Golden Dreams
Title: Golden Dreams
Pairing: Kris/Xiumin
Rating: PG-13 (violence)
Word Count: 8.6k
Summary: Minseok is selected to participate in a competition that will decide whether or not he can serve in the royal guard. With the help of his father’s bow, and a little guidance from an unexpected ally, he learns that dreams never die.
Notes: i’ve never??? written something like this before??? but um pls look at this and this and understand why i had to write this. originally it was gonna be based solely around kris but then minseok happened and i just :( also i re-read this and it seems rly short but if i kept going i would have dragged it out unnecessarily and i hate it when i do that like gatdamn jillian just end the fking fic. ALSO i realize that i am an over-user of commas so i!! am trying to fix that!!
golden dreams;
If there is one thing that Minseok has learned well in his peasant upbringing, it’s archery. He can hit a target three hundred meters away, if his arrow is weighted enough to travel that far and yet not so weighted that it falls short; he can hit a moving target while immobile, and he can hit a still target while he himself is mobile -- he can even hit a moving target while he moves on horseback. It’s a practice he keeps to himself, one that he doesn’t share with anyone. He has fashioned his own bow, forged his own arrows with knife, hammer and rope, and he spends one hour every day target practicing, challenging himself. It keeps his mind sharp, his reflexes clean, and helps alleviate stress built up from another fruitless day of labor. Labor that bleeds his hands but doesn’t feed his family. Archery, for Minseok, is his own private escape in the woods behind his cottage, and he wouldn’t change it for a thing.
The months grow colder, and his family is not in the agricultural ring, so the weather does not affect their ability to work. No -- iron workers, even his mother -- they thrive in the cold, when the heat from the fires are more welcome than a burden, keeping them from chilling to the bone. When his father passed, Minseok took on the responsibility of caring for his mother. In the winter months, he thinks about his father’s dream to supply the royal army with the most efficient bows and arrows that could be crafted, and he feels himself grow bitter. Nothing came of that dream, and now Minseok trudges through each day with the knowledge that the next will be just as trying.
Walking through the village, with barely enough coin to pay for the weeks’ groceries, Minseok holds his cape up a bit to shield his face from the harsh wind. The cobblestone streets are slowly accumulating snow and ice, and he has slipped more than what he feels is acceptable. As he picks out breads, fruits and nuts, lamenting the fact he doesn’t have enough coin to buy meat for himself and his parents, some commotion catches his attention. Many people are gathering at the city square, and, curious, he pays for the goods and places them carefully in his satchel before wandering over to the commotion.
“A contest!” someone shouts excitedly.
“With a handsome award to first place!” another informs.
Money is scarce enough in Minseok’s life that it makes his feet propel him forward into the crowd, so he can get a look at the poster. Sure enough, by royal decree, a contest to be held among the commoners, testing skill, wit, and perseverance. A cash prize for the top three contestants, and first prize looks to receive honorable mention within the royal army. Minseok scans the sign, looking for the contest rules, what talents will need to be shown in order to participate.
Hand-to-hand. Strategy. Archery.
Swallowing thickly, Minseok’s eyes hone in on the last word. Archery. He could win on that alone. Money, and residency in the royal army? His mother would never have to work again! Hand-to-hand and strategy… Of course, a brawl to show physical strength, and then strategy to showcase battle smarts. Archery is a coveted, technical skill of their particular army.
His father may not have gotten his design into the higher ranks, but Minseok is young, spritely, and very capable.
Grinning, Minseok walks up to the roster, dipping the provided quill in the ink pot and signing his name on the parchment along with ten or so others. Standing back, he feels pretty confident. This is his chance to do something good for his mother, and himself. This is his chance to prove that all the years perfecting his archery were not for waste, as his mother sometimes thought after his father died.
Walking home from the square, there’s a bit more bounce in Minseok’s step.
A good omen, indeed.
--
All contestants are summoned a week later to a great hall within the town. There are only a dozen, and Minseok sizes himself up against the other contestants with a cautious eye. All men. All older than him, hardened, wizened. It is explained that the group will be allowed to go through chaperoned training before the competition -- experts in hand-to-hand, strategy, and archery will be setting up the expectations and explaining the rules of each competition.
As the man explains everything, Minseok feels his fingers itching. He doesn’t have his bow or quiver, and the ones being provided look… archaic. Heavy, clumsy. He doesn’t like how they look, at all. But today they’ll be meeting each other, and going through an initial round. There are only eight slots for competitors, they’re informed, and they must pass a preliminary test in order to go on to the actual competition.
Things get shuffled around a bit, and the dozen men, including Minseok, are seated at tables. There are parchments and quills at each seat, and Minseok is distracted from looking at his parchment when someone sits heavily next to him. Glancing over, Minseok blinks -- this man hadn’t been here ten minutes ago. He’s tall, dark hair and fair skin, fierce brows and a set jaw. Minseok feels like a child next to him, round cheeks and sun-kissed hair. The man catches him staring and Minseok turns his gaze back to his parchment, picking up the dry quill and quietly tapping it on the table, awaiting instruction.
“This is a simple test,” the instructor announces from the head of the hall, “that will determine your eligibility as a contestant. When you are finished, please put your quill down, and exit the hall. If you pass, we will summon you in three day’s time. If you fail, you will not be contacted.”
Easy enough, Minseok thinks. Why are they over explaining things? Surely no one here is too simple to understand.
“You may begin.”
Minseok waits to dip his quill into the ink, instead reading the words on the parchment. He squints a little; the handwriting is much fancier than any penmanship he’s ever seen, and it takes him a moment to read what it says.
A crow in the woods,
A beast in the town.
A fire in the mountains,
a flood in the square.
The next course of action
decides your fate.
What? Minseok stares at the words. They’re the only words on the parchment, and he takes a deep breath, before glancing around. Everyone looks generally puzzled, some men scratching their heads, and two men even getting up after a few moments and leaving the hall, signaling their forfeit. Minseok glances at the man next to him, whose quill is being dipped into the ink, before it starts gliding effortlessly over the parchment. Blinking, Minseok wonders how this man has come up with an answer so quickly, when he himself is faltering. Minseok considers himself intelligent, but even he is briefly stumped.
Looking back at his own paper, Minseok refuses to admit defeat. It’s a riddle -- a metaphor. He racks his brain for what it could mean. Crows in their culture signify greater intelligence. Beasts are feared. Fire is a curse, a flood is bad luck. Furrowing his brows, the feather tip of the quill tickles against his lower lip, and then -- Ah. It comes to Minseok.
Dipping his quill into the ink, he writes out his answer. The man next to him is already gone, his parchment turned in to the instructor, and Minseok is the only one whose quill is touching the parchment. He takes care in his penmanship; he might not have had the highest education in the room, but he has pride. He wants to be taken seriously.
When he’s finished writing his answer, he stands up carefully so as not to make too much noise. He takes the parchment to the instructor, and he eyes Minseok’s answer curiously, arching a brow. Minseok bows and excuses himself, and when he leaves the hall, he’s got a grin on his features.
If that was the entrance exam, there won’t be too many people passing through to the actual competition.
The crow is the enemy.
The fire is his weapon.
Use the beast to find him, and the flood to drown him.
--
Three days have passed, and Minseok is anxious as he works. He’s dripping with sweat, the fire too close and too hot; he hasn’t taken a break at all, and though his mother worries, she knows better than to try and bring Minseok in. He’s been anxious ever since he took that test. There has been no word yet, on this third day, and as sunset approaches he feels his confidence wavering. What if his answer was incorrect? He’d been so sure. It was the only logical answer.
What about the man that had sat next to him? Young, handsome, almost noble-looking if it weren’t for the dirt smudge that had been on his jaw. Had he answered the same, or different? He had answered so quickly, too.
“Minseok!”
His mother calling has Minseok putting the hammer down, wiping his brow with an equally sweaty forearm and only managing to dirty himself further. Sighing softly, he stares at the shovel he’d been making, and then decides that maybe now he should take a break. It’s getting hot beyond compare in their small iron room. Grabbing a cloth from a rack, he starts mopping his face as he exits the room, moving into the main house. His mother is standing in the entryway, cheeks flushed and eyes bright.
“The instructor is here!” she says, excitedly.
Minseok blinks, and looks passed her to see the instructor from the exam standing in the doorway. Face splitting into a smile, Minseok whoops and grabs his mother, hugging her and spinning her around, kissing her forehead as he sets her on her feet.
“I will make you proud, mother,” he promises, cupping her weary face. She nods, because she always has had confidence in her only son; she helps him pack a few things, and then sends him on his way, waving from the doorway of their cottage.
With a determined glare in his eyes, Minseok follows the instructor back towards the hall.
I will make you proud, father.
--
Six contestants have made it through the preliminary round. Minseok, the mysterious young man whom he’d sat next to during the exam, and four other men of varying caliber. Hand-to-hand, strategy and archery are things that Minseok feels comfortable with; however, standing amongst these large, well-fed men is making Minseok think twice about his chances in this competition. All he needs to do is make it past the hand-to-hand -- from there, he can sweep the contest.
“Welcome,” the instructor booms. “Now begins your preliminary training. If you have not been educated in the subjects provided, we will offer training. It is unwise to buddy up, as you will all face each other as enemies at one point or another in the competition.”
Minseok swallows. So he can’t avoid the big guy, huh? His gaze slides over to the man at the other end of the line; he’s so tall, so regal looking -- and definitely out of place. The pelt across his shoulders is clean and well taken care of, his fingernails free of any dirt. Minseok looks like he took a tussle in a fireplace, ash and soot smudged on him from head to toe.
