[Painter of Time]: Where There Is Sun

“His Majesty has not touched wine in weeks, and yet…” the gruff, slurred voice behind the papered door tapers off to a whisper, “…well.”

“I know very well what you mean,” answers a thinner voice. One of the younger recruits in the new squadron. “I hear there was a time, back when he was just a Grand Prince, when he was less… how should I put it—“

“Less deranged,” interjects the first speaker.

The papered door slides apart abruptly, sending the two royal guards jumping apart, clearly caught gossipping. Before them looms the shadow of a silhouette, and the two young men clear their throats, straightening their stances. They keep their eyes downcast.

Jung Hoseok, Chief Commander of the Royal Guard, hums to himself, then sighs. “I seem to be mistaken in placing you two on duty together. Your capacity for critical thinking diminishes in the other’s company—otherwise you would have thought twice before slandering His Majesty’s name within earshot, on palace grounds.”

“Captain!” the younger one, Jo Kyungnam, bows so low that his torso becomes parallel with the ground. “I have committed a grave sin. Please punish me with death!”

His companion is quick to follow suit. “Please punish us with death!”

A tick works in Hoseok’s jaw, and he fights to remain composed before his subordinates. Death—he’s been surrounded by it too much, too frequently. A little over a month into King Yun’s reign and already Hoseok has decided he has seen enough bloodshed to have nightmares over for the rest of his sorry life. Too many officials’ lives lost over the smallest supposed wrongdoings. As much as he is obligated to report such blasphemous talk, he is in no mood to dole out capital punishment.

Instead, he glares at the two young guards, nostrils flaring, and is relieved to find that it’s enough to warrant even more profuse apologies and humbled expressions from them. Without another word, Hoseok stalks away, one hand perpetually resting against the scabbard attached to his hip belt.

Typically he enjoys doing his morning rounds, when the air is crisp enough to invigorate his lungs and the sky is still a swirl of periwinkle and pale yellow, trapped between twilight and a new dawn. It’s the most peaceful part of his days, lately.

Except maybe today.

As he makes his way around the Lotus Pavilion—an area that’s been largely avoided due to its close ties with the people involved in recent… unspeakable… events—Hoseok pauses mid-step.

He blinks, stares, rubs his eyes.

Then stares some more.

Inside the pavilion, with their feet dangling off the edge just a few meters shy of the pond water’s surface, a man clad in red robes bearing a dragon’s insignia sits next to his little sister.

King Yun and Princess Songhwa, sitting together.

It’s been eternities since Hoseok has seen the two inhabit the same space. Ever since Jim— no, ever since Yeol’s passing, it’s been as though the two have been unable to look at each other’s faces without being reminded of what they’re mourning, how much they’ve lost.

They don’t speak, the King and the Princess. All they do is sit and stare into the late summer’s hilly terrain, each one lost in thought. Both carry a grief larger than they know how to hold. Hoseok wishes he knew a way to share the load. However, he is but a lowly member of the Royal Guard. As it is, he’s about as useful as a wooden blunt sword in a war.

It feels almost like an intrusion, witnessing the siblings exist in such a rare moment. It’s been so long that it’s hard to believe the two had ever been close. Hoseok tamps down the emotion swelling in his chest, forces down the lump in his throat, and reminds himself to continue his morning patrol. With a small exhale, he tears his gaze away and strides towards the direction of the kitchen compound.

—————————

Hoseok gets the feeling, sometimes (all the time), that the King does not know where to lay down that stone in his chest, the one that had taken the place where a beating heart had once nestled.

Standing in the shadows of the King’s study, he observes with quiet unease, once again, the myriad of microexpressions that flit through Yoongi’s face whenever he hears unpleasant news.

“The Internal Court is making a second appeal for you to choose a bride in the next full moon,” the Head Eunuch states pensively, hands clasped tight together inside of his loose sleeves.

Yoongi’s right eyebrow twitches. The hands clutching the scroll he is currently reading pause, and his gaze flickers towards the Head Eunuch. With a smirk, he drawls, “Inform the Internal Court that I’ll have to delay the next full moon from approaching, then.”

Hoseok suppresses a sigh. Hyung-nim, when will you lay down your armor?

“Your Majesty…” says the Head Eunuch. “Perhaps it might be wise to heed the Dowager Queen’s requests for an heir—“

“There is another ongoing orphanage crisis in Chungcheong-do, and the drought has been crippling this season’s harvest, but you would rather I waste my days starting a family? When we can’t even ensure that every mouth in Joseon is fed?” King Yun says testily, eyes on the pile of books atop his desk. “You humor me so, Eunuch Choi. However, I do not appreciate it. Be gone.”

“W-what response shall I draft for the Internal Court—“

“Have them answer this: can you feed every starving child in the street first?” says Yoongi stonily. “Only after such is done will I consider having one of my own.”

Hoseok watches, heavy-hearted, as the Head Eunuch nods and stumbles out of the royal study. Once they are alone, Yoongi turns to him.

“You have been standing there in the shadows for far too long, Seok-ah. Join me and rest your feet. I have some refreshments on that tray.”

Hoseok shakes his head. “I am on duty, Your Majesty.”

Yoongi doesn’t respond, turning towards the scrolls om his desk. The sound of rustling paper fills the empty air, and for several moments neither speak.

“You have been distant, Jung Hoseok.”

