#ateez series
Not all that Glitters is Gold -> 03
series pairing: (fem) princess!reader x san x seonghwa x wooyoung. eventual polyamory.
series masterlist|prev chapter
Part Three: a blacksmith, a nightmare, and oh-so-sweet empathy
series rating:16+
series genre: action and adventure. romance. angst. fluff. suggestive. fantasy au.
series warnings: character death, blood and violence, weaponry, injury, suggestive content, mxm content, elements of misogyny, language, monsters. (will only be using chapter specific warnings for things not included on this list.)
summary:as a princess fleeing a royal assassination attempt, you have no choice but to put your trust in a band of three thieves in order to reach the kingdom of kuroku alive. however, amongst magic, deceit, and the bounty hunters that are hot on your trail, you realize that you might have stumbled upon a relationship far more complicated than what meets the eye.
chapter details beneath the cut ->
chapter wc: 12.9k
extra chapter warnings: panic attack, mentions of v*mit, alcohol.
summary:
You feel the presence of a figure settle behind you, as San awkwardly clears his throat.
“I meant to tell you earlier,” he says, voice quiet. You can faintly see his reflection through the window as well, and his expression is somber. “I just wasn’t sure how.”
a/n:woo says eat the rich.
You’ve always loved the sound of birds chirping. Always one to appreciate a delicate song, each morning in a slightly different tune rousing you awake. As monotonous as palace life could be at times, the bird’s song was always a part of your routine you could never tire of.
You aren’t tired of them now, as you make your way along the forest path. Having successfully made it out of the inner circle of the woods alive, the scenery is far more comforting than ominous. The twisted spindling tree’s replaced once again by tall pine and oaks, the deep darkness now broken by the sun peaking through the forest canopy. Beams of sunlight dancing between your fingers, you hum along to the bird’s steady tune, bare feet pressing gently against the lush soil.
Having taken a stroll by yourself, the sound of the three men bustling around your make-shift campsite fades away into the background, even the gentle breeze overpowering their voices as they chatter amongst themselves.
It’s nice, you think, to have a moment to yourself. A peaceful one, where you don’t feel at risk of being murdered, injured, or having the reality of your identity discovered.
You hear the sound of a stream up ahead - or perhaps simply a slow-moving river - and your feet are set in motion before you can even really contemplate following the noise.
It is, in fact, a river. Although the water rushes at a far greater pace than originally expected. Walking up to the shoreline, it’s incredibly satisfying when your toes dip into the stream, the coolness pleasant as the dirt and grime from the following days gently washes away.
You think of how nice it would be to take a bath at the moment, like the ones you could have any time back at the castle. Lavish soaps and fragrances, steaming hot water and bubbles only a beck and call away.
One of the many privileges you took for granted. If you ever do get to Kuroku and manage to marry the Prince, you’ll be sure to not take such things so lightly.
Closing your eyes to further enjoy the feeling of the water against your bare skin. Taking in a deep breath, you’re flooded with the smell of pine and the logfire from back at the camp. You suppose that this is one thing you never had back in the kingdom, only imported fruit trees growing in the castle gardens, and the thought of a campfire anywhere near the King’s study is almost comedical.
So if the possibility of a warm bath be an unattainable longing, you may as well revel in what would have also been impossible for you to have back at home.
After a moment, you open your eyes, prepared to return back to the campsite and the vast journey you have ahead of you. However, your limbs can’t seem to force themselves into motion, as you catch sight of a man further up ahead the river.
Blinking, you narrow your gaze, surely seeing things.
Surely, because what - or better, who - you are seeing is simply not possible.
Silver hair disheveled, he bustles around in a small wooden boat, only big enough for roughly two people. Turning around to observe the stern - and subsequently the side facing you - he rubs a steak of dirt from his forehead, letting out a deep and frustrated sigh. After a moment, he tiredly looks up, and you are greeted by a pair of familiar eyes.
A familiar nose. Familiar cheeks and a familiar steady jawline. Familiar lips as they settle into a frustrated pout.
Familiar everything. All details embedded into your memory after a lifetime of seeing them, these details something that have rarely left your mind within the last couple days. A familiarness that you never thought you would see again.
Tears immediately flood your eyes, and you’re half-blinded by the glossiness as you rush towards the man. Sore limbs practically flailing outwards from the sheer speed of your pursuit, your voice breaks out in emotion as you call out to him.
“Mingi!” His eyes widen as you call out to him, and his expression settles into a grin. A familiar and cheeky - would slap it off of him if you weren’t so utterly relieved - sort of grin.
Crashing into him, he lets out a small “oof”as you wrap your arms around tall frame. Squeezing him painfully tight, you just need to make sure that he’s actually there. That he’s real and solid, not some twisted fragment of your imagination.
It’s only once you decide that he checks all of these boxes that you finally let him go.
“Y-You’realive,” you practically blubber out, still not quite believing it.
Because this isn’t possible, itcan’tbe.
Yet somehow, it is.
Watching the way your lip quivers, the overwhelming emotions just too much for a singular moment, he lets out a quiet chuckle before using one of his fingers to wipe away a rogue tear that trails down your cheek.
“Of course I’m alive,” he replies, voice gentle. “You didn’t really think I’d go that easy, did you?”
Yes, you did. You heard his screams, those desperate wails of agony, so horrific that they fill your mind every time the silence becomes too thick. It didn’t seem that there was much possibility for another fate, death the singular option for something so terrible.
Yet, here he is. Standing before you, tall and steady, solid and breathing. Alive.
“How?” You start before clearing your throat, which is choked and raspy with shock. “How did you make it out of there? I heard you die, Mingi. I-I feltit, in my chest I felt it. So how-”
“How about I tell you on the way to Kuroku?” He smiles, gesturing to the boat beside him against the shoreline, having been forgotten in the moment’s relief.
The three men back at your campsite only cross your mind for a split second. You wonder what Seonghwa might think, how much sadness those big brown eyes might gleam with, if he might even think you were murdered or abducted. You think of San, if within those analytical and lingering glances he might have always suspected something was off, although you doubt it.
You even think of Woo, and just how much he will boast about being right about you all along.
However, with that thought the moment of hesitation disappears, and you step into the boat.