The man in question seems to feel Minseok’s gaze, his own dark eyes turning to meet Minseok’s. Instead of looking away when he feels the heat creeps up the back of his neck, Minseok keeps his determined stare on the taller man, as if silently challenging him. In response, the man merely smirks, before turning his attention back up to the instructor.
Minseok doesn’t feel any better about his odds.
--
They’re given clean clothes and minimal armor for training. It’s the first real bath Minseok has had in years -- sure, at his home they are capable of heating up water, but getting their hands on clean water has always been an issue. The nearest river is too far for Minseok to trek to on his own, so his family is only able to have fresh water once a month, and given their profession the water doesn’t stay fresh for more than one wash. Minseok is as clean as he’s ever been, fair, snowy skin soft and supple, his auburn hair fluffy and healthy looking. The clothing he’s been given are a bit too big, and he spends some time with his travel sewing kit hemming the cuffs of the pants and sleeves. It’s menial work, but it keeps his mind off the upcoming competition.
Training will start in the morrow, and as Minseok sews by candlelight in his bunk, he desperately hopes that his first opponent isn’t that large, fierce looking man. Even if it’s just practice, Minseok has only ever wrestled with his cousin -- his cousin who is about the same size as himself. A fair match. Going up against someone like these large men is definitely out of Minseok’s grasp. And he’s seen the way they look at him, too, eyeing him like he’ll be the easiest one to defeat, eyeing him like they all hope he’s their opponent in the first round so that they can ensure being one step closer to victory.
A knock on the frame of the door to Minseok’s bunk, which holds up only an animal pelt as a privacy screen, has Minseok glancing up.
“Come in,” he says softly, gaze returning back to his needling.
The pelt opens and the footsteps are heavy when they enter; Minseok is surprised when he glances up to see the tall, handsome man standing in his doorway. Swallowing, Minseok carefully sets his needling supplies down, turning so he may face the other.
“Minseok,” the man greets, inclining his head in a polite bow.
Having never been bowed to before, Minseok waves a hand awkwardly, “Please-- no need.” His gaze turns curious. “You know my name… yet I know not of yours.”
The man drapes his forearm over his stomach and inclines his head again, this time in greeting rather than respect. He looks so… noble.
“I am Yifan.”
Minseok’s blood runs cold. Yifan. As in… Prince Yifan? The widening of Minseok’s eyes is telltale, and Yifan hangs the animal pelt behind him proper to close off Minseok’s bunk once again, taking another step inside as he holds a finger to his own lips.
“Please do not make a commotion. I am here under the guise of Wufan.”
“That’s not very clever,” Minseok can’t help but reply. Yifan’s alias is so close to his name.
Yifan cracks a small smile, “Sometimes the best hiding spot is the most obvious one.”
As far as Minseok knows, Yifan spends his time in the palace and never visits the commoners. Minseok hadn’t even known what he looked like, until this very moment. He can’t even think about how he might be punished for how he is speaking to the crown Prince, and he especially can’t imagine the punishment for having the Prince in his quarters. The Prince shouldn’t be subjected to this!
“Why are you here?” Minseok asks as casually as possible, reaching for his needle and thread once more. His fingers are only slightly shaking as he continues to hem his shirt, waiting for Yifan’s reply.
“The King has been trying to create a draft for the army,” Yifan explains, still standing, poised tall and proud. “However, he has poor taste in soldiers. I have created this contest to hand select who will be the next member of the royal guard. And, with high enough marks, be my personal guard.”
Minseok accidentally pricks himself with the needle, hissing softly and bringing the digit to his mouth. Yifan moves to take a step forward, and Minseok shakes his head, holding his hand away.
“You needn’t worry about a tiny wound such as this,” Minseok says, reaching for the first aid kit that he keeps packed in his bag. He pulls out a bandage, cutting it so that he may wrap it around the tip of his finger to stop the bleeding. Glancing up, he levels with Yifan’s gaze. “I don’t understand why you are participating in the competition.”
Yifan sends a mysterious smile, clearly relieved that Minseok’s injury isn’t too grave. “What better way to hand pick my guard, than to compete against him myself?”
“I hardly imagine a Prince is capable of two of the three categories in this competition,” Minseok sniffs. A Prince born into royalty surely doesn’t know hand-to-hand, how to strategize without the guidance of a counselor, let alone shoot an arrow into a target.
All of a sudden, the intense smell of amber fills Minseok’s nostrils. Yifan has a broad palm on Minseok’s table, and he is leaning into the smaller man’s space, a wicked sort of smirk on his features.
“Then you do not know your Prince at all, do you?” Yifan asks, his voice low.
This close, Minseok can count his eyelashes, drink in his porcelain skin, visually trace the curve of his lips. Yifan is a deadly sort of handsome, dark hair and dark eyes and a sturdy frame. Feeling his heart palpitate, Minseok dare not let his eyes stray from the Prince’s challenging gaze.
“If I may be so bold,” Minseok says, keeping his voice from trembling, “you do not know your own countrymen, do you.”
The smirk flashes up into Yifan’s eyes, and the Prince pulls away, clapping Minseok on his shoulder. “I am rooting for you, Minseok.”
Yifan is gone with the swish of the pelt door, and Minseok is left staring at the hide in wonder -- wonder why the Prince is rooting for him, out of all the contestants. Wondering why Yifan has chosen to reveal himself to Minseok, and no one else.
Looking down at his clothing, Minseok then looks at his finger, the tiniest swell of red staining the bandage on the pad of his finger.
Now that Minseok knows what he is truly competing for… does he still want it?
Another glance at the animal pelt, as though he can see Yifan on the other side. Gaze narrowing, Minseok steels himself.
He wants this more than anything. If anything, to avenge his father’s failed designs.
--
In the morning they are risen with the sound of horns, all of the men dressing. Minseok has brought his own bow and quiver and the arrows he had fashioned at home, but he leaves them in his bunk today, safely tucked under his bed. Today they will be learning the basics of hand-to-hand, in the select style of the royal guard. On the pitch, which has been cleared of snow, the six men gather in front of the instructor, who is also dressed readily. The weather is mild, blue skies, yet not quite warm enough to melt the surrounding snow, and Minseok thinks it is a fair day as any to have a go.
Yifan stands next to Minseok this time, and Minseok does his best to not make it obvious that he knows why Yifan is here, and who he is. The instructor starts explaining the ancient technique of hand-to-hand, and how they must execute not only the technique, but the results as well. From fist fighting, to grappling, Minseok is suddenly dreading being paired with one of the huge oafs in the pitch. None of them will go easy on him. They’re already eyeing him, the rabbit amidst foxes, surely dying to have their first round with him. A cheap shot to show their worth, but in their eyes, probably necessary. Deplorable.
“Pair off.” the instructor says at the end of his demonstration. He’d bent his partner into a pretzel and helped him out of it, before giving an expectant look to the contestants.
Yifan immediately grabs Minseok’s wrist, pulling him off the pitch. The other men grumble and protest Yifan’s choosing Minseok before they could, but Minseok is grateful… if only for just a moment. As they stand outside the ring of the pitch and Minseok watches two burly men go through the motions of techniques, he swallows dryly, realizing that he’s going to have to do that with Yifan.
He doesn’t know if he’d rather face a stranger than the handsome Prince. Won’t his hand get cut off if he touches Yifan with any bad intent? Won’t Yifan crush him with size alone?
“The other men in this competition are not worthy competitors,” Yifan says smoothly, voice low so no one but Minseok can hear him. “They are cowards. Ready to prey on someone they consider weak.” Yifan casts a small smile down at Minseok, and Minseok pointedly averts his gaze. “But, you’re not weak, are you, Minseok?”
Minseok doesn’t answer. He doesn’t think he’s weak at all. At least -- not mentally. He can best all of these men in strategy and archery, but hand-to-hand… He may admit a weakness in that.
The competition is broken down as thus: Six men will verse each other one on one in hand-to-hand. Three winners will move on to the next round, strategy. Two winners will move on from strategy to compete in archery. From there, the champion will be chosen. It’s cutting the numbers quickly, but seeing as how only six men passed the entrance exam, Minseok shouldn’t be shocked at how rapidly the numbers will decline in the competition.
When it’s Minseok and Yifan’s turn to enter the pitch, Yifan lets Minseok know that even the instructor doesn’t know who he is. That only gives Minseok a little bit of relief. Still, he is about to lay a foul hand on the Prince. As they face each other on the pitch, the instructor gives another demonstration, before he announces that they may commence practice.
Minseok stays still, assessing Yifan’s body. Minseok might not be as physically fit as the Prince or the other competitors, but he’s got a gifted brain. And smarts has gotten him out of many predicaments before. Yifan takes a step forward, and Minseok takes a step back -- Yifan smirks, fire flashing in his eyes. Any notion of Yifan being a useless, spoiled Prince gets knocked out of Minseok’s head, as well as the breath from his lungs with Yifan pins him to the ground in one swift move. On his chest with his arm bent behind him, Yifan has a knee in the small of Minseok’s back, keeping him pinned.
“You are sleight,” Yifan says, amusement tinging his voice, “but I had expected more of you, Minseok.”
