Chapter Text
« I embrace my rival, to better smother him. (…)
As long as he breathes I am only half living. »
Britannicus, IV. 3, Racine
Prologue
12 of Spring, year 503.
A first slap in the face.
« Who do you think you are, Jimin ? »
Then another one.
« I am asking you, who do you think you are ? »
As no answer would have been the right one, a the third strike came. Jimin raised his head, slowly enough so that his father would not take it as another act of defiance. The king’s face was never twisted in anger, only marked by age and wrinkles. You had to be a regular to notice all the hate and disdain crawling in his look.
« If I ever catch you, fourth strike, again, fifth strike, doing this kind of lowly deed, it won't just be a slap next time. »
His own palm came to his cheek, soothing the phantom sting. It was not even serious, but the ink poured on purpose on the books his father gave Namjoon to study had leaked like blood on the ground. The empty inkwell lying on the floor, its contents devouring the blank pages in black, now illegible. Jimin had hoped that he would get a good telling off for being clumsy, but Namjoon must have told on Jimin about his dirty trick. Tattletale.
Namjoon was standing there, slouched down with hands stained in black, probably satisfied to watch Jimin have a taste of his own medicine.
His father looked at him for a moment, as if he was wondering whether giving a sixth slap would be worth it, and then turned to Namjoon.
« As for you... » He picked up a book on the table. The object violently met the young boy’s cheek.
« Learn to impose respect, boy. A king-to-be doesn’t endure tricks, and complain about it even less, he cracks down with his own law. I will not tolerate such weakness. »
Upon these words, the man stormed out of the room, leaving them to glare at each other, both cheeks burning red.
Jimin would never have played this trick", if only he had been allowed to attend the lessons too, to learn what it meant to become a king. It was so easy for Namjoon to be the good boy, when he benefited from his father’s favours, even though they did not share blood. If justice were even a thing, Namjoon would keep the proof of his punishment longer, because everything was his fault.
He was responsible for everything.
Jimin walked past him, hissing : « You make me sick. » and rushed out to find a place where no one could find him. When he arrived in his room, he huddled up in the embrace of thick blankets covering him up to the head.
« Happy birthday, Jimin, » he whispered in the dark, wiping away a tear.
He, was only ever pouring ink.