Mingi follows suit after you, taking a seat at the stern before using an ore to push the two of you away from the shoreline. Wind blows against your face as the tiny boat slowly begins to gain momentum, water splashing up from the current before you and stinging your eyes, a journey full of unknowns awaiting you. However, this time you don’t mind.
No, because with Mingi, you feel safe. You feel protected and comfortable. At home, with someone to trust, as well as pick up all of the slack that you simply cannot carry.
Twisting yourself around in the boat to face him, you find that he is already smiling at you. That warm, familiar grin enough to fill your chest with warmth. A genuine glimpse of happiness, the first you’ve felt amidst the endless sorry that has coated the last few days.
“I missed you,” you say simply, because what other statement could possibly hold more truth?
“I know,” he replies, and you snort at this. He was never one for sentimentality.
“So how did you get out of the stable?” You ask, settling your chin in your palm, elbow resting against your knees. Scanning his figure, you’re surprised at how well dressed he is, in spotless kingdom armour with not even a splotch of grime to be found. “I don’t even see any wounds on you,” you say, only realizing how odd this fact is as the words leave your mouth, narrowing your eyes to inspect him closer.
Mingi laughs, eyes focusing out on the water in front of him. After a moment, his grin slowly morphs into a thin line. Still smiling, although it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. It’s a strange sort of expression, one you aren’t sure you’ve ever seen him wear before.
His gaze shifts back to yours, and when he speaks, his voice is plain.
“I didn’t.”
You blink.
“What?” You ask, assuming you must have heard him wrong.
“I didn’t make it out of the stable,” he answers easily, although perhaps it is this steadiness to his voice that causes an unsettling chill to pass through you. The boy’s eyes remain fixated on your own as he speaks, still entirely unblinking. “I died there, just as gruesomely as you expected me to.”
“Mingi,” You begin, doing your best to keep your voice steady and mind calm. Surely, he must be kidding. This is some sort of strange, bizarre sort of joke. “What are you talking about?”
“Did you even think about coming back for me?” He asks, and at this his eyebrows furrow slightly, a new edge to his voice. “Did you even think I was worthy of saving,Princess?”
A pang of both hurt and guilt rattles in your chest, caught off guard by the malevolence behind the words. “Of course I wanted to,” you start, looking at him incredulously. “But you told me to run.”
“And you didn’t even think twice about it, did you?” He continues, tone snide. It’s with this comment that he drops both of the ores into the water, and they quickly begin to take off down the river, moving much faster than your boat due to their light weight.
“Mingi, the ores-” you begin, almost following them over the edge in an attempt at reaching out for one of them. Mingi, however, seems as if he couldn’t care less.
“You won’t be needing them,” he states bluntly. “There’s no chance you’ll make it to Kuroku by yourself.”
Anger, mixed with both confusion and terror, twists within your gut. “What the hell are you even talking-”
“But I suppose you’re not really by yourself, are you?” He ponders aloud, the thin line of his lips shifting into something sinister. A twisted smirk, and when he smiles there’s blood between each of his teeth, so much so that it drips down onto his lips. “Running with thieves now, are we Princess?”
Shame twists within you, and you suddenly feel small. This tiny boat is like a box, like a trap. “I was just doing what I had to do.”
“How noble,” he laughs. A darkness suddenly falls over the two of you, and you look upwards to see that the sky has become shrouded in black clouds. An oncoming storm - and a nasty one at that - beginning to brew.
Mingi suddenly leans in, a little too close for your liking. “You’re going to rot in hell,” he whispers, voice almost gentle. “For choosing them over me.”
“I didn’t-” you begin, but you’re cut off by your own cough. More surprising, however, is that with this cough comes water. Spluttering from your lips, it drenches the front of your tunic. Attempting to suck in a breath, you find that for some reason, you can’t.
You can’t breathe, as with every time you inhale, it feels as if you aren’t taking in air at all. But water.
Looking back up from your drenched tunic, your panicked eyes do not meet Mingi’s at all, but rather Woo’s. Sitting before you in that same kingdom guard attire, teeth just as bloody.
“Enjoy the swim, Princess,” he laughs, and with no more than a gentle push against your chest, he pushes you overboard.
No matter how desperately you fight upwards, your body sinks as if it were stone.
You wake with a start. Sweat beading across your forehead, each individual breath is ragged as you attempt to steady yourself. Your breathing, however, refuses to cooperate. Throat feeling tight and choked, it’s as if the drowning had actually been real.
Shaky hands coming up to cover your eyes, you shuffle yourself upwards, so that you’re seated with your knees drawn into your chest.
It all felt so real. The drowning, the terror, the guilt.
Mingi.
“In. Out. In. Out. In. Out,” you repeat in your mind, just trying to get your breathing regulated. Yet, it appears to be of no use, as it’s as if your lungs are no longer connected to your brain. Acting completely on their own accord, and that is to say not at all.
Panic rising hot in your throat, you feel the sudden urge to vomit. Nausea swims and twists within your gut, each breath more shallow than the next. With your palms clammy and mind fuzzy with hysteria, you struggle to rise to your feet before you even register where exactly you’re going.
You need to get out of this tent. The stuffiness decidedly underbearable, you’re in desperate need of some fresh air.
Pulling back the flap, you’re immediately greeted by the eyes of all three men turning to stare at you. Seonghwa opens his mouth, most likely to utter a “good morning” or something along those lines, but stops as he catches sight of your wide and startled eyes, as well as frantic and heaving chest.
“Are you alright?” He asks, eyebrows furrowed together in genuine worry, mouth parted in a downturned fashion. San and Woo both seem equally as curious, sharing a momentary side-glance between one another as they watch you carefully.
You need to get a hold of yourself. Fast, before curiosity twists into suspicion.
Feeling only slightly as if you are suffocating, you are careful to avoid all of their eyes as you make your way over to Seonghwa, clearing your throat. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just not a morning person.”
The man is obviously not satisfied by the answer, your present state surely appearing more nervous and terrified compared to tired. Seonghwa narrows his eyes, although after a moment, he appears to decide against saying anything.