Grunting, Minseok tests Yifan’s grip on his wrist for a moment. Sleight. Yifan is huge, Minseok is a fraction of his size. Judging by the pressure Yifan has on Minseok’s tailbone, if Minseok moves to the left and twists his hips--
He throws Yifan off with a great heave, the Prince’s eyes wide as he stumbles to keep himself from falling directly into the dirt. Minseok stands quickly, raising his hands in defense, brows drawn and eyes narrowed at the Prince. Yifan laughs, and then holds his hands up as well, approval written on his features.
Minseok is about to square off with the crown Prince.
I’m sorry, mother, he sends off in his head, before he launches himself at Yifan, nimble and light on his feet.
--
Four hours later, Minseok is dirty, sweaty and winded as he lies on his back in the middle of the pitch, staring up at the icy blue sky. He and Yifan have been brawling, resting, brawling, resting, brawling again -- and right now, Minseok doesn’t think he can get up for another round. The other men gave up over an hour ago, leaving Minseok and Yifan alone in the pitch; even the instructor had retired for the afternoon. As Minseok tries to catch his breath his vision of the lone cloud in the sky gets blocked by Yifan’s face, which is dirtied and bloodied, a smile on his even-still handsome features.
Minseok takes the offered hand, standing up and no longer caring about what he may or may not do to the Prince. After landing the first punch, status was obliterated and they were two men fighting to get the upperhand.
“You learn quickly,” Yifan says, clapping Minseok on the shoulder with a grin.
Smiling a bit shyly, Minseok ruffles some of the dirt out of his hair. So much for being clean and pristine. “Thanks. I take back what I said earlier… about a Prince not being able to provide proper competition.”
Chuckling, Yifan slings his arm over Minseok’s shoulders, starting to walk back towards the barracks with him. “No need to take back those words. You were justified in thinking that way.”
Yifan is so easy-going, it’s… refreshing. Minseok has only ever met court officials when they came to the town square to announce the news, and they all seemed so stuffy and rude. Minseok had only imagined that the royal court was the same. Out here, Yifan treats Minseok as an equal, and while occasionally Minseok looks over his shoulder just to make sure there’s not a stray dagger heading his way for even breathing near the Prince, he feels good.
At the barracks, Yifan bids Minseok a good night, and heads off to his own bunk. Minseok watches his broad back retreat, and then smiles to himself, turning in to have a quick rinse before he settles in for bed. This competition, in one day, has suddenly become less foreboding and more… exciting.
--
Strategy training focuses on combat engagement. It’s something that Minseok breezes easily through, and he takes great satisfaction in knowing that the other men are struggling. How they managed to pass the entrance exam is beyond him, if they can’t even figure out these simple tactics.
They are given little wooden armies on a map of their kingdom, and told to create a defensive and offensive plan against the little wooden army on the outskirts of the border. Minseok finds a solution quickly that both defends their home and attacks the enemy, and Yifan is sending him a proud smile from where he’s hunched over his own map. The other men are scolded by the instructor, and Minseok hides his grin by coughing into his sleeve, his playful eyes catching Yifan’s.
This isn’t so bad.
--
Archery training is last, and Minseok finally brings his bow, quiver and arrows out from their safe spot under his bed. On the field the men make fun of Minseok’s rather rudimentary set, but he has learned to ignore them well, as he adjusts his quiver on his back and holds his bow confidently at his side. This is the part of the competition he knows he’ll sweep. His arrows are hand crafted and weighted to accommodate the drag of his bow, rather scientific in fact. No one but him can use them.
Yifan’s equipment is extraordinary. Ornately crafted and even painted, they suit his large frame well, the quiver on his back looking as at home as Minseok’s own. In this moment, Minseok is in awe of the Prince. This is the future ruler of their kingdom. The man that holds their lives and their well-being on his shoulders. So young, and so… vibrant. Minseok can actually be proud to call this Prince his leader. His… friend.
“This should be rather self-explanatory,” the instructor says. He’s clearly worn out by now, dealing with the bumbling idiots on one hand and warily watching Minseok with the other. “If you do not know how to shoot an arrow, please excuse yourself from the competition.”
The men grumble and assure him that they can do this, and Minseok smirks a little. Reaching up with his right hand over his shoulder, he fingers the feather of one of his arrows, eyes watching the helpers move the targets back about fifty meters. Child’s play. Before the targets are even set in place, Minseok equips his bow so fast and fires an arrow so true, the man moving his target screams shrilly in surprise, ducking for cover as the whoomp of the arrow hitting the center of the padded target sounds loudly.
The instructor raises a brow at Minseok, clearly about to reprimand him; Minseok merely shrugs, feigning sheepishness.
“I rather like shooting mobile targets.”
Yifan laughs boisterously.
The targets get set up at seventy-five meters, apparently the new standard thanks to Minseok’s showboating. The other men have complaints written on their features but they say nothing, all readying their bows and arrows. Minseok and Yifan equip at the same time and, surprisingly, at the same speed -- their arrows ring and land centered, and Minseok is smiling huge when he looks over at the Prince, who is tossing him a thumbs up and a wink.
With each passing day, Minseok finds him looking to the Prince for his approval. And with each nod, each smile, Minseok feels himself growing bolder… and fonder.
It’s a bit dangerous.
--
Three weeks have passed, and the night before the competition finds Minseok and Yifan in the makeshift tavern, sharing bread and drinking a beer each. Both of them spend tireless days training in the pitch in hand-to-hand, Yifan insisting that they work on Minseok’s weak point. Yifan seems so confident that Minseok will slay the other tests, and Minseok quietly thanks him at the end of each night for believing in him so fiercely.
“This competition,” Yifan says, not affected by the beer at all but choosing to speak freely, “is almost ridiculous. Through trial alone I know you should be my next guard.”
Minseok waves a hand, both to shush the Prince from speaking too loud, and to hold onto his modesty. “It wouldn’t be fair to the others, Yifan.”
Yifan snorts, “Fair. None of those men would play fair against you if I weren’t in their way.”
Minseok grins wryly, “You think I couldn’t handle myself?”
Leaning in close, Yifan puts his hand on the back of Minseok’s chair, his eyes slightly unfocused. Is the beer affecting him? “You remind me of a pretty damsel. Is it not my job to protect you?”
Minseok doesn’t even bat an eye when he digs the heel of his foot into Yifan’s toe. Yifan howls and pulls away, looking all sorts of pouty and sad. Minseok laughs and rips off a piece of bread, shoving it into Yifan’s mouth.
“Eat more, Sire, else your head will not allow you to compete in the morning.”
Chewing up the bread, Yifan swallows and then returns his gaze to Minseok. This time, his gaze is softer, a bit more serious, and he reaches out again to put his hand on the back of Minseok’s chair. Leaning in, Minseok suddenly feels his heart choking up into his throat. Yifan is… so handsome. With slightly glossy eyes, rosy cheeks and tousled hair, Minseok wonders if there’s a Princess waiting for Yifan to sweep her away on a white horse.
Minseok must be hallucinating when he thinks Yifan’s lips are heading for his own. His eyes shut tightly, body going rigid, and then all of a sudden there are shouts coming from the barracks, the commotion startling them apart. Eyes wide, Minseok immediately stands along with Yifan, and they both abandon their seats to head towards the noise.
A fire has broken out in the barracks, on Minseok’s side. Feeling his heart drop, he realizes all of his meager possessions are in there. His clothes, the good luck charm his mother had given him, and--
“My bow!” he shouts, and as he makes to leap forward to go straight into the flames, a strong arm is holding him back.
“Minseok, you cannot go in there!” Yifan’s voice is being drowned out by the roar of the flames.
“My bow! My arrows!” Minseok cries out, feeling his heart breaking into a million little pieces. It’s all he has left of his late father. Memories of whittling away at the wood under his father’s instruction, learning how to weight his arrows, how to forge the heads. All he has left of the man who quite literally worked himself to death right before Minseok’s eyes.
“I will not let you go forth!” Yifan roars, and he’s got Minseok pinned to his chest, the smaller man’s arms and legs flailing, beating blindly, trying to get free.
“They’re all I have left!” Minseok sobs brokenly, still shouting, but the fight leaves him when the roof of his bunk collapses in on itself, vanquishing any thought of going inside to save his belongings. Falling to his knees, Yifan falls with him, bracing him against his chest as Minseok openly cries into his hands. “They were all I had left…”
The fire burns on, Minseok sobbing into Yifan’s embrace, Yifan’s hard eyes landing on the other competitors gathering around to watch the fire blaze.
Minseok breaks for the first time since leaving home.
--
Minseok sleeps in Yifan’s bunk, tucked into the warm pelts on the Prince’s bed. So exhausted, emotionally, he sleeps through the night like a rock once his head hits the pillow. When he wakes up Yifan is nowhere in sight, and the previous night’s memories come flooding into Minseok’s head so hard, he’s left breathless as he falls back against the bed. Covering his eyes with his hands, he does his best to not cry any more. He trembles, devastated, and wishes desperately that Yifan was here to give him a smile, to hold his shoulder.
When had he started relying on Yifan for comfort?
Sitting up again, Minseok swings his legs over the edge of the bunk. Yifan’s scent is heavy on the pelts, and Minseok shudders and then stands, running his fingers through his hair shakily. There’s a summons on the table for the competitors to come to the pitch immediately, and with everything Minseok had acquired up in flames, he has no choice but to head to the pitch without armor, without weapons.
