The Path to Credentiare (Chapter 1 Pt. 2 : A Broken Mask)
Title: The Path to Credentiare
Characters (no specific pairings): Onew, Key, Jonghyun, Taemin, and Minho as supporting cast
Genre: Fantasy, Supernatural, Suspense
Rating: R
Summary: Onew, a Buddhist priest in training, was assigned with his last mission; to deliver a crate to a temple, miles away from his village. The long journey was soon proved to be far from safe and peaceful, when two strangers showed up and chose to tag along with him. With confusing turns and countless dead-ends, noiseless dangers and unforeseen trap, the group had to prepare themselves to learn an important lesson about friendship, trust, and sincerity.
K E Y
Morning sunlight dances in the air, creating lines of fair rays, calm and uncluttered as they shine through an opened window to land onto the chamber’s ground and brighten its surroundings. The nature has called for a change of the day, yet no one ever dares to question why The King of Colemeadow’s chamber is filled with shameful noises of groans and whimpers when that means giving an appalling disgrace to the pure and wholesome daylight.
The King, crouches on his bed, ragged breathing and quivering shoulders describe the best of his current state. His arms are planted on the cushions, holding a certain lean figure under him, pinning the other still on his place. The slightly smaller man moans softly in what sounds like a desperate sob, his green hair damp in his one clutch, the bed sheet crinkled and ruined in his other one.
“Good boy, Key,” The King coos into his ear. “If I had known that you’re going to be such a good boy for me, I wouldn’t have thrown you out from the palace. I’m so sorry sweetheart,” The King continues, chuckling between his pants.
The bed creaked, rocked by a brutal force. The green-haired young man’s face is shoved against the pillow, once, twice, and finally the last time before it stops and what’s left only is harsh breathing.
As soon as The King leaves his bed, Key makes a move to detangle the soiled sheets from his body. With shivering naked form and shaking legs, he struggles to his feet as he drapes the dirty blanket to cover his bare shoulder, delaying not another moment for his cleansing process. He strides to The King’s bath chamber at once, presence of The Majesty who’s still trying to appear presentable not the least bit disturb him.
Grand murals on the ceiling greet him with a view of the great copper tub in the middle of the room. The marble floor is cold under him, and the shapes of various kinds of flowers and birds outlining the beautiful etch on the ground feel distant even against his soles. Has it been a different occasion, he probably will stay still on the floor to admire the artwork carved on every surface of the space. But the thing is, he is here for a no good reason, and so there is no meaning to appreciate the luxury he is in.
The tub is already filled with water, he notices. The King must have told one of the servants to prepare it for him. How nice, he muses blankly. It isn’t a usual thing for The King to do, because at most times Key is often left in the bath chamber without a lending hand, despite the awful trouble he usually causes himself for his focus too exhausted and his body too sore to move a muscle. To put it mildly, it must be his lucky day.
He wastes no time in throwing the blanket away. Sinking into the little warmth the water provides he exhales a deep sigh. Key quickly grabs a small scent bottle from a counter where all kinds of fragrances and balms are stacked neatly beside the tub. Stretching to his side, he reaches a cloth to wash his skin. He does it all in a complete haste, that the water from the tub started sloshing around and splattering onto the floor.
He has learned not to stop to wait. Waiting makes him think, and thinking makes him cry.
Key doesn’t bother to scrub the dirt off his skin with as much force as he has used on the first nights. It never feels different no matter how long he rinses himself or what perfume he uses. What lingers on every part of his body now, as invisible as it seems, will always stick on him like his very core.
There is no aim to undo what is done.
A few moments pass, and Key steps out from the bath chamber, back into The King’s private space. A room that sometime in the past has also started to become his, the only place he has the right to go back at night, the only place he seeks to get for what he offers as a fair exchange. It was a chamber that promises him an assured safety, and a prison which bounds him as a property.
Up to now, though not entirely, Key is still grateful for that.
The King has left the room, the comprehension giving Key more space to breathe. Loneliness has always been a gift he treasures deeply ever since he sealed that bargain; one that presents him a shelter and grub and bub, one that requires him to lose the ownership of his own being. Loneliness can also mean two things; more time to wait, to think, to cry, or more time to value because The King’s hands are not on him.
Key walks to the newly-made bed and realizes he is still stark naked when he sees a set of clothing arranged neatly on the foot of the bed, obviously for him to wear. Another considerate treatment, this one is not really surprising. The King has quite a number of concubines, in whose companions have dealt with almost half of his years in life, even long before The Queen has passed away. However, the moment Key becomes the member of the palace -though low and unworthy regarding his status-, he turns to be The King’s favorite plaything almost instantly.
He has a good idea of why. The King is not a really decent person. In fact, The Majesty who rules Colemeadow is a cruel and heartless bastard. If not to everyone, at least to Key, he is. Key knows, he sees, the way The King bores his nasty gaze onto him, the way those lips twitch in a wicked smirk, the way that voice flows with a mocking tenderness in his ears. The King enjoys the humiliation that shows on Key’s face every time he takes control of his flesh and limbs, he loves the fact that Key is truthfully disgusted with his own sins and wrongdoings, he laughs witnessing Key’s tears falling because the younger despises to be a harlot on his blood-father’s bed.