“Are you hungry?” San asks from his place over by the fire. Turning your attention over to the swordsman, you watch as he fries eggs on a pan over the flame. An awfully domestic look, adorning a stained apron rather than the series of knives and fur coat he usually wears, your lips quirk upwards unintentionally at the bizarreness of the display.
The ringing in your ears finally settles to a dull buzz, you let out a shaky breath, the moment’s panic finally subsiding.
“I could eat,” you answer - impressed by the steadiness of your own voice - and he smiles. Handing you a small plank of wood as a substitute for a plate, he drops a singular egg down before you. Having not eaten for roughly a day and a half now, your stomach protests at the measly excuse for breakfast, especially considering it’s grown used to the grand feasts from back at the palace.
“We’re only a few hours out from a town,” San says, sensing your disappointment. “So don’t worry, we’ll stop there for the night. I think a bed and a hot meal might do you some good.”
You wonder just how disheveled you must look to earn such a statement, but frankly, you can’t disagree.
“We also have a couple errands to run,” he continues, dropping an egg onto his own place before sitting down on the log next to you. “If you don’t mind tagging along.”
“No problem,” you reply, even though you’re not so sure if it really is “no problem”. You know the town that’s coming up ahead - Stockholm - and considering you’ve visited quite a few times throughout the years, it’s a very real possibility that someone may recognize you.
But you also have to play into your role, and saying no to such a simple request would be undeniably suspicious. You’ll just have to be careful, wear Mingi’s cloak up high and keep your head down, and everything should be fine.
Hopefully.
“What sort of errands?” You ask, ensuring that your tone remains nonchalant.
“Well, Seonghwa and Woo will go look for a cheap tavern for us to stay the night, somewhere with a stable,” San answers, before practically devouring his own egg in one bite, covering his mouth as he chews before speaking again. “Then you and I will go to the market to get some supplies, mostly medical stuff, because it’s been made apparent we’re severely lacking. We’ll also pick up some clothes that aren’t so damn bloody. Oh, and get you an actual pair of shoes.”
You can’t help but let out a sigh of relief at the statement, one you didn’t even realize you’d been holding onto. Looking down at your feet, coated in dirt and dry blood, heels certainly calloused and blistered, you never thought that the possibility of simply having shoes could be something so incredible to look forward to.
San seems to take note of this relief, lip curving upward slightly into a sort of half-smile. “So eat quick,” he says, nodding towards your already half-eaten egg. “We’ll take off in five.”
Stockholm is an endearing town.
One of the very few places outside of your own castle and kingdom that you’ve ever been permitted to visit, the little village has always held a very special place in your heart.
Typically, you’d visit at the very beginning of autumn, when the entire town would transform into a collage of red, orange and yellow hues. The scents of hazelnut and cinnamon filling the air, the streets would be decorated to the nines in hopes of impressing their guests: the royal family - your family - who always stopped by annually for the occasion.
But now, with autumn still a fair distance from approaching and summer well within its prime, this cinnamon smell is now replaced by that of greenery. The air is hot and filled with a lush and flowery scent, and the area surrounding the streets and market are unlike you have ever seen them.
There is a certain simplicity to Stockholm that you never witnessed on your royal visits, a level of mundaneness that surprises you. Family’s make their way up and down the narrow streets, running their daily errands rather than attending the many autumn festivals. Fetching eggs rather than apple cider and pumpkin doughnuts, wearing trousers and tunics compared to their finest attire.
It’s a glimpse of a world foreign to you, that under regular circumstances you would never have been able to see.
It is not Stockholm primped and fashioned for your gaze, it is simply the way that it always is. You think you like it better this way.
However, this is not the only reason that your trip to the market of Stockholm is not what you’d expected it to be. What you’d anticipated was to be constantly in fear of the lingering glances you would receive, the looming possibility of someone recognizing you. Of being ratted out to the black-clad men that might be looming somewhere within the town’s cracks and shadows.
Instead, it appears that the people of the market are almost avoiding your gaze.
Although you’ve kept the hood of Mingi’s cloak drawn up high, gaze downcast as you and San make your way through the market’s many stands, there are still the occasional accidental glimpses of eye contact. Terror rushing through you each time your gaze locks with a stranger, your chest siezes as you imagine what would happen if their face suddenly lit up with recognition.
However, this doesn’t seem to be an issue, as whenever a stranger’s eyes meet yours, they immediately look away. Not casually, gaze naturally drifting after obviously recognizing you as a stranger and nothing more, but rather a sharp glance away from your direction, as if they didn’t want to be caught staring.
It’s not until you catch a glimpse of your reflection in a shop’s window that you understand this strange phenomenon.
Stopping in your tracks, you approach the window almost cautiously, not sure if what you’re seeing is even real. Your reflection appears utterly foreign to your own eyes, and you withhold a gasp.
The burn marks cover multiple areas on your face, small but noticeable scars that span from the top of your forehead down to your chin. Rather inflamed, your skin raises at the sight of each of the wounds, burning a twisted dark red and purplish hue.
“What…” You trail off, attempting to recall what could have caused such ghastly marks, but the answer comes to your mind almost immediately.
The scorpion’s saliva. The odorous and putrid liquid that had dripped from the beast’s mouth when it hung over top of you. You faintly remember a burning sensation, although frankly, that seemed to be the least of your worries at the time.
But now, it seems that this is the damage that has made itself the most permanent, even the wounds on your arm surely have more of a chance at fully healing compared to this.
Hand drifting up to graze over the wounds, you find that they don’t hurt so badly, which you can only hope is a positive sign, although you’re not so sure.
You feel the presence of a figure settle behind you, and you hear as San awkwardly clears his throat.
“I meant to tell you earlier,” he says, voice quiet. You can faintly see his reflection through the window as well, and his expression is somber. “I just wasn’t sure how.”
You don’t say anything, because frankly, you also don’t know how to respond. Blinking at your reflection, you struggle to wrap your head around just how differentyou look. How unfamiliar the person staring back at you is.
The last few days you’ve already felt like enough of a stranger in your own skin. Through all the fear and bloodshed, the loss of everything you hold dear, you no longer felt like yourself, like the Princess of Libaiya. Reduced to a weak and terrified mess, in a far more helpless position than you have ever wished to be.