It’s cold. Frightfully so, clouds overhead and ice on the ground. Five men are on the pitch and there is an audience surrounding it, the instructor and judges seated up high with the best view. The crowd is loud, talking amongst themselves, making bets, and when Minseok enters the pitch a hush falls over the spectators as they take in the newest, and final competitor. Surely all of them will be betting against him.
Yifan tries catching Minseok’s eye, but Minseok doesn’t allow it. He stares up at the instructor, gaze hard. The other competitors all seem rather pleased with themselves, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that they are responsible for the fire in Minseok’s bunk the night prior.
No matter.
Minseok has found a renewed vigor.
--
“The contestants will battle until one taps out, is knocked out, or is pinned until the count of five.” the instructor announces through the wooden megaphone, and the crowd cheers wildly. Their names are drawn and thankfully, Minseok and Yifan are not pitted against each other.
Yifan’s match goes quick. Minseok can see the barely contained anger in his shoulders, burning in his eyes with the intensity ten times the fire that burned Minseok’s belongings. Minseok can tell it takes a lot of self control for Yifan to not beat his opponent senseless. Minseok recalls Yifan telling him that he planned on pinning his opponent for five counts, so as to prevent too much injury -- but Yifan knocks out his opponent cold in one brutal punch, and even from this distance Minseok knows that the man’s nose is broken, his jaw potentially dislocated.
The crowd roars and Yifan exits the pitch, glowering. He looks like an angered god, and Minseok wonders if he’s not far from the truth. Someone like Yifan surely can’t be mortal.
The next match drags on for what seems like forever, Minseok jiggling his knee with nerves as he watches. He alternates between watching the match and scanning the crowd for his mother; he doesn’t find her right away, and he wonders if she even came. But when the crowd stands and cheers for the victor of this match, one woman remains seated -- and Minseok recognizes his mother immediately. His heart softens a bit, aches a little. She is forfeiting a day’s work to come witness Minseok in competition, and he is eternally grateful for her.
Minseok’s name is announced and he stands up, shaking himself idly, bouncing from foot to foot to warm himself up. Without any pelts to warm him, and no armor to protect him, he is almost chilled to the bone. But nerves keep him from freezing, and when he walks onto the pitch, his opponent is already waiting, looking rather comfortable and warm.
“Pity about your bunk,” the man said, although his expression is anything but consoling. “You must be freezing.”
“It is not the cold that bothers me,” Minseok replies curtly, taking his stance before the instructor even announces anything.
The crowd is roaring. Such a tiny thing against such a burly man -- surely Minseok will lose. Especially with no armor, no hidden dagger, not even a pelt to keep him from freezing on the pitch. He hears people betting against him, hears people booing him and cheering on his opponent. The man smirks and he’s missing a front tooth, the one next to the gap blackened with rot. It’s easy to imagine this man sneaking into Minseok’s bunk while he was away, lighting fire to all of his possessions.
The big man barely takes his stance before the instructor bellows for the match to commence. Minseok is already up on him, swinging wide from the left -- the man dodges, but Minseok has an uppercut hiding, and he swings it into the man’s gut, smirking in satisfaction when the man exhales harshly, expelling some spit in surprise. Minseok dodges away from an attempted grapple, light on his feet, and now the crowd is getting rightly fired up.
They dance around each other for a few steps, the man swinging and missing, Minseok artfully dodging. The cold only seems to spur him on, put his reflexes on overdrive; he doesn’t think he’s ever been this sharp, even in his toughest sessions with Yifan. The man uses his weight to barrel forward and tackle Minseok to the ground, and he lands two punches across Minseok’s face. Blood clouds Minseok’s vision and he’s trapped, unable to move under the massive weight of the man’s body -- he gathers the collecting blood in his mouth and spits it as hard as he can, right into the man’s face.
Shouting in surprise, the man reaches up to try and wipe the blood away, Minseok kicking him off and then scrambling to stand. The man stands as well once his face is clear, his expression seething.
“You think you can beat me using dirty tricks?” the man roars.
“You seemed to think the same, last night,” Minseok shoots back.
The man barrels forward again, and everything happens so fast, Minseok isn’t even sure it’s happened until it has. The man reaches out to grab Minseok by the throat, and Minseok lets him -- if only briefly. At this proximity, Minseok reaches for the knife tucked away in the man’s belt, and then swings his legs up; it’s a nimble move, using his legs to climb his way onto the man’s body, wrestling his way out of the man’s grip until he’s perched on the man’s back, the blade of the knife pressed against the front of his thick throat.
Everything freezes. The crowd silences. Minseok’s fingers tremble as he holds the knife to the man’s throat, his voice low as he speaks into the other’s ear.
“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t kill you right now,” he says. “One reason why you deserve to live one more day of your pathetic life.”
Of course, the man can’t answer. His knees are trembling but he’s fighting to stay upright because the second he buckles, the knife Minseok is holding will slip and gouge him deeply. Minseok presses the blade into the man’s skin, not enough to cut, but hard enough to get the point across. Inconsolable rage -- for how unfairly he’s been treated, for his last memory of his father going up in flames.
“One. Reason.”
“Minseok!”
Minseok’s attention snaps up to where his mom is standing in the crowd, standing among the rest of the seated spectators. She has tears in her eyes, her hands cupped around her mouth.
“You win!” she yells, her voice trembling.
She brings Minseok back to his senses. He looks at the knife he has pressed to skin, and realizes that killing this man would bring no satisfaction to him. He would only be stooping down to his level, a petty revenge for a petty crime. Minseok slides off of the man’s back, still holding up the knife even as the man turns around to face him. He sees fear in the man’s eyes, and watches as he falls to his knees, signalling his defeat. Minseok tosses the knife on the ground in front of the man as he’s announced winner, and Minseok doesn’t feel any better about what happened… but he doesn’t feel much worse, either.
That’s something.
--
Yifan, Minseok and a man named Jongsoo move on to the strategy round. Minseok is considerably more calm, but his knee still jiggles while he’s seated. All three of them are individually watched as they map out a scenario for offensive and defensive maneuvers; Jongsoo passes, Minseok passes, and Yifan…
“Fail.”
Minseok’s gaze snaps up, disbelief written on his features as the instructor declares Yifan defeated. Yifan himself doesn’t seem too surprised -- he lets out an exasperated sigh, ruffling his hair and sending Minseok a sheepish smile, as if to say ‘oops’.
Minseok wonders, then, if this competition has been rigged from the start for him to win. Yifan had made contact with him at the exam, sitting right next to Minseok when there were so many other seats available. Yifan had revealed himself to Minseok, and then took his time to personally help Minseok train. For what? Why? What is so special about Minseok that the crowned Prince is vying for his favor in this competition?
When Yifan passes Minseok on his way out of the tent, he gives Minseok’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
Whatever the reason… Minseok won’t let him down.
--
The archery competition is to happen just before dusk. Minseok is staring at the target, and for this final round, only one shot will decide the winner. A bullseye hit to a target two-hundred and fifty meters away. If Minseok had his own bow and arrow, this would be no problem. But as Jongsoo equips next to him, Minseok feels dread grow in his gut. He’d been supplied with standard bow and arrow, identical to Jongsoo, and it feels foreign in Minseok’s hands, like he’s never held archery equipment before.
The bow is stiff, the string too thick, the arrows heavy. Minseok’s brows are furrowed as Jongsoo stretches beside him, and Minseok feels like a fool. He’d been so sure about this round. He’d shown off in the beginning, and his arrogance has made him pay gravely. Jongsoo will win, even if Yifan has given Minseok a nudge in the right direction, and Yifan will have Jongsoo as his personal guard from here on out. Minseok thinks about how he’ll never see Yifan again; how he’ll return to iron working, helping his mother around the house and wishing they had clean water to bathe in, to drink from. Such a grim outlook, after three such positive weeks.
Surely he’s disappointed his father.
“Hey.”
Yifan’s voice brings Minseok out of his misery, and Minseok looks up to see Yifan approaching. The Prince has his bow and quiver in hand, and when he’s close to Minseok, he holds them out with a confident smile.
“Use mine.”
Minseok feels his heart squeeze. “I--” he shakes his head, looking up at Yifan. “I can’t. I can’t do this.”
Shaking his head, Yifan steps closer. He gingerly takes the standard bow from Minseok’s hand, and then carelessly tosses it aside. He does the same with the quiver, the arrows scattering about. He then straps the quiver across Minseok’s shoulders, reaching around Minseok’s slender body to buckle the strap and speak in Minseok’s ear.
“I was not rooting for you on accident.” Yifan murmurs softly, pressing his bow into Minseok’s hand. Pulling away, Yifan’s smile is the warmest Minseok has ever seen it. “Shoot true.”
Yifan then turns and walks away to join the spectators, and Minseok is left staring after him. His gaze then drops to the bow in his hand, which feels… suspiciously like his own. But it is indeed Yifan’s, decorated ornately with paint. He reaches up to feel over the feathers of an arrow, lifting it testingly out of the quiver. Lightweight, and yet with just enough drag… Minseok’s brow furrows. How is their equipment so similar?
Next to him, Jongsoo brings his bow to the ready. Minseok watches him for a moment, thumb sliding over the handle of the borrowed bow idly; an etching feels familiar under his thumb, and Minseok glances down, feeling his heart thud.
His father’s initials are engraved very intricately into the wood, almost disappearing into the design. Eyes wetting, Minseok’s gaze lifts to the crowd, seeing Yifan seated next to his mother. What does this mean? How did Yifan get this bow? Yifan only has a mysterious smile on his face as he holds his thumb up, and Minseok looks back down at the bow.