But it is a long time ago. Key is not sure if he has any tears left to care.
Ignoring his growling stomach, he sauntered past the palace’s kitchen to the back gate. In the morning, Key likes to spend his time just sitting under an old oak tree at the far end of the palace’s vast garden. Sometimes when he’s upset he will wander further, until he sees a high red wall that covered in wild grape vines ahead his way. Until the palace border stops him. That day doesn’t count as a difficult time, so he vaguely wonders why his feet involuntarily lead him toward the grape vines.
By the time he stands in front of the red wall, he doesn’t even know himself what to do. The sun is getting high, its bright rays landing on his face. He considers the option and decides he will sit there waiting for the afternoon to come. Idly his hands fumble about the creeping plant on the wall, searching for a comfortable spot to lie on. But then they freeze.
There is a hole.
Key’s hand trembles. As if the touch sends a jolt of electricity, he immediately retreats his arm back, hugging it tightly to his chest. On a moment of his silence, he stares at the trailing plant that covers a good part of the wall’s surface. His heart pounds madly against his ribcage, slowly he reaches for the small leaves. Then still with hammering thumps in his chest he pulls at the vines, lifting them away from the wall.
Except that there isn’t a wall under its cover.
The red bricks from the ground have shattered in pieces, seeing no layer of moss clearly it isn’t because of age, the cracks follows until they reach almost half of its way to the top of the wall. Who has created the hole? No, it isn’t the first question that flashes in his mind. The gap its damage has made isn’t big enough for Key’s frame to go through, but surely if he digs some more it will be possible…?
Key’s head jerks all of a sudden. He looks past his shoulder, eyes frantically searching for any movement from behind him. He is pretty far from the back palace, but his brain can’t produce a single composure for the idea. His shoulders start shaking, it’s like a million thoughts are running in his head but somehow his mind keeps going blank.
No, it isn’t possible. It can’t be this easy, this can’t be happening. They’re going to find me.
Suddenly his hand moves forward, it scratches at the bricks, it claws at the cracks, and then a second later he realizes he has been wildly digging for his way out. He keeps moving, alternating between his actions; pulling at the bricks, looking at behind him, tugging at the vines, eyeing the palace. He is in delirious panic, his breathing barely even, eyes bloodshot like a crazy hunted man.
When he gets to his senses back, he is already running across the noiseless field toward a forest he knows nothing about. Colemeadow’s palace behind him stands still, the broken red wall wordlessly encouraging his escape.
He runs. He runs faster. He begins to cry.
Characters (no specific pairings): Onew, Key, Jonghyun, Taemin, and Minho as supporting cast
Genre: Fantasy, Supernatural, Suspense
Rating: R
Summary: Onew, a Buddhist priest in training, was assigned with his last mission; to deliver a crate to a temple, miles away from his village. The long journey was soon proved to be far from safe and peaceful, when two strangers showed up and chose to tag along with him. With confusing turns and countless dead-ends, noiseless dangers and unforeseen trap, the group had to prepare themselves to learn an important lesson about friendship, trust, and sincerity.
K E Y
Morning sunlight dances in the air, creating lines of fair rays, calm and uncluttered as they shine through an opened window to land onto the chamber’s ground and brighten its surroundings. The nature has called for a change of the day, yet no one ever dares to question why The King of Colemeadow’s chamber is filled with shameful noises of groans and whimpers when that means giving an appalling disgrace to the pure and wholesome daylight.
The King, crouches on his bed, ragged breathing and quivering shoulders describe the best of his current state. His arms are planted on the cushions, holding a certain lean figure under him, pinning the other still on his place. The slightly smaller man moans softly in what sounds like a desperate sob, his green hair damp in his one clutch, the bed sheet crinkled and ruined in his other one.
“Good boy, Key,” The King coos into his ear. “If I had known that you’re going to be such a good boy for me, I wouldn’t have thrown you out from the palace. I’m so sorry sweetheart,” The King continues, chuckling between his pants.
The bed creaked, rocked by a brutal force. The green-haired young man’s face is shoved against the pillow, once, twice, and finally the last time before it stops and what’s left only is harsh breathing.
As soon as The King leaves his bed, Key makes a move to detangle the soiled sheets from his body. With shivering naked form and shaking legs, he struggles to his feet as he drapes the dirty blanket to cover his bare shoulder, delaying not another moment for his cleansing process. He strides to The King’s bath chamber at once, presence of The Majesty who’s still trying to appear presentable not the least bit disturb him.
Grand murals on the ceiling greet him with a view of the great copper tub in the middle of the room. The marble floor is cold under him, and the shapes of various kinds of flowers and birds outlining the beautiful etch on the ground feel distant even against his soles. Has it been a different occasion, he probably will stay still on the floor to admire the artwork carved on every surface of the space. But the thing is, he is here for a no good reason, and so there is no meaning to appreciate the luxury he is in.