Because you’ve been busy with your killing frenzy, is what Hoseok does not voice out. Instead he offers a strained smile. “I have been preoccupied with training the new recruits, as you requested. They are young, ambitious. Full of conviction.”

“Good. Good.” Yoongi picks up a calligraphy brush, and silence descends upon the study once more. Hoseok almost drifts into that half-awake, half-lucid state that he always falls into during his shifts on guard duty, when the King’s voice fills the air once more. This time, Yoongi’s voice is brittle, almost a whisper.

“Has it been a year now?”

Hoseok blinks. A year since…?

Then it hits him, and a sinking sensation tugs at his stomach.

Jimin.

Because if there’s anything Hoseok knows about his best friend, it’s that Min Yoongi is a man of detail, despite how unhinged he might have become. Somehow he never forgets. Of course not.

It’s only slightly startling, Hoseok surmises, because His Majesty has not mentioned that name in ages, nor asked about Jimin’s grave’s whereabouts. It strikes him now that Yoongi could have painstakingly been restraining himself from doing so.

Hoseok gives a stiff nod.

Yoongi hums, a steady hand gripping the calligraphy brush. Hoseok wonders how he manages to remain so composed, despite the topic. Despite everything. The King hasn’t spoken Park Jimin’s name since that horrible, gruesome week that seemed to last forever. At least, Hoseok hasn’t heard the name said out loud in his presence. Even the paintings of the man—now under his safekeeping since Yoongi couldn’t bear to look at them—are stashed in a secret storage space below the floorboards of Hoseok’s ancestral home.

It’s almost as if by not acknowledging it at all, Yoongi could deny that Jimin ever existed.

Until now.

“I hear there is a burial mound near Namsan,” Yoongi says in a tone that is too light to be an offhanded comment.

Hoseok considers his words, mulls over every possible implication until Yoongi’s actual, underlying question presents itself in his mind. Suddenly, the King’s intention becomes clear. Hoseok licks his lower lips and says, “He’s not… resting… there.”

Yoongi finally sets down the brush and looks at his bodyguard.

“I figured he’d appreciate a spot where there is sun,” continues Hoseok. There hadn’t been a body because it was burnt, but he remembers building a grave of rocks and stones to honor the spirit, one fine day after Yoongi had begged him to let him slip out of the palace just for a few hours. Of course, being the (then) new Crown Prince, Yoongi was not allowed outside of the palace, and there were many eyes on him at all times. The best Hoseok could do was offer to do the deed himself.

Yoongi had never again asked about the gravesite until now.

“I see,” says the King, gaze boring into Hoseok’s forehead. “Then where?”

There was only one place Hoseok could think of that seemed meaningful enough to both Jimin and Yoongi at the time. He adjusts his scabbard and steps forward, away from the shadows. “If I may, I can take you there, Your Majesty.”

———————————

The place where there is sun is also the place where there is moonlight, especially on a clear night like this. There are barely any trees covering the ground. Water from the brook trickles peacefully. Quietly, two men decked in plain robes step towards the creek, rocks crackling underneath their boots. Nobody would have guessed their identities, not when they resemble ordinary merchants rather than a King and his bodyguard.

Not too far away is a now-defunct orphanage where a little crane had once resided; its residents have all moved to a better location after a flash flood last winter made it uninhabitable.

Yoongi seems to recognize this clearing and the stream next to it with an ferocity that elicits a sharp gasp from him, makes his shoulders curl in. At this time of the night, thin strands of mist curl over the water, sending a shiver down Hoseok’s spine. At this time of the year, the nighttime oft gets chilly.

“Over there.” He points to the right. Yoongi follows his gesture. There it is indeed; a mound of rocks next to a tree standing along the banks of the stream.

Hoseok watches the way Yoongi’s glistening pupils dilate even in the dim moonlight, watches the way his King’s lips quiver as soon as his eyes find the gravesite. Yoongi’s chest rises and falls with a trembling exhale, and he approaches the burial mound with careful, tentative footsteps. Hoseok stays back, allowing his best friend this privacy.

This room to grieve.

He watches Yoongi’s figure shrink into a silhouette, stopping a few feet away from the grave. Yoongi stares down at the pile rocks, unmoving. Then, without releasing a single noise, he reaches into the folds of his robe sleeves and pulls out a singular stalk of a pink mugunghwa flower. Slowly, he bends down, lowering the flower onto the base of the burial mound.

Hoseok, who prides himself on being an accurate reader of his best friend’s expressions, finds nothing but a chilling blankness on Yoongi’s face. A testament to the King’s ability to mask turmoil. He steps a few feet closer, just to remind Yoongi that he’s here. He might not have been able to protect Yoongi’s love, but perhaps tonight he might protect Yoongi’s tears, should they come.

His best friend sits down next to the gravesite then, staring at the clear brook in front, and rests his head against the rocks. Yoongi tilts his chin up to the moon, not uttering a word. Hoseok remains on guard a few feet behind, arms crossed.

“You were right,” Yoongi quips. “This spot is well-chosen.”

Good, thinks Hoseok ruefully, watching his best friend—the actual Sun of Joseon—morph into the heartbroken young man he never learned to outgrow finally reunite with the only one he had ever wanted to marry. Hoseok may be but a lowly bodyguard, but he can pride himself for this.

A place where there is Sun, indeed.

[A/N: A healthy dose of PoT angst, anybody?]