The last bow his father had ever made was intended for the royal family. It was supposed to bring luck, his father had said, and lots of wealth to them should the royal family decide it was worthy. Minseok had forgotten all about it, because nothing came to fruition of his design. And yet here it is, in his hands, real as the ground he’s standing on.
Jongsoo shoots, the twang of his string bringing Minseok back to the present. He watches Jongsoo’s arrow hit the target on the inner rim of the red circle, but just shy of bullseye. Jongsoo seems pleased with it, though; he, along with the other competitors, are no doubt betting on Minseok’s loss due to the lack of his prized bow.
But Minseok only smirks, equipping his bow as steadily as ever. He can sense Jongsoo’s surprise; Minseok had just been fumbling with the standard bow five minutes earlier, but now he has all the confidence in the world.
And he rightly has it. He has his father in his hands. His father’s guidance, and Yifan’s trust.
Taking aim, Minseok lets out a breath, closing his eyes. When he opens them, his gaze is sharper, clearer, and honed in on the bullseye. His string barely makes a noise as the arrow is released from it, and Minseok holds his stance, watching his arrow fly. It hits the bullseye dead on, and for a moment, there’s a stunned silence that washes over the arena.
Yifan is the first to cheer, standing up and whooping loudly. Next is Minseok’s mother, the sound of her tears laced into her cries making Minseok’s heart thump. And then the rest of the crowd is cheering too, a mixture of shock and disbelief. Jongsoo curses loudly, throwing his bow on the ground and stomping off of the field. Minseok himself is stunned, staring at his arrow, and he’s only brought out of his stupor when strong arms wrap around his shoulders, hoisting him up.
“You did it!” Yifan cheers, hugging Minseok tightly to his body.
Minseok hugs him back, tears flowing down his face, his father’s bow still clasped tightly in his hand. His mother joins the hug, kissing the tears off of Minseok’s cheeks, and as the sun sets and the crowd celebrates, Minseok thinks that his father’s final creation couldn’t have been any more perfect.
--
“The captain of the guard at the time knew not of good craftsmanship,” Yifan says, as he and Minseok stroll the palace gardens. “He thought your father’s bow and arrows were not sufficient for the army. Too weak, too… pretty.”
Minseok understands why someone would think that. His father’s designs were meant for easy carrying, and easy execution. Not those heavy, cumbersome bows and arrows that the army has used for years.
“I was very young when the bow and quiver were given to me,” Yifan explains. His hand is resting on the small of Minseok’s back. “I did not know much about any sort of tactical warfare, let alone about weaponry… but something about your father’s design breathed life into me. I practiced every day, from then on, perfecting my own archery skills. I thought it was unfair that such a beautiful instrument was rejected. When I saw his surname on the roster for contestants to partake in the exam… I knew I had to make it happen, this time.”
Minseok feels so honored, and so warm. Yifan has a grand heart and a soul of gold. To think of Minseok’s father after such a long time truly speaks of Yifan’s integrity.
“I might have cheated the system a bit, in order to ensure your progression,” Yifan says, ducking his head a bit. “But I knew the son of the man who crafted this bow and arrow must be as, if not more brilliant, than his father before him. I would be a fool to not want such a mind by my side.”
“You flatter me,” Minseok says, feeling his cheeks tinging pink. Yifan has gotten very comfortable and familiar with him lately, and Minseok isn’t quite sure how to handle it. His mother has been moved into a cottage near the castle where she is provided clean water and food daily, while Minseok himself resides in the palace, and Minseok is sure Yifan’s generosity knows no bounds.
“I am nothing but honest,” Yifan chuckles softly.
They stop walking in front of a fountain feature, water trickling steadily out of the mouth of a stone dragon. Minseok studies the statue for a moment, and when he turns up to Yifan to tell him that the dragon reminds him of the Prince, he is surprised to find the Prince already regarding him.
“My Lord?” Minseok inquires softly.
Yifan smiles. “Your father would be proud.”
The words catch Minseok off-guard, and he rolls his eyes to hide the pleased blush spreading over his features. “My father would be proud of you, Your Highness. He had always dreamed about someone like you taking the throne.”
Grinning, Yifan drapes an arm around Minseok’s shoulders, looking at the water feature and saying nothing more on the subject. After a few moments, he points at the dragon, “Do I look like that?”
Minseok hums, “Sometimes when your brows get really fluffy.”
Yifan’s hand shoots up to run his fingers over his eyebrows self-consciously, and Minseok laughs brightly, pulling away.
“Would you care to practice in the field with me?” Minseok invites Yifan along to his archery practice with ease, as it is something they make time for every day, with or without invitation.
“Is the moment not romantic enough to stay here?” Yifan pouts.
It’s Minseok’s turn to shrug as he turns away, “Perhaps you should give Cupid lessons in archery~”
Yifan chases after Minseok. As Minseok laughs and runs through the garden maze, dodging Yifan’s hands, he can’t help but count his lucky stars.
Thank you, father.
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Pairing: Kris/Xiumin
Rating: PG-13 (violence)
Word Count: 8.6k
Summary: Minseok is selected to participate in a competition that will decide whether or not he can serve in the royal guard. With the help of his father’s bow, and a little guidance from an unexpected ally, he learns that dreams never die.
Notes: i’ve never??? written something like this before??? but um pls look at this and this and understand why i had to write this. originally it was gonna be based solely around kris but then minseok happened and i just :( also i re-read this and it seems rly short but if i kept going i would have dragged it out unnecessarily and i hate it when i do that like gatdamn jillian just end the fking fic. ALSO i realize that i am an over-user of commas so i!! am trying to fix that!!
golden dreams;
If there is one thing that Minseok has learned well in his peasant upbringing, it’s archery. He can hit a target three hundred meters away, if his arrow is weighted enough to travel that far and yet not so weighted that it falls short; he can hit a moving target while immobile, and he can hit a still target while he himself is mobile -- he can even hit a moving target while he moves on horseback. It’s a practice he keeps to himself, one that he doesn’t share with anyone. He has fashioned his own bow, forged his own arrows with knife, hammer and rope, and he spends one hour every day target practicing, challenging himself. It keeps his mind sharp, his reflexes clean, and helps alleviate stress built up from another fruitless day of labor. Labor that bleeds his hands but doesn’t feed his family. Archery, for Minseok, is his own private escape in the woods behind his cottage, and he wouldn’t change it for a thing.
The months grow colder, and his family is not in the agricultural ring, so the weather does not affect their ability to work. No -- iron workers, even his mother -- they thrive in the cold, when the heat from the fires are more welcome than a burden, keeping them from chilling to the bone. When his father passed, Minseok took on the responsibility of caring for his mother. In the winter months, he thinks about his father’s dream to supply the royal army with the most efficient bows and arrows that could be crafted, and he feels himself grow bitter. Nothing came of that dream, and now Minseok trudges through each day with the knowledge that the next will be just as trying.
Walking through the village, with barely enough coin to pay for the weeks’ groceries, Minseok holds his cape up a bit to shield his face from the harsh wind. The cobblestone streets are slowly accumulating snow and ice, and he has slipped more than what he feels is acceptable. As he picks out breads, fruits and nuts, lamenting the fact he doesn’t have enough coin to buy meat for himself and his parents, some commotion catches his attention. Many people are gathering at the city square, and, curious, he pays for the goods and places them carefully in his satchel before wandering over to the commotion.
“A contest!” someone shouts excitedly.
“With a handsome award to first place!” another informs.
Money is scarce enough in Minseok’s life that it makes his feet propel him forward into the crowd, so he can get a look at the poster. Sure enough, by royal decree, a contest to be held among the commoners, testing skill, wit, and perseverance. A cash prize for the top three contestants, and first prize looks to receive honorable mention within the royal army. Minseok scans the sign, looking for the contest rules, what talents will need to be shown in order to participate.
Hand-to-hand. Strategy. Archery.
Swallowing thickly, Minseok’s eyes hone in on the last word. Archery. He could win on that alone. Money, and residency in the royal army? His mother would never have to work again! Hand-to-hand and strategy… Of course, a brawl to show physical strength, and then strategy to showcase battle smarts. Archery is a coveted, technical skill of their particular army.
His father may not have gotten his design into the higher ranks, but Minseok is young, spritely, and very capable.
Grinning, Minseok walks up to the roster, dipping the provided quill in the ink pot and signing his name on the parchment along with ten or so others. Standing back, he feels pretty confident. This is his chance to do something good for his mother, and himself. This is his chance to prove that all the years perfecting his archery were not for waste, as his mother sometimes thought after his father died.
Walking home from the square, there’s a bit more bounce in Minseok’s step.
A good omen, indeed.
--
All contestants are summoned a week later to a great hall within the town. There are only a dozen, and Minseok sizes himself up against the other contestants with a cautious eye. All men. All older than him, hardened, wizened. It is explained that the group will be allowed to go through chaperoned training before the competition -- experts in hand-to-hand, strategy, and archery will be setting up the expectations and explaining the rules of each competition.
As the man explains everything, Minseok feels his fingers itching. He doesn’t have his bow or quiver, and the ones being provided look… archaic. Heavy, clumsy. He doesn’t like how they look, at all. But today they’ll be meeting each other, and going through an initial round. There are only eight slots for competitors, they’re informed, and they must pass a preliminary test in order to go on to the actual competition.
