyun under his wing. Being secretary-in-training meant Taehyun had access to all the resources one would ever need, and the assurance that he would never need to worry of hunger any longer.

Taehyun accepted his position, and was sent away to lessons almost immediately.

Like always, he took to it like fish to water. Diplomacy was utterly confusing, but he wore the skin of a noble and the previous secretary seemed impressed enough.

Perhaps he could be of use to the palace someday.

In that time of mourning, Taehyun was given a kinder beginning.

_____

Yeonjun was never the same.

He had left the body of the Yeonjun Taehyun knew back in Cheonju; this Yeonjun, draped in clothes far too regal, and working through the night just to escape his bed, was a version of Yeonjun Taehyun would have never guessed could exist, years ago.

The funeral came and went; Yeonjun had stopped asking for breaks. The ministers, once pleased with his eagerness to learn of his role as king, were now growing worried at the sight of the young king with a rotted hole in his chest.

Medicines were prescribed; the physician tried cleansing spells, healing magic… all for naught. The royal physician could only sigh, and promise more treatments the next time they met.

“You are his secretary,” Taehyun heard a voice say to him one day. When he turned his head, his eyes met one of the youngest ministers; if he remembered correctly, he was the Acting Minister of Domestic Affairs, and Yeonjun's cousin.

“I am, Minister,” Taehyun bowed. He thought the young minister looked kind; he was always rather quiet, so Taehyun wondered why he would call for him.

“What did the royal physician say?” The young minister asked. Then, stepping closer, he whispered, “about Yeonjun-hyung’s condition?”

Taehyun relaxed at the way the minister had called Yeonjun by his name.

“Jin-Seonsaengnim’s treatments haven't been working so far,” he answered, to which the minister frowned.

“It's difficult to see Yeonjun-hyung like this,” the minister sighed. Taehyun nodded in agreement. “What's your name?” The minister asked, “I'm sorry I came upon you so suddenly. I truly hope I haven't disrupted your schedule.”

“I am alright,” Taehyun looked at him observantly. The minister had dark blue eyes; Yeonjun's, but much darker, though his features were softer than Yeonjun's. “I am Kang Taehyun.”

“Taehyun-ssi,” the minister smiled politely, “I am Soobin.”

“You're Yeonjun-hyung’s cousin,” Taehyun noted rhetorically. He tried recalling the etiquette lessons he had been taking as of late; words to use with nobles, how to address them in ways that wouldn't cause him any trouble.

Yet, Soobin hadn't been speaking to him as formally as he ought to, for an official of his rank. Taehyun’s puzzled.

“I am,” Soobin nodded, “my family's been horrifically worried about hyung. I heard you were with him for the past few years, that's why I came to you.”

“I believe it's an illness of his soul,” Soobin whispered even softer, “but if that's the case, then no one should know but us.”

“Why not?”

“Hyung will be deemed incapable of judgement, and he might be taken advantage of by the ministers,” Soobin told him, “his position as king would be questioned, and the royal clan has had enough troubles as of late.”

Taehyun supposed it made sense.

“I think his soul must be ill, too,” he agreed softly.

“You do?”

“Mn,” he hummed, “ever since the royal family was assassinated.”

Yeonjun hadn't even been able to rest since the assassination of the royal family; Taehyun would be surprised if his soul was not maimed in any way.

“I thought of contacting Beomgyu,” Soobin told him. “You know Beomgyu, don't you?”

Yeonjun's best friend who studies medicine… oh.

“He is a specialised physician now,” Soobin added, “he is a soul-talent, too. He must have an idea or two on how to make Yeonjun better.”

“Why has he not met Yeonjun yet?” Taehyun questioned. “Yeonjun-hyung told me they were the closest of friends. Surely Beomgyu would have visited hyung after the war?”

Soobin furrowed his brows, “it's more complicated than that,” he said. “Beomgyu is travelling all around Jangguk as a physician, he is hardly contactable. Ever since the death of the grand princess, he has lost all ties to Yeonjun legally, so he could not attend the funeral either…”

“We should find him,” Taehyun suggested. The sooner the better, for his soul could not bear to see Yeonjun so empty, “we must invite him here.”

“I'm trying,” Soobin sighed, “can you help me as well, Taehyun-ssi?”

“I'll try,” the younger nodded, “but I don't know how.”

“Then let's try to find him together,” Soobin said, “for Yeonjun's sake.”

_____

One moon of living in the palace, and Taehyun had begun to walk the extra steps to Yeonjun's office every night, just to remind the older boy to sleep.

“You mustn't tire yourself like this,” he begged. Yeonjun promised he would sleep after one more correspondence; Taehyun stood by his doorway, the guards not stopping him despite his raised voice.

Yeonjun could not be found in his bed the next morning.

Instead, Taehyun found him already drowning himself in paperwork, dark circles beneath his eyes, and his cheeks sunken in.

Perhaps it would be more merciful if Yeonjun could just cry about it all.

They really should hurry their search on this mysterious physician.

_____

Taehyun turned eighteen, though, there was a time in his life that he believed his life would end the moment he turned ten.