The tub is already filled with water, he notices. The King must have told one of the servants to prepare it for him. How nice, he muses blankly. It isn’t a usual thing for The King to do, because at most times Key is often left in the bath chamber without a lending hand, despite the awful trouble he usually causes himself for his focus too exhausted and his body too sore to move a muscle. To put it mildly, it must be his lucky day.
He wastes no time in throwing the blanket away. Sinking into the little warmth the water provides he exhales a deep sigh. Key quickly grabs a small scent bottle from a counter where all kinds of fragrances and balms are stacked neatly beside the tub. Stretching to his side, he reaches a cloth to wash his skin. He does it all in a complete haste, that the water from the tub started sloshing around and splattering onto the floor.
He has learned not to stop to wait. Waiting makes him think, and thinking makes him cry.
Key doesn’t bother to scrub the dirt off his skin with as much force as he has used on the first nights. It never feels different no matter how long he rinses himself or what perfume he uses. What lingers on every part of his body now, as invisible as it seems, will always stick on him like his very core.
There is no aim to undo what is done.
A few moments pass, and Key steps out from the bath chamber, back into The King’s private space. A room that sometime in the past has also started to become his, the only place he has the right to go back at night, the only place he seeks to get for what he offers as a fair exchange. It was a chamber that promises him an assured safety, and a prison which bounds him as a property.
Up to now, though not entirely, Key is still grateful for that.
The King has left the room, the comprehension giving Key more space to breathe. Loneliness has always been a gift he treasures deeply ever since he sealed that bargain; one that presents him a shelter and grub and bub, one that requires him to lose the ownership of his own being. Loneliness can also mean two things; more time to wait, to think, to cry, or more time to value because The King’s hands are not on him.
Key walks to the newly-made bed and realizes he is still stark naked when he sees a set of clothing arranged neatly on the foot of the bed, obviously for him to wear. Another considerate treatment, this one is not really surprising. The King has quite a number of concubines, in whose companions have dealt with almost half of his years in life, even long before The Queen has passed away. However, the moment Key becomes the member of the palace -though low and unworthy regarding his status-, he turns to be The King’s favorite plaything almost instantly.
He has a good idea of why. The King is not a really decent person. In fact, The Majesty who rules Colemeadow is a cruel and heartless bastard. If not to everyone, at least to Key, he is. Key knows, he sees, the way The King bores his nasty gaze onto him, the way those lips twitch in a wicked smirk, the way that voice flows with a mocking tenderness in his ears. The King enjoys the humiliation that shows on Key’s face every time he takes control of his flesh and limbs, he loves the fact that Key is truthfully disgusted with his own sins and wrongdoings, he laughs witnessing Key’s tears falling because the younger despises to be a harlot on his blood-father’s bed.
But it is a long time ago. Key is not sure if he has any tears left to care.
Ignoring his growling stomach, he sauntered past the palace’s kitchen to the back gate. In the morning, Key likes to spend his time just sitting under an old oak tree at the far end of the palace’s vast garden. Sometimes when he’s upset he will wander further, until he sees a high red wall that covered in wild grape vines ahead his way. Until the palace border stops him. That day doesn’t count as a difficult time, so he vaguely wonders why his feet involuntarily lead him toward the grape vines.
By the time he stands in front of the red wall, he doesn’t even know himself what to do. The sun is getting high, its bright rays landing on his face. He considers the option and decides he will sit there waiting for the afternoon to come. Idly his hands fumble about the creeping plant on the wall, searching for a comfortable spot to lie on. But then they freeze.
There is a hole.
Key’s hand trembles. As if the touch sends a jolt of electricity, he immediately retreats his arm back, hugging it tightly to his chest. On a moment of his silence, he stares at the trailing plant that covers a good part of the wall’s surface. His heart pounds madly against his ribcage, slowly he reaches for the small leaves. Then still with hammering thumps in his chest he pulls at the vines, lifting them away from the wall.
Except that there isn’t a wall under its cover.
The red bricks from the ground have shattered in pieces, seeing no layer of moss clearly it isn’t because of age, the cracks follows until they reach almost half of its way to the top of the wall. Who has created the hole? No, it isn’t the first question that flashes in his mind. The gap its damage has made isn’t big enough for Key’s frame to go through, but surely if he digs some more it will be possible…?
Key’s head jerks all of a sudden. He looks past his shoulder, eyes frantically searching for any movement from behind him. He is pretty far from the back palace, but his brain can’t produce a single composure for the idea. His shoulders start shaking, it’s like a million thoughts are running in his head but somehow his mind keeps going blank.
No, it isn’t possible. It can’t be this easy, this can’t be happening. They’re going to find me.
Suddenly his hand moves forward, it scratches at the bricks, it claws at the cracks, and then a second later he realizes he has been wildly digging for his way out. He keeps moving, alternating between his actions; pulling at the bricks, looking at behind him, tugging at the vines, eyeing the palace. He is in delirious panic, his breathing barely even, eyes bloodshot like a crazy hunted man.
When he gets to his senses back, he is already running across the noiseless field toward a forest he knows nothing about. Colemeadow’s palace behind him stands still, the broken red wall wordlessly encouraging his escape.
He runs. He runs faster. He begins to cry.