Things get shuffled around a bit, and the dozen men, including Minseok, are seated at tables. There are parchments and quills at each seat, and Minseok is distracted from looking at his parchment when someone sits heavily next to him. Glancing over, Minseok blinks -- this man hadn’t been here ten minutes ago. He’s tall, dark hair and fair skin, fierce brows and a set jaw. Minseok feels like a child next to him, round cheeks and sun-kissed hair. The man catches him staring and Minseok turns his gaze back to his parchment, picking up the dry quill and quietly tapping it on the table, awaiting instruction.
“This is a simple test,” the instructor announces from the head of the hall, “that will determine your eligibility as a contestant. When you are finished, please put your quill down, and exit the hall. If you pass, we will summon you in three day’s time. If you fail, you will not be contacted.”
Easy enough, Minseok thinks. Why are they over explaining things? Surely no one here is too simple to understand.
“You may begin.”
Minseok waits to dip his quill into the ink, instead reading the words on the parchment. He squints a little; the handwriting is much fancier than any penmanship he’s ever seen, and it takes him a moment to read what it says.
A crow in the woods,
A beast in the town.
A fire in the mountains,
a flood in the square.
The next course of action
decides your fate.
What? Minseok stares at the words. They’re the only words on the parchment, and he takes a deep breath, before glancing around. Everyone looks generally puzzled, some men scratching their heads, and two men even getting up after a few moments and leaving the hall, signaling their forfeit. Minseok glances at the man next to him, whose quill is being dipped into the ink, before it starts gliding effortlessly over the parchment. Blinking, Minseok wonders how this man has come up with an answer so quickly, when he himself is faltering. Minseok considers himself intelligent, but even he is briefly stumped.
Looking back at his own paper, Minseok refuses to admit defeat. It’s a riddle -- a metaphor. He racks his brain for what it could mean. Crows in their culture signify greater intelligence. Beasts are feared. Fire is a curse, a flood is bad luck. Furrowing his brows, the feather tip of the quill tickles against his lower lip, and then -- Ah. It comes to Minseok.
Dipping his quill into the ink, he writes out his answer. The man next to him is already gone, his parchment turned in to the instructor, and Minseok is the only one whose quill is touching the parchment. He takes care in his penmanship; he might not have had the highest education in the room, but he has pride. He wants to be taken seriously.
When he’s finished writing his answer, he stands up carefully so as not to make too much noise. He takes the parchment to the instructor, and he eyes Minseok’s answer curiously, arching a brow. Minseok bows and excuses himself, and when he leaves the hall, he’s got a grin on his features.
If that was the entrance exam, there won’t be too many people passing through to the actual competition.
The crow is the enemy.
The fire is his weapon.
Use the beast to find him, and the flood to drown him.
--
Three days have passed, and Minseok is anxious as he works. He’s dripping with sweat, the fire too close and too hot; he hasn’t taken a break at all, and though his mother worries, she knows better than to try and bring Minseok in. He’s been anxious ever since he took that test. There has been no word yet, on this third day, and as sunset approaches he feels his confidence wavering. What if his answer was incorrect? He’d been so sure. It was the only logical answer.
What about the man that had sat next to him? Young, handsome, almost noble-looking if it weren’t for the dirt smudge that had been on his jaw. Had he answered the same, or different? He had answered so quickly, too.
“Minseok!”
His mother calling has Minseok putting the hammer down, wiping his brow with an equally sweaty forearm and only managing to dirty himself further. Sighing softly, he stares at the shovel he’d been making, and then decides that maybe now he should take a break. It’s getting hot beyond compare in their small iron room. Grabbing a cloth from a rack, he starts mopping his face as he exits the room, moving into the main house. His mother is standing in the entryway, cheeks flushed and eyes bright.
“The instructor is here!” she says, excitedly.
Minseok blinks, and looks passed her to see the instructor from the exam standing in the doorway. Face splitting into a smile, Minseok whoops and grabs his mother, hugging her and spinning her around, kissing her forehead as he sets her on her feet.
“I will make you proud, mother,” he promises, cupping her weary face. She nods, because she always has had confidence in her only son; she helps him pack a few things, and then sends him on his way, waving from the doorway of their cottage.
With a determined glare in his eyes, Minseok follows the instructor back towards the hall.
I will make you proud, father.
--
Six contestants have made it through the preliminary round. Minseok, the mysterious young man whom he’d sat next to during the exam, and four other men of varying caliber. Hand-to-hand, strategy and archery are things that Minseok feels comfortable with; however, standing amongst these large, well-fed men is making Minseok think twice about his chances in this competition. All he needs to do is make it past the hand-to-hand -- from there, he can sweep the contest.
“Welcome,” the instructor booms. “Now begins your preliminary training. If you have not been educated in the subjects provided, we will offer training. It is unwise to buddy up, as you will all face each other as enemies at one point or another in the competition.”
Minseok swallows. So he can’t avoid the big guy, huh? His gaze slides over to the man at the other end of the line; he’s so tall, so regal looking -- and definitely out of place. The pelt across his shoulders is clean and well taken care of, his fingernails free of any dirt. Minseok looks like he took a tussle in a fireplace, ash and soot smudged on him from head to toe.
The man in question seems to feel Minseok’s gaze, his own dark eyes turning to meet Minseok’s. Instead of looking away when he feels the heat creeps up the back of his neck, Minseok keeps his determined stare on the taller man, as if silently challenging him. In response, the man merely smirks, before turning his attention back up to the instructor.
Minseok doesn’t feel any better about his odds.
--
They’re given clean clothes and minimal armor for training. It’s the first real bath Minseok has had in years -- sure, at his home they are capable of heating up water, but getting their hands on clean water has always been an issue. The nearest river is too far for Minseok to trek to on his own, so his family is only able to have fresh water once a month, and given their profession the water doesn’t stay fresh for more than one wash. Minseok is as clean as he’s ever been, fair, snowy skin soft and supple, his auburn hair fluffy and healthy looking. The clothing he’s been given are a bit too big, and he spends some time with his travel sewing kit hemming the cuffs of the pants and sleeves. It’s menial work, but it keeps his mind off the upcoming competition.
Training will start in the morrow, and as Minseok sews by candlelight in his bunk, he desperately hopes that his first opponent isn’t that large, fierce looking man. Even if it’s just practice, Minseok has only ever wrestled with his cousin -- his cousin who is about the same size as himself. A fair match. Going up against someone like these large men is definitely out of Minseok’s grasp. And he’s seen the way they look at him, too, eyeing him like he’ll be the easiest one to defeat, eyeing him like they all hope he’s their opponent in the first round so that they can ensure being one step closer to victory.
A knock on the frame of the door to Minseok’s bunk, which holds up only an animal pelt as a privacy screen, has Minseok glancing up.
“Come in,” he says softly, gaze returning back to his needling.
The pelt opens and the footsteps are heavy when they enter; Minseok is surprised when he glances up to see the tall, handsome man standing in his doorway. Swallowing, Minseok carefully sets his needling supplies down, turning so he may face the other.
“Minseok,” the man greets, inclining his head in a polite bow.
Having never been bowed to before, Minseok waves a hand awkwardly, “Please-- no need.” His gaze turns curious. “You know my name… yet I know not of yours.”
The man drapes his forearm over his stomach and inclines his head again, this time in greeting rather than respect. He looks so… noble.
“I am Yifan.”
Minseok’s blood runs cold. Yifan. As in… Prince Yifan? The widening of Minseok’s eyes is telltale, and Yifan hangs the animal pelt behind him proper to close off Minseok’s bunk once again, taking another step inside as he holds a finger to his own lips.
“Please do not make a commotion. I am here under the guise of Wufan.”
“That’s not very clever,” Minseok can’t help but reply. Yifan’s alias is so close to his name.
Yifan cracks a small smile, “Sometimes the best hiding spot is the most obvious one.”
As far as Minseok knows, Yifan spends his time in the palace and never visits the commoners. Minseok hadn’t even known what he looked like, until this very moment. He can’t even think about how he might be punished for how he is speaking to the crown Prince, and he especially can’t imagine the punishment for having the Prince in his quarters. The Prince shouldn’t be subjected to this!
“Why are you here?” Minseok asks as casually as possible, reaching for his needle and thread once more. His fingers are only slightly shaking as he continues to hem his shirt, waiting for Yifan’s reply.
“The King has been trying to create a draft for the army,” Yifan explains, still standing, poised tall and proud. “However, he has poor taste in soldiers. I have created this contest to hand select who will be the next member of the royal guard. And, with high enough marks, be my personal guard.”
Minseok accidentally pricks himself with the needle, hissing softly and bringing the digit to his mouth. Yifan moves to take a step forward, and Minseok shakes his head, holding his hand away.
“You needn’t worry about a tiny wound such as this,” Minseok says, reaching for the first aid kit that he keeps packed in his bag. He pulls out a bandage, cutting it so that he may wrap it around the tip of his finger to stop the bleeding. Glancing up, he levels with Yifan’s gaze. “I don’t understand why you are participating in the competition.”
Yifan sends a mysterious smile, clearly relieved that Minseok’s injury isn’t too grave. “What better way to hand pick my guard, than to compete against him myself?”
“I hardly imagine a Prince is capable of two of the three categories in this competition,” Minseok sniffs. A Prince born into royalty surely doesn’t know hand-to-hand, how to strategize without the guidance of a counselor, let alone shoot an arrow into a target.
All of a sudden, the intense smell of amber fills Minseok’s nostrils. Yifan has a broad palm on Minseok’s table, and he is leaning into the smaller man’s space, a wicked sort of smirk on his features.