He had been the boy who wished his stomach would shrink; the boy who hungered like no other; the boy who ran, and fought like he had swallowed sulfur – braving the front lines like he never had a thing to lose, reeking of self-destruction, and ready to combust at any given second.

But when he turned eighteen, he was merely a boy who worked in a palace. A secretary-in-training with all the books he could ever hope to read, clothes so warm that he would sweat in winter, and a bed so big he could spread his arms, swing his legs, and there would still be space to balance all the pillows and quilts he was given.

He was the boy who swallowed sulphur, but there were no fires big enough to take him. He lived, and here he was, drafting letters in an office of his own. He had rejected the office given to him, the ones much too grand and the ceilings too tall. Instead, he had chosen a smaller room by the eastern courtyard, feeling more at home to the frequent muffled chatter of staff, occasional churn from the many rooms of machineries.

“You're picking things up fast,” the previous secretary would note, a rare compliment that Taehyun took to heart. “I might let you write some simpler correspondence yourself now, that stack right there. Run me over the letters you wrote before lunch hour. Remember what I taught you.”

“Yes, Yoongi-sunbaenim,” Taehyun nodded. The previous secretary smiled approvingly; beneath his stoic mask, Taehyun had thought of him to be rather warm, and kind.

“I heard you're now taking private lessons at night,” he noted.

“Yes, sir,” Taehyun responded out of habit, to which the older secretary winced, “I wish to attend university in a few years’ time.”

The older secretary began drafting his own letters, ones that Taehyun could not yet handle, still. “That is good,” he hummed, “learning is a lifelong pursuit.”

“Do you think it strange, sunbae?” Taehyun asked, hovering his fingers over a dictionary. Some words were different in Jangguk than they were in Cheonju; Taehyun was still learning to adjust to them all.

“What's so strange?” The older secretary asked.

“I heard people only work after university,” Taehyun told him. “The ministers at the council meeting gave me weird looks the other day. I don't exactly belong here, don't I?”

The former secretary contemplated his answer. Careful with his words, like always. He had been the previous king's secretary for only a year; Taehyun wondered if he ever went to university, too.

“There isn't a correct sequence to living,” he answered, lifting his eyes from his typewriter. Taehyun hadn't been fluent in typing just yet. “If there exists a sequence that's believed to be an ultimate truth to some perfect life, I don't believe many people would truly ever be happy following it. You may take your time, regardless of what anyone else may think.”

“Did you go to university, sunbae?”

He must have, Taehyun guessed, though he had known it was not polite to assume things. Yoongi was from a noble clan; he would certainly be able to attend university. Not to mention how clever the older man seemed.

Yoongi looked aimlessly at the paper before him.

“I did. I thought it was the answer to a dream I thought was mine. I spent years in the palace. I became secretary, and now I just wish I had just stuck with being a novelist all this while,” he sighed, straightening his sluggish posture for the umpteenth time, “I have been following in someone else's sequence for far too long.”

“I don't think I have my own sequence,” Taehyun quipped, “if I did, I'd probably run away from it long ago.”

“Then that's probably never your sequence to begin with,” the secretary said.

But what is my sequence? Taehyun wondered to himself that night. He thought of university, thought of work, and thought of the strange concept of romance. Perhaps he would never fall in love, he was much too cold for that. Perhaps he could just live like this for the rest of his life, but that didn't feel so right.

He closed his eyes, and recalled the history of Jangguk's old capital.

He fell asleep with two books pressed uncomfortably to his spine.

_____

When Taehyun found the address to Beomgyu's rental apartment in the city, he almost could not contain his own relief and excitement. In fact, Taehyun had wondered if he was hoping for too much; if their wishes would be futile, after all, and if Beomgyu would even wish to visit the palace.

Soobin wasn't in the palace when he made the discovery, but, regardless. He took a paper, and slotted it onto his typewriter immediately.

A letter was written and sent to that apartment that same afternoon; one of Taehyun's first ever letters that he had typed on a typewriter, and sent without needing any corrections from Yoongi.

The response he had waited so ardently for arrived only a moon later.

When he told Yeonjun of Beomgyu's upcoming visit to the palace, there was a spark of anticipation in his eyes, somewhat. Taehyun had hoped he was not just imagining things.

_____

A few days after that, at the cusp of spring, Taehyun waited for him at one of the side entrances to the palace. An automobile parked by the courtyard early afternoon; Beomgyu looked exactly like Yeonjun had once described him.

The physician looked concerned, though Taehyun could tell he was attempting to mask his worries. He nodded at Taehyun when their eyes met – Taehyun wondered if he could see his soul. What colour would it be?

Could he really help Yeonjun after all?

“Seonsaeng-nim,” he nodded in return, “I am Kang Taehyun, His Majesty's secretary-in-training.”

Beomgyu bowed slightly, every demeanour resembling that of a noble.

“I'm Beomgyu,” he said, “it's a pleasure to meet you, Taehyun-ssi.”

Without another unnecessary exchange, Taehyun gestured to the door, hoping, like he had never hoped before, that Yeonjun would be happy to see Beomgyu once more.

“It is quite cold out, isn't it? Let us go in. I will guide you to the drawing room.”

[CONT.]