But now to see yourself, and not even physically appear to be the girl you once knew. A stranger, both in your mind and body… It’s too much, and your mind can’t seem to divulge a response. A sort of blank numbness to the sight takes over, compared to the anger or horror that seems the more appropriate response.
The lack of emotion and unfamiliarity only warranted in the presence of someone you don’t recognize, that you’ve never met. And really, isn’t that what the person staring back at you is?
“I’m sure they’ll heal,” San says, doing his best to reassure you, although you can hear the falseness in his attempt at sincerity. You don’t want to hear it. You don’t want to be here anymore, staring at this complete and utter stranger.
“Let’s just go,” you say, tearing yourself away from the window and back down the market’s path without another spare glance. You can feel as San lingers in place for a moment, but he eventually sighs, following after you.
This is a part of San you are growing fond of, can appreciate. You’re certain that Woo would simply never drop a topic that interests him, and Seonghwa - for all his kindness - would make a series of attempts to try and make you feel better.
But San does neither of these things. He drops the subject, exactly like you want him to. He doesn’t push, he doesn’t pry, he simply lets it be.
It makes you wonder what of his own feelings he is hiding, as it is often only those who have their own topics of interest they don’t want to talk about that drop such matters so easily.
“Are we going to meet back up with them?” You ask, referring to Seonghwa and Woo, who you’d left at the gate of town a few hours ago. They’d gone to search for a cheap tavern to spend the night, and surely by now they’ve found one.
“Soon,” San answers, before glancing around the market, as if looking for something. “We just have one more stop to make first.”
“Oh?” You ask, perking up in interest. You’d already stopped at endless market stands, seeming to buy a few of everything under the sun. Medical supplies, preservable food and clothing - as well as a hearty lunch for the day - the satchels you wear on your back are practically stuffed to the brim with your items of purchase.
He even bought you a pair of shoes, the boots fitting comfortable and snug against the arches of your heels, which you note have grown rather substantially in size due to your newly formed calluses. Honestly, you couldn’t care less, the simple relief of having footwear joyous enough to quell the surprise.
“And where might that be?” You ask, as San seems to settle on whatever he was searching for, beginning to head west of the market square and onto a new town road.
“A blacksmith,” he answers, as the two of you take a turn down onto a narrow alleyway. A shortcut it seems, and you’re surprised at how well the swordsman seems to know his way around this town. Libaiya would appear the far more convenient stop, being a little closer to their cabin and the ride less dangerous, but it appears that Stockholm is a place he visits often enough to know by memory.
After not responding to his statement, simply assuming that the visit will be to sharpen his sword or purchase some more arrows, he adds on: “To craft you a sword.”
Eyebrows launching upwards, you turn to face him fully at this, mouth drifting open in surprise. “Really?”
San simply shrugs, holding a level of nonchalance as he takes a left down the alleyway.
And although a burst of excitement erupts from your chest, it is quickly quelled by another, stronger feeling of uncertainty.
“Are you…” You start hesitantly, not wanting to ruin an opportunity for yourself, but also not exactly wanting to start another argument within the group. “Are you sure that Woo would be alright with that?”
San doesn’t say anything for a moment, but when he does, his tone is more firm than you would expect. “Woo says and does whatever he wants whenever he wants, he can deal with it.”
Taken aback by the aggression to the swordsman’s tone, you wonder if it may have something to do with the kiss by the fire last night. Or better, the awkward tension as a result afterwards.
Ultimately, you decide to drop it, the thick silence following the statement clearly being San’s way of having put a cork on the matter entirely.
Fortunately, the silence does not last long, as San approaches the door of the building located at the very end of the alley. A rundown little shop, with no windows and faded brick walls, a glimpse of anticipation courses through you at the thought of going inside.
Not only from the mysterious nature to the building, but also the mere thought of having a weapon of your own. A sword that you can call yours, that cannot be taken away from you so easily. A piece of your own protection, against the seemingly endless dangers that have and have yet to fall onto your path.
A glimpse of control, against what has been constant chaos.
Following San into the blacksmith’s shop, your first impression is that it is dark, the only light sources being a series of dimly lit lanterns strone about. Different types of swords and bows coat the entirety of the walls, and even a hefty mace hangs down from the ceiling.
It’s unlike any place you’ve ever been, mostly because your father thought it was rather inappropriate for a Princess to shop in her people’s stores, especially a place where weapons - and thus adjacently bad ideas - were formed.
And to his credit, perhaps there was a bit of truth to that, as when you approach the wall of longswords, these inappropriate ideas of combat certainly do enter your mind.
Bringing your hand up to take one of them off the shelf, a particularly hefty blade with a white hilt, San puts a hand out to stop you.
“Not one of these ones,” he explains when you cast him a confused glance, a slight curve to his lip in amusement. Whether at the extent of your excitement or the childish intrigue that accompanies it, you aren’t sure. “We’ll get Bin to craft you a new one.”
Before you can object, as within the entire wall of swords you’re certain at least one of them would be a good fit, San walks away from you and further into the shop.
“Bin!” He shouts, before actually walking behind the front counter, attempting again as he peeks his head into the backroom. “Bin, you there?”
“Yes, yes. I’ll be right out!” A voice calls back faintly, before a series of clanging that you assume is “Bin”dropping something in the back. However, before you have the chance to go help him, the door swings open wildly before you.
When Bin steps out, he’s covered in charcoal, the black dust all over his arms and clothing, as well as in a thick smudge across his forehead. Sweat beading down his temple, his arms - which you note are rather muscular - are glistening with this same sweat, the sleeves of his shirt drawn up as high as possible, reaching just over his biceps.
The reason for his sweltering attire is made quite clear, as you can feel the heat from the smithy’s forge wafting in even from behind the door, the faint glow of the fire visible from behind him.
The man laughs when he sees San, before pulling the swordsman into an embrace. San seems equally as thrilled to see him, hand patting against Bin’s back, smile across his lips. It’s an uncharacteristically wide smile, far different than the familiar tilt to his lips you’ve grown used to.
After a moment, they pull away, and San turns to you before motioning towards the man. “Yeji, this is Changbin, he’s an old friend of ours.”