“Then you do not know your Prince at all, do you?” Yifan asks, his voice low.
This close, Minseok can count his eyelashes, drink in his porcelain skin, visually trace the curve of his lips. Yifan is a deadly sort of handsome, dark hair and dark eyes and a sturdy frame. Feeling his heart palpitate, Minseok dare not let his eyes stray from the Prince’s challenging gaze.
“If I may be so bold,” Minseok says, keeping his voice from trembling, “you do not know your own countrymen, do you.”
The smirk flashes up into Yifan’s eyes, and the Prince pulls away, clapping Minseok on his shoulder. “I am rooting for you, Minseok.”
Yifan is gone with the swish of the pelt door, and Minseok is left staring at the hide in wonder -- wonder why the Prince is rooting for him, out of all the contestants. Wondering why Yifan has chosen to reveal himself to Minseok, and no one else.
Looking down at his clothing, Minseok then looks at his finger, the tiniest swell of red staining the bandage on the pad of his finger.
Now that Minseok knows what he is truly competing for… does he still want it?
Another glance at the animal pelt, as though he can see Yifan on the other side. Gaze narrowing, Minseok steels himself.
He wants this more than anything. If anything, to avenge his father’s failed designs.
--
In the morning they are risen with the sound of horns, all of the men dressing. Minseok has brought his own bow and quiver and the arrows he had fashioned at home, but he leaves them in his bunk today, safely tucked under his bed. Today they will be learning the basics of hand-to-hand, in the select style of the royal guard. On the pitch, which has been cleared of snow, the six men gather in front of the instructor, who is also dressed readily. The weather is mild, blue skies, yet not quite warm enough to melt the surrounding snow, and Minseok thinks it is a fair day as any to have a go.
Yifan stands next to Minseok this time, and Minseok does his best to not make it obvious that he knows why Yifan is here, and who he is. The instructor starts explaining the ancient technique of hand-to-hand, and how they must execute not only the technique, but the results as well. From fist fighting, to grappling, Minseok is suddenly dreading being paired with one of the huge oafs in the pitch. None of them will go easy on him. They’re already eyeing him, the rabbit amidst foxes, surely dying to have their first round with him. A cheap shot to show their worth, but in their eyes, probably necessary. Deplorable.
“Pair off.” the instructor says at the end of his demonstration. He’d bent his partner into a pretzel and helped him out of it, before giving an expectant look to the contestants.
Yifan immediately grabs Minseok’s wrist, pulling him off the pitch. The other men grumble and protest Yifan’s choosing Minseok before they could, but Minseok is grateful… if only for just a moment. As they stand outside the ring of the pitch and Minseok watches two burly men go through the motions of techniques, he swallows dryly, realizing that he’s going to have to do that with Yifan.
He doesn’t know if he’d rather face a stranger than the handsome Prince. Won’t his hand get cut off if he touches Yifan with any bad intent? Won’t Yifan crush him with size alone?
“The other men in this competition are not worthy competitors,” Yifan says smoothly, voice low so no one but Minseok can hear him. “They are cowards. Ready to prey on someone they consider weak.” Yifan casts a small smile down at Minseok, and Minseok pointedly averts his gaze. “But, you’re not weak, are you, Minseok?”
Minseok doesn’t answer. He doesn’t think he’s weak at all. At least -- not mentally. He can best all of these men in strategy and archery, but hand-to-hand… He may admit a weakness in that.
The competition is broken down as thus: Six men will verse each other one on one in hand-to-hand. Three winners will move on to the next round, strategy. Two winners will move on from strategy to compete in archery. From there, the champion will be chosen. It’s cutting the numbers quickly, but seeing as how only six men passed the entrance exam, Minseok shouldn’t be shocked at how rapidly the numbers will decline in the competition.
When it’s Minseok and Yifan’s turn to enter the pitch, Yifan lets Minseok know that even the instructor doesn’t know who he is. That only gives Minseok a little bit of relief. Still, he is about to lay a foul hand on the Prince. As they face each other on the pitch, the instructor gives another demonstration, before he announces that they may commence practice.
Minseok stays still, assessing Yifan’s body. Minseok might not be as physically fit as the Prince or the other competitors, but he’s got a gifted brain. And smarts has gotten him out of many predicaments before. Yifan takes a step forward, and Minseok takes a step back -- Yifan smirks, fire flashing in his eyes. Any notion of Yifan being a useless, spoiled Prince gets knocked out of Minseok’s head, as well as the breath from his lungs with Yifan pins him to the ground in one swift move. On his chest with his arm bent behind him, Yifan has a knee in the small of Minseok’s back, keeping him pinned.
“You are sleight,” Yifan says, amusement tinging his voice, “but I had expected more of you, Minseok.”
Grunting, Minseok tests Yifan’s grip on his wrist for a moment. Sleight. Yifan is huge, Minseok is a fraction of his size. Judging by the pressure Yifan has on Minseok’s tailbone, if Minseok moves to the left and twists his hips--
He throws Yifan off with a great heave, the Prince’s eyes wide as he stumbles to keep himself from falling directly into the dirt. Minseok stands quickly, raising his hands in defense, brows drawn and eyes narrowed at the Prince. Yifan laughs, and then holds his hands up as well, approval written on his features.
Minseok is about to square off with the crown Prince.
I’m sorry, mother, he sends off in his head, before he launches himself at Yifan, nimble and light on his feet.
--
Four hours later, Minseok is dirty, sweaty and winded as he lies on his back in the middle of the pitch, staring up at the icy blue sky. He and Yifan have been brawling, resting, brawling, resting, brawling again -- and right now, Minseok doesn’t think he can get up for another round. The other men gave up over an hour ago, leaving Minseok and Yifan alone in the pitch; even the instructor had retired for the afternoon. As Minseok tries to catch his breath his vision of the lone cloud in the sky gets blocked by Yifan’s face, which is dirtied and bloodied, a smile on his even-still handsome features.
Minseok takes the offered hand, standing up and no longer caring about what he may or may not do to the Prince. After landing the first punch, status was obliterated and they were two men fighting to get the upperhand.
“You learn quickly,” Yifan says, clapping Minseok on the shoulder with a grin.
Smiling a bit shyly, Minseok ruffles some of the dirt out of his hair. So much for being clean and pristine. “Thanks. I take back what I said earlier… about a Prince not being able to provide proper competition.”
Chuckling, Yifan slings his arm over Minseok’s shoulders, starting to walk back towards the barracks with him. “No need to take back those words. You were justified in thinking that way.”
Yifan is so easy-going, it’s… refreshing. Minseok has only ever met court officials when they came to the town square to announce the news, and they all seemed so stuffy and rude. Minseok had only imagined that the royal court was the same. Out here, Yifan treats Minseok as an equal, and while occasionally Minseok looks over his shoulder just to make sure there’s not a stray dagger heading his way for even breathing near the Prince, he feels good.
At the barracks, Yifan bids Minseok a good night, and heads off to his own bunk. Minseok watches his broad back retreat, and then smiles to himself, turning in to have a quick rinse before he settles in for bed. This competition, in one day, has suddenly become less foreboding and more… exciting.
--
Strategy training focuses on combat engagement. It’s something that Minseok breezes easily through, and he takes great satisfaction in knowing that the other men are struggling. How they managed to pass the entrance exam is beyond him, if they can’t even figure out these simple tactics.
They are given little wooden armies on a map of their kingdom, and told to create a defensive and offensive plan against the little wooden army on the outskirts of the border. Minseok finds a solution quickly that both defends their home and attacks the enemy, and Yifan is sending him a proud smile from where he’s hunched over his own map. The other men are scolded by the instructor, and Minseok hides his grin by coughing into his sleeve, his playful eyes catching Yifan’s.
This isn’t so bad.
--
Archery training is last, and Minseok finally brings his bow, quiver and arrows out from their safe spot under his bed. On the field the men make fun of Minseok’s rather rudimentary set, but he has learned to ignore them well, as he adjusts his quiver on his back and holds his bow confidently at his side. This is the part of the competition he knows he’ll sweep. His arrows are hand crafted and weighted to accommodate the drag of his bow, rather scientific in fact. No one but him can use them.
Yifan’s equipment is extraordinary. Ornately crafted and even painted, they suit his large frame well, the quiver on his back looking as at home as Minseok’s own. In this moment, Minseok is in awe of the Prince. This is the future ruler of their kingdom. The man that holds their lives and their well-being on his shoulders. So young, and so… vibrant. Minseok can actually be proud to call this Prince his leader. His… friend.
“This should be rather self-explanatory,” the instructor says. He’s clearly worn out by now, dealing with the bumbling idiots on one hand and warily watching Minseok with the other. “If you do not know how to shoot an arrow, please excuse yourself from the competition.”
The men grumble and assure him that they can do this, and Minseok smirks a little. Reaching up with his right hand over his shoulder, he fingers the feather of one of his arrows, eyes watching the helpers move the targets back about fifty meters. Child’s play. Before the targets are even set in place, Minseok equips his bow so fast and fires an arrow so true, the man moving his target screams shrilly in surprise, ducking for cover as the whoomp of the arrow hitting the center of the padded target sounds loudly.
The instructor raises a brow at Minseok, clearly about to reprimand him; Minseok merely shrugs, feigning sheepishness.
“I rather like shooting mobile targets.”
Yifan laughs boisterously.