At this, Changbin extends a hand out towards you, and it takes you a moment before you even register it as an attempt at a handshake.
An entirely foreign gesture, it’s one you’ve only seen and never actually received. Only ever having shared a bow and curtsy in greeting previously, the informality takes you aback.
For the second time today, you feel absolutely nothing like who you are, the Princess of Libaiya.
“Nice to meet you,” Changbin says kindly when you finally take his hand, offering him a smile of your own. His eyes are sweet, genuine, and for the first time in a while you feel safe in this place, the shop much less daunting than the many eyes filling the town square.
“So what brings you guys in today?” Changbin asks, gaze fluttering over to San. “It’s not quite autumn yet, I didn’t expect you for another month or so.”
“We’ve taken a little detour from our regular schedule,” San chuckles, before putting a hand on your shoulder. It’s a bit strange, as well as something he’s certainly never done before, painting an illusion of familiarity the two of you don’t truly contain. Although, funny enough, you don’t really mind the idea of a friendship with the swordsman, companionship something you’ve always held dear but limited to a select few.
And with those few gone, even if it’s not quite grounded, the thought of gaining a friend through all of this doesn’t seem so terrible.
Even if such a friendship will come crashing down once you reach your destination.
“We’re taking this one to Kuroku,” San continues, giving your shoulder a soft shake in emphasis.
“Long journey,” Changbin comments, and the swordsman nods in agreement.
“Sure is. That’s why we need you to craft her a sword, something solid that a beginner can learn to wield easily.”
You half expect the blacksmith to deny the request, to say something along the lines of how a woman should not wield a blade. That it’s inappropriate, unfeminine, and just plain dishonourable. Something you’ve heard your father, as well as plenty of other men in his court and royal guard say countless times before.
But Changbin simply smiles. “Well then you’ve come to the right place, what sort of style of blade are you thinking?”
It takes a moment spent in silence for you to realize that he’s not addressing San, but you.
Perhaps reading the situation as awkwardness and not uncertainty on your part, San clears his throat. “Well, I’ll leave you two to it. If you need me, I’ll be over by the arrows.”
“Wait-” you start, but San simply spares you a glance over his shoulder, good eye glistening with an emotion you don’t quite recognize. Not mischief exactly, but a little more timid. Pride perhaps, but that seems equally as strange.
“It’s not my sword he’s crafting,” he says plainly, before turning around fully and making his way towards the opposite end of the room.
Turning around to face Changbin once more, you find that he’s still watching you intently, awaiting your answer. Feeling utterly out of your element, you lamely point to the wall of swords you were looking at upon walking inside.
“Maybe one of those?” You offer, and instead of teasing you on your lack of specificality, the blacksmith hums in understanding.
“Your classic longsword, good choice,” he says thoughtfully, before looking you up and down, mostly likely to get an idea of what length it should be. “Any other requests design wise? Like the colour and style of the hilt?”
Your initial response is to say no, assume his own expertise would be able to come up with something far better than your lack thereof, but you hesitate for a moment.
The weight in your pocket suddenly makes itself prominent, and an idea pops into your mind. Risky, certainly, the thievery of the necklace being something you had planned to keep a secret from the three men.
But the fact of the matter remains that this journey will be both a long and dangerous one, and attempting to keep such an expensive, as well as large piece of jewelry in your pocket for the entirety of the time seems just plain foolish.
Pulling the necklace from your pocket, you hold it out to him in the flesh of your palm. “Could you embed this sapphire in the bottom of the hilt?”
Eyebrows raising slightly, Changbin reaches forward to hold the jewel in his hand, examining it closely. “That shouldn’t be too difficult,” the blacksmith mutters under his breath, before glancing back up towards you. “And what of the diamonds?”
You answer before you even really consider the words. “Keep them.”
Eyebrows now launching entirely upwards, he sputters in practical disbelief. “My dear,” he starts, granting you a look of complete and utter incredulity. “That is far too much for simply crafting a sword.”
He’s right, but carrying around a string of diamonds seems like a plea for them to either be stolen or lost. Besides, it is not your only request. “Don’t worry about it,” you start, before nodding a head towards San, who intently spins an arrow in his hands as he examines it. “You just have to promise me that you won’t mention this to him.”
Changbin’s expression furrows at this, glancing between San and the expensive necklace that sits in his palm, as if weighing his options.
After a moment, however, a small smile crosses the corner of his lips.
The blacksmith extends a hand out towards you, and this time you accept it with far less hesitancy. “You, my dear, have got yourself a deal.”
Wooyoung is tired.
He’s tired of San. He’s tired of Seonghwa. He’s tired of them being so damn clueless, helping some girl they met in the woods when it’s so painfully obvious there’s something terribly offabout you.
He doesn’t trust you, and he feels that distrust as a strange tickling that itches beneath his skin, telling him that you are nothing but a bad omen for their party. What this feeling is or where it comes from he can’t quite place, but that doesn’t change the fact that there’s a constant turn in his gut that tells him that this entire trip to Kuroku is bad news.
But his companions won’t listen to him, as at some point within the last two days, they both decided that the word of complete stranger is more valuable than his own.
Idiots, both of them.
Yet, begrudgingly, they’re also both sort of his idiots, so by default he’s the one who has to deal with the consequences of their own stupid actions.
Seonghwa in particular is making this the most difficult, as for some unknown reason, he’s decided to pine extra hard for your delivery to Kuroku.
Well, it’s not exactly a mystery, as Wooyoung thinks it’s quite obvious that Seonghwa is thinking with his heart - as well as likely his dick - rather than any form of logic.
And yet, Wooyoung is the one who’s out of line here, who isn’t being reasonable.
Frankly, it’s laughable.
“This place seems good,” Seonghwa says, motioning to the tavern standing in front of them. It’s a quaint, run-down little place, and thus a bit cheaper than the other taverns they’d visited around town. The owner was also extra kind, an older lady who’d agreed to give them a bit of a discount when they mentioned they were harbouring a Libaiyan refugee.
So, at the very least, it turns out you weren’t lying about that. Talk about the besiegement of Libaiya has been all over town, news seeming to have traveled faster than majority of the mysterious army of black-clad men that took hold of the castle, as well as murdered The King. Many Libaiyans, at least those lucky enough to have escaped the kingdom before it’s been placed under lockdown, have found themselves in Stockholm. A first stop on a journey north to safer lands, similar to the journey in which Woo has now found himself.
And yet, while your story now seems to be something far less out of the ordinary, he still can’t bring himself to let his guard down. That strange, tingling feeling that something is off about this whole ordeal still itching beneath his skin, turning within his gut.
He doesn’t trust you, and he doubts he ever will.
Wooyoung nods in agreement to Seonghwa’s statement about the tavern, and thus the blonde continues. “Should we meet back up with Yeji and San then? They’re probably still in the market square.”
He hates how Seonghwa says your name, so kind and gentle. The blonde may as well have his face turn a light pink hugh, hearts replacing where his pupils once were. Maybe start kicking his feet in the air and tracing your names together on parchment.
Wooyoung wonders if the man is aware of how disgustingly obvious he is.
Rolling his eyes, instead of answering he simply turns on his heel, back onto the street and heading towards the market square. Seonghwa trails behind him, and although he doesn’t say anything in response, he doesn’t refrain from letting out a deep, frustrated sigh at Woo’s suspense.
“Yeah,”Wooyoung thinks to himself, tired. “That’s how I feel too.”
After a few minutes walking in silence, Seonghwa suddenly puts a hand on Woo’s shoulder, close to the nape of his neck. The elemental is careful to ignore the way his heart stutters slightly at the sentiment, the way his breath catches in his throat for a moment.
Nowthat is something he won’t let his conscience touch with a ten foot pole, and he’s doing well to keep it that way.
“Hey, let’s take a look,” Seonghwa says, nodding towards the billboard of postings just outside the town’s main watering hole. It’s a place they check every time they come to Stockholm, where the villagers can make different requests for tasks they’re willing to pay for.
In the trio’s own interest, it’s sometimes used for hunting monsters, the villager’s thought of completing such dangerous bloodshed themselves far too terrifying. It’s been a few times now that they’ve killed a nasty beast, a basilisk having nestled itself in the town’s sewer system once, or the time a mimic decided to wreak havoc in the tavern’s at night.
It’s become a good way to make some extra cash, and Wooyoung’s glad that Seonghwa is able to at least keep his head clear enough to not ignore that as well.
Taking a moment to scan the billboard, it’s almost immediate how one posting in particular grabs his attention. Partially due to the fact it’s almost double the size as the rest, but mostly because beneath the large letters reading “WANTED” there is not the drawing of a monster, but of a person.
WANTED: PRINCESS OF LIBAIYA
LAST SEEN RIDING ON HORSEBACK TOWARDS STOCKHOLM
DEAD OR ALIVE
REWARD: 250,000 GOLD PIECES
Seonghwa whistles lowly, the posting clearly having caught his own attention as well. “250,000 gold pieces, that’s a fortune.”
“We could retire on that alone,” Wooyoung adds, leaning in a little closer to examine the portrait. After a moment, he rips it off the billboard, to which Seonghwa gasps in protest at the act of vandalism.
The corner of Wooyoung’s lip twitches upward, he’s so easy to rile up.
“Hey, what are you doing? Put that back!” Seonghwa rushes quietly as Wooyoung pays no mind to him, continuing his way back towards the town square.
“Relax,” Wooyoung says easily, casting a lazy glance over his shoulder at the blonde. “I just think San may want to see it, that’s all.”
And although he won’t admit it outloud, another part of him wishes that San may agree to abandon the trip to Kuroku entirely. It’s not too unfair of a statement, as if they get the money they need in a different way, then why even bother with this extraneous, risky journey anyways?
After all, she was last seen heading in the same direction they’re headed. Who knows who they might stumble into along the way, so long as he keeps an eye out.
Then things can go back to the way they were. Comfortable and predictable, just the way he likes them to be.
Maybe all Wooyoung needs to do is find the Princess of Libaiya himself.
The sketch doesn’t look like you.
That’s the first thing that enters your mind when Woo hands the piece of parchment over to San, who takes it in his hands before scanning it intently.
Casting a discreet glance over his shoulder, your heart seizes in fear at the first glance of the headline: “WANTED: PRINCESS OF LIBAIYA.”
The bodily urge to take off down the nearest street and away from the band of thieves as quickly as possible is your immediate instinct. However, after a glance down at the sketch of you below the statement, the fear dissipates as quickly as it originally arrived.
Because the sketch doesn’t look like you. It simply doesn’t, none of your features identical to your own. Eyes and nose the completely wrong size and hair not to the proper length nor texture, you aren’t even sporting the peasant’s clothes you escaped in.
None of the men seem to observe any sort of resemblance either, as San’s eyes flicker over the pamphlet lazily, no flash of any sort of connection.
“Hm, would you look at that,” San mutters, the corner of his lip pulling upward in a smirk. “Looks like someone is willing to pay a pretty penny for little Miss Princess.”
“A pretty penny doesn’t even begin to cover it,” Woo grins, taking the parchment from San’s hands and holding it up before him. “It’s a fucking fortune.”
You know they don’t recognize that the picture is of you - and you’re certain they won’t, as you wouldn’t either - but the conversation makes you nervous nonetheless. After all, listening to your guides talk about just how much money they’d make turning you into whatever bounty hunters may be after you isn’t exactly your favourite topic.
“You see this?” Woo says, and it takes you a moment to realize that he’s talking to you. Granting him a brief nod in response, he continues, tone only slightly condescending. “She’s your friend right - or sorry - yourboss?”
This seems to peak Seonghwa’s interest. “Right, you know her, don’t you Yeji?”
You hate this. You hate this. You hate this.
“Yeah, I do,” you respond, doing your best to keep your voice steady, feigning a level of disinterest.
“And?” San asks, casting you a curious glance. “What’s Miss Silverspoon like?”
Now, you aren’t a fool. You can tell that the answer to the question must be a calculated one, and it unfortunately doesn’t come easily, as you’re unsure exactly how to play this one out.
Naturally, your first instinct is to defend yourself. The men’s tones all clearly hold a level of distaste and passive aggression, and you don’t exactly wish to sully your reputation, especially considering your reputation is all you really have to hold onto.
But your instincts have always been far more emotional than logical, and logic is all you can afford.
“She’s a brat,” you answer with a shrug, and Woo actually lets out a laugh at this, a bark of surprise.
“Really?” He asks, as if almost impressed by your bluntness.
Swallowing down the bile that arises in your throat at the thought of anything you do impressing Woo, you push forward. It’s decidedly better for you not to defend her - or, well, you- so that they don’t associate these two identities together. If they think you hate the Libaiyan Princess, they are far less likely to think that she could possibly be you.
“Yeah, she is,” you continue, even adding a roll of the eyes. “She’s spoiled. Bossy, a tad arrogant.”
It almost hurts to say, considering you loved your staff, and only ever treated them with grace and kindness. But alas, desperate times.
“Not that surprising,” Woo adds, raising his hands above his head in a stretch, before letting out a yawn that he speaks his next words through. “She’s filthy rich, after all. Why care about the rest of us little folk?”
You swallow down the annoyed response that arises hot in the back of your throat. Of course you care about your people, and you certainly don’t refer to them as “little folk”.
And frankly, the blatant assumption that you ever would cause a sharp pulse of anger to course through you, fist clenching tightly at your side.
Yet, even with the moment’s fury, you won’t act on it. What your people need is for you to get to Kuroku, and you will do everything in your power to make that happen.
Whether Woo is aware of it or not, let this be your act of service to prove just how much you care for them, even if it means dragging your own name and reputation through the dirt.
“No kidding,” you say, going as far as to add a laugh of your own, even though the words taste like bile along your tongue. “It’s been a long summer, I just want to get home.”
And although you’re attempting to make a connection with him, the comment does not earn the response you were expecting.
“What, back to your mansion?” Woo interjects, tone sharp. You blink, surprised by the sudden aggression, as well as unsure of where exactly he got that idea.
But the realization comes quickly. Your family - or better, fakefamily - is also wealthy enough to pay them big. Big enough to make the journey, which means such wealth would also accompany other riches like a mansion, servant staff, fine furniture and decor, and most likely all the other luxuries he seems to resent you and the royal family for.
And while it wasn’t something you were exactly holding on to, your one chance of getting Woo to lay off of you, even if only for a moment, evaporates before your eyes.
So be it. It’s not as if you have any desire to bond with the elemental anyways.
“And why would you be pissy about that?” You ask, happy enough to let out some of your harbouring frustration towards him from the “little folk” comment. “It’s inyour best interest, or have you forgotten why you’re here?”
Woo doesn’t say much in response to this, but you don’t miss the way he not-so-subtly rolls his eyes.
“I’m sure we’re almost at the tavern,” San says, his tone exhausted, mouth drawing into a thin line. “Let’s try to keep the bickering to a minimum.”
“Please,” Seonghwa adds, casting a pointed glance in Woo’s direction. If Woo notices, he doesn’t say anything, but rather picks up his pace to walk ahead of your group.
He’s clearly pissed, and something tells you it has to do with a little more than your minor argument, although what exactly you can’t quite place.
Turning suddenly, the elemental opens the door to a quaint little building to your right, surely the tavern he and Seonghwa had discovered earlier. However, as you move to follow in after him, you are not greeted by the cozy atmosphere of a tavern, but rather the wooden door swinging back into your nose.
Did he just…?
Tears welling in your eyes from the suddenness of the blow, you take a step back, rubbing your nose bridge. Blinking rapidly as San pushes past you and into the tavern with a newfound sense of urgency, mostly likely to rip into Woo for the upteenth time.
“Are you okay?” Seonghwa asks, eyes filling with genuine concern as you pull away your hand from your nose, fingers now coated in the blood dripping from your nostril.
You simply nod in response, because really, you are okay. You’re not even angry, no longer containing the energy to chase after the elemental, give him a slap even harder than yesterday’s.
No, you aren’t angry, you’re tired.
Tired of bleeding and the constant bickering, of not being able to see yourself when you look in the mirror. Tired of constantly being on guard and afraid that someone may find out your true identity, whether it be the people of the town or your own travel party.
You’re just tired of it all.
And when you reopen the tavern door and find San angrily whispering in Woo’s direction, who appears as indifferent and disinterested as always, only one thought springs to mind:
Kuroku cannot come fast enough.
The sword is beautiful.
Twisting the weapon around in your hand, it’s cool against your skin as you gently run your fingers down the steel of the blade. The hilt covered in a white shagreen, the metal work surrounding the leather is impressive, gilded flowers and thorns spanning across the sword’s guard.
Then, at the very bottom of the hilt, your sapphire glistens, the rich blue almost glowing against the rest of the blade’s white and silver design. It’s almost art rather than a sword, as well as a piece of your old home and family nestled within the new path of life you’ve found yourself embarking on.
Changbin truly outdid himself.
If San noticed the sapphire when the two of you picked the sword back up from the blacksmith in the evening, he didn’t say anything. However, you’re certain it’s only a matter of time before one of them does, the jewel much more noticeable than you had originally expected it to be.
You aren’t sure if they’ll even recognize it, the piece of jewelry holding far more significance to yourself than any of them.
Perhaps it’s not even them noticing it that you’re worried about, but rather what the jewel represents. You’d called them thieves and criminals, yet you’re the one lying to them. You’re the one who stole the necklace back, who paid off one of their friends to keep it a secret.
Who are you to judge them?
Who are you? Because frankly, it’s becoming more and more difficult to recognize yourself, both in your reflection as well as your actions.
Tears begin to glisten in your eyes, and you suppose now is a good time to finally let them fall. After all, you’re alone. The three men are downstairs in the tavern, most likely drinking and having a good time with the rest of the people in Stockholm. Drinking and exchanging stories with people they recognize, as well as others they don’t.
You know, like normal people do. Like people who were permitted to have friends that weren’t restricted to their castle staff or people their father considered to have good political influence. Who have stories because they can actually follow what they dream of, and love people without having to keep it a secret, so less it becomes a scandal to be told all across Burovia.
You sigh, laying back on your rented bed, eyes staring at the roof above you. The self-pity makes you feel gross, even if not spoken aloud. You’re lucky to have lived in luxury, and it feels wrong to suggest anything otherwise.
And yet, a part of you can’t help but yearn. Yearn for a life where all those things could be true. Where you wouldn’t be where you are now.
Where you wouldn’t have lost so damn much.
The first tear slips from your eye when there’s a knock at the door. “It’s open,” you shout, sniffling slightly as you quickly swipe it away.
The door opens just a crack, a head of blonde hair peeking inside. “Are you busy?” Seonghwa asks, a small smile tracing his lips. Despite yourself, you can’t help but smile too.
Blinking away any remnant of remaining tears, you nod. “No, no. Come in,” you say, waving him inside.
“I figured you might want some company,” he says, softly shutting the door behind him. Raising up a bottle of whisky in his hand, he also shrugs, sounding almost shy. “I also have this. Thought it would be a little sad to drink it alone.”
You chuckle at this, and frankly, you would really appreciate a drink at the moment. Pouring a hearty serving into each of the complimentary glasses stationed on the room’s dresser, Seonghwa hands one over to you.
“Not one for the tavern scene?” You ask, before motioning for him to sit down beside you on the bed, feeling a tad awkward to keep him standing. He hesitates only for a moment, before sitting beside you, although careful to keep a respectful distance apart.
It’s a little endearing, you must admit.
“Sometimes, if I’m really in the mood for it,” he replies, gaze fluttering over to you. “But it’s always been more San and Woo’s thing than mine.”
You hum at this, taking a sip of the whisky, which burns hot on your tongue. You’ve only ever really been permitted wine before, or champagne on celebratory occasions. Your father often considered whisky to be a commoner’s drink, unless it had been aged for upmost of three decades, then he’d consider it to be a man’s drink.
“What about you?” Seonghwa asks. “Not your scene either?”
You aren’t really sure how to respond, never having been in a tavern yourself. But after a moment, you decide the truth doesn’t seem too forbidden. At least part of it, anyway.
“I’ve never been in one,” you answer, to which Seonghwa’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “My father doesn’t really approve. I guess it’s not a very proper or feminine place to him.”
His raised eyebrows quickly furrow at this, mouth drawing into a frown in offence. “Well that’s ridiculous. There’s plenty of women down there, why should that matter?”
You simply shrug in response, and he sighs, gaze falling back in front of him. “But I guess I don’t know much about the properness of it. My family was never wealthy, and those sort of societal cues weren’t really an issue back in Maralya.”
You’re surprised at him bringing up his hometown, considering that last night the mere mention of it was enough to bring tears to his eyes.
But perhaps it’s liquid courage running through his veins, and although your budding curiosity is rather tempting, you don’t want to take advantage of a loose tongue.
“We don’t have to talk about that if it makes you uncomfort-” you start, but he cuts you off, tone reassuring.
“No, no. I want to,” he says, once again turning to face you. His eyes are not full of tears this time, but compassion. “I wanted to yesterday, but it was just… a lot. I’ve had the day to sit with it now, and I feel like I should explain why it makes me so…you know.”
Troubled, your mind fills in for him. Vulnerable.
The statement is understandable, so instead of stopping him, you simply let the blonde speak.
“There was a sickness that passed through about six years ago,” he says, tone reminiscent. “Some sort of fever, and people were dying all around us. Our neighbours, our baker and letter carrier.”
You can see the tears welling in his eyes again, although that small, pained smile remains present against his lips. “Eventually my half-brother caught it, and things weren’t looking very good, so my mother sent me away. Didn’t want me to catch it too, so she just begged me to leave before I could.”
“I’m so sorry,” you say, and he just laughs softly, looking down at his feet at the end of the bed.
“It’s alright. Or well, I think it is,” he says, hand fiddling with the tail end of his jacket mindlessly. “I’m not sure if I’ve really made peace with it, I’ve just kind of had to. I don’t know if any of them are alive, but I don’t think I’m ready to go back and check. Not ready to know the answer, I guess.”
Not really sure of what to say, his words all kinds of vulnerable you aren’t prepared to grant yourself. Fortunately, you find you don’t have to give an answer at all, as he continues. Shifting himself slightly to now fully face you, the sentiment feels far more close this way, more intimate and connected.
“I’m only telling you this because I know a lot of what we do can seem wrong, especially if you didn’t grow up on the streets,” he says softly, and there’s no judgement to his words, only sincerity. “Thievery and monster hunting? It was hard for me to wrap my head around at first too.”
“How did you end up with them, anyway?” You ask, leaving out the fact that he seems so utterly different from the other two. Woo full of more outright anger and power, San a more calculated and reserved sort of dangerous. Yet Seonghwa just seems so… good.
Better than them, but also far better than you.
The question brings a smile to his lips. “They jumped me.”
“What?” You ask, alarmed. Yet, despite the absurdness of his words, Seonghwa only laughs at your shocked expression.
“It had been a month or two since I was forced to leave home,” he explains, getting a little more relaxed and comfortable as he gestures with his hands, the topic clearly less painful for him. “I’d found myself in the town of Gloria, which we’ll actually pass within the next week or so.”
“I was lost, scared, and carrying all my items in a bag on my back, just trying to find a stable I could spend the night in for free. Then suddenly, the next thing I knew I was being held up against an alleyway, where one man in a hood punched me across the face, and the other sifted through my bag.”
You involuntarily bring a hand up to cover your mouth, jaw dropped in shock. The story sounds horrific, practically traumatizing on your end, but Seonghwa delivers it in such a lighthearted manner you aren’t sure if you’re hearing him correctly.
“Once they discovered how utterly nothing of value I had, they took off their hoods. And the one who’d been punching me asked how a boy who looked so princely could be worth jack-shit.”
“Woo, I’m assuming?” You ask, and Seonghwa laughs even louder than before as he nods in confirmation.
“Anyway, I was too distraught to respond. So I was just endlessly sobbing, and I guess they both felt kind of bad, so they took me to their own place. Which was really just a tent in the woods outside of the town.”
“They gave me some of what little food they had, and eventually I calmed down enough to tell them who I was and what happened to me,” he says, pausing only for a moment to look up and meet your eyes. “And even though the