The targets get set up at seventy-five meters, apparently the new standard thanks to Minseok’s showboating. The other men have complaints written on their features but they say nothing, all readying their bows and arrows. Minseok and Yifan equip at the same time and, surprisingly, at the same speed -- their arrows ring and land centered, and Minseok is smiling huge when he looks over at the Prince, who is tossing him a thumbs up and a wink.
With each passing day, Minseok finds him looking to the Prince for his approval. And with each nod, each smile, Minseok feels himself growing bolder… and fonder.
It’s a bit dangerous.
--
Three weeks have passed, and the night before the competition finds Minseok and Yifan in the makeshift tavern, sharing bread and drinking a beer each. Both of them spend tireless days training in the pitch in hand-to-hand, Yifan insisting that they work on Minseok’s weak point. Yifan seems so confident that Minseok will slay the other tests, and Minseok quietly thanks him at the end of each night for believing in him so fiercely.
“This competition,” Yifan says, not affected by the beer at all but choosing to speak freely, “is almost ridiculous. Through trial alone I know you should be my next guard.”
Minseok waves a hand, both to shush the Prince from speaking too loud, and to hold onto his modesty. “It wouldn’t be fair to the others, Yifan.”
Yifan snorts, “Fair. None of those men would play fair against you if I weren’t in their way.”
Minseok grins wryly, “You think I couldn’t handle myself?”
Leaning in close, Yifan puts his hand on the back of Minseok’s chair, his eyes slightly unfocused. Is the beer affecting him? “You remind me of a pretty damsel. Is it not my job to protect you?”
Minseok doesn’t even bat an eye when he digs the heel of his foot into Yifan’s toe. Yifan howls and pulls away, looking all sorts of pouty and sad. Minseok laughs and rips off a piece of bread, shoving it into Yifan’s mouth.
“Eat more, Sire, else your head will not allow you to compete in the morning.”
Chewing up the bread, Yifan swallows and then returns his gaze to Minseok. This time, his gaze is softer, a bit more serious, and he reaches out again to put his hand on the back of Minseok’s chair. Leaning in, Minseok suddenly feels his heart choking up into his throat. Yifan is… so handsome. With slightly glossy eyes, rosy cheeks and tousled hair, Minseok wonders if there’s a Princess waiting for Yifan to sweep her away on a white horse.
Minseok must be hallucinating when he thinks Yifan’s lips are heading for his own. His eyes shut tightly, body going rigid, and then all of a sudden there are shouts coming from the barracks, the commotion startling them apart. Eyes wide, Minseok immediately stands along with Yifan, and they both abandon their seats to head towards the noise.
A fire has broken out in the barracks, on Minseok’s side. Feeling his heart drop, he realizes all of his meager possessions are in there. His clothes, the good luck charm his mother had given him, and--
“My bow!” he shouts, and as he makes to leap forward to go straight into the flames, a strong arm is holding him back.
“Minseok, you cannot go in there!” Yifan’s voice is being drowned out by the roar of the flames.
“My bow! My arrows!” Minseok cries out, feeling his heart breaking into a million little pieces. It’s all he has left of his late father. Memories of whittling away at the wood under his father’s instruction, learning how to weight his arrows, how to forge the heads. All he has left of the man who quite literally worked himself to death right before Minseok’s eyes.
“I will not let you go forth!” Yifan roars, and he’s got Minseok pinned to his chest, the smaller man’s arms and legs flailing, beating blindly, trying to get free.
“They’re all I have left!” Minseok sobs brokenly, still shouting, but the fight leaves him when the roof of his bunk collapses in on itself, vanquishing any thought of going inside to save his belongings. Falling to his knees, Yifan falls with him, bracing him against his chest as Minseok openly cries into his hands. “They were all I had left…”
The fire burns on, Minseok sobbing into Yifan’s embrace, Yifan’s hard eyes landing on the other competitors gathering around to watch the fire blaze.
Minseok breaks for the first time since leaving home.
--
Minseok sleeps in Yifan’s bunk, tucked into the warm pelts on the Prince’s bed. So exhausted, emotionally, he sleeps through the night like a rock once his head hits the pillow. When he wakes up Yifan is nowhere in sight, and the previous night’s memories come flooding into Minseok’s head so hard, he’s left breathless as he falls back against the bed. Covering his eyes with his hands, he does his best to not cry any more. He trembles, devastated, and wishes desperately that Yifan was here to give him a smile, to hold his shoulder.
When had he started relying on Yifan for comfort?
Sitting up again, Minseok swings his legs over the edge of the bunk. Yifan’s scent is heavy on the pelts, and Minseok shudders and then stands, running his fingers through his hair shakily. There’s a summons on the table for the competitors to come to the pitch immediately, and with everything Minseok had acquired up in flames, he has no choice but to head to the pitch without armor, without weapons.
It’s cold. Frightfully so, clouds overhead and ice on the ground. Five men are on the pitch and there is an audience surrounding it, the instructor and judges seated up high with the best view. The crowd is loud, talking amongst themselves, making bets, and when Minseok enters the pitch a hush falls over the spectators as they take in the newest, and final competitor. Surely all of them will be betting against him.
Yifan tries catching Minseok’s eye, but Minseok doesn’t allow it. He stares up at the instructor, gaze hard. The other competitors all seem rather pleased with themselves, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that they are responsible for the fire in Minseok’s bunk the night prior.
No matter.
Minseok has found a renewed vigor.
--
“The contestants will battle until one taps out, is knocked out, or is pinned until the count of five.” the instructor announces through the wooden megaphone, and the crowd cheers wildly. Their names are drawn and thankfully, Minseok and Yifan are not pitted against each other.
Yifan’s match goes quick. Minseok can see the barely contained anger in his shoulders, burning in his eyes with the intensity ten times the fire that burned Minseok’s belongings. Minseok can tell it takes a lot of self control for Yifan to not beat his opponent senseless. Minseok recalls Yifan telling him that he planned on pinning his opponent for five counts, so as to prevent too much injury -- but Yifan knocks out his opponent cold in one brutal punch, and even from this distance Minseok knows that the man’s nose is broken, his jaw potentially dislocated.
The crowd roars and Yifan exits the pitch, glowering. He looks like an angered god, and Minseok wonders if he’s not far from the truth. Someone like Yifan surely can’t be mortal.
The next match drags on for what seems like forever, Minseok jiggling his knee with nerves as he watches. He alternates between watching the match and scanning the crowd for his mother; he doesn’t find her right away, and he wonders if she even came. But when the crowd stands and cheers for the victor of this match, one woman remains seated -- and Minseok recognizes his mother immediately. His heart softens a bit, aches a little. She is forfeiting a day’s work to come witness Minseok in competition, and he is eternally grateful for her.
Minseok’s name is announced and he stands up, shaking himself idly, bouncing from foot to foot to warm himself up. Without any pelts to warm him, and no armor to protect him, he is almost chilled to the bone. But nerves keep him from freezing, and when he walks onto the pitch, his opponent is already waiting, looking rather comfortable and warm.
“Pity about your bunk,” the man said, although his expression is anything but consoling. “You must be freezing.”
“It is not the cold that bothers me,” Minseok replies curtly, taking his stance before the instructor even announces anything.
The crowd is roaring. Such a tiny thing against such a burly man -- surely Minseok will lose. Especially with no armor, no hidden dagger, not even a pelt to keep him from freezing on the pitch. He hears people betting against him, hears people booing him and cheering on his opponent. The man smirks and he’s missing a front tooth, the one next to the gap blackened with rot. It’s easy to imagine this man sneaking into Minseok’s bunk while he was away, lighting fire to all of his possessions.
The big man barely takes his stance before the instructor bellows for the match to commence. Minseok is already up on him, swinging wide from the left -- the man dodges, but Minseok has an uppercut hiding, and he swings it into the man’s gut, smirking in satisfaction when the man exhales harshly, expelling some spit in surprise. Minseok dodges away from an attempted grapple, light on his feet, and now the crowd is getting rightly fired up.
They dance around each other for a few steps, the man swinging and missing, Minseok artfully dodging. The cold only seems to spur him on, put his reflexes on overdrive; he doesn’t think he’s ever been this sharp, even in his toughest sessions with Yifan. The man uses his weight to barrel forward and tackle Minseok to the ground, and he lands two punches across Minseok’s face. Blood clouds Minseok’s vision and he’s trapped, unable to move under the massive weight of the man’s body -- he gathers the collecting blood in his mouth and spits it as hard as he can, right into the man’s face.
Shouting in surprise, the man reaches up to try and wipe the blood away, Minseok kicking him off and then scrambling to stand. The man stands as well once his face is clear, his expression seething.
“You think you can beat me using dirty tricks?” the man roars.
“You seemed to think the same, last night,” Minseok shoots back.
The man barrels forward again, and everything happens so fast, Minseok isn’t even sure it’s happened until it has. The man reaches out to grab Minseok by the throat, and Minseok lets him -- if only briefly. At this proximity, Minseok reaches for the knife tucked away in the man’s belt, and then swings his legs up; it’s a nimble move, using his legs to climb his way onto the man’s body, wrestling his way out of the man’s grip until he’s perched on the man’s back, the blade of the knife pressed against the front of his thick throat.
Everything freezes. The crowd silences. Minseok’s fingers tremble as he holds the knife to the man’s throat, his voice low as he speaks into the other’s ear.
“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t kill you right now,” he says. “One reason why you deserve to live one more day of your pathetic life.”
Of course, the man can’t answer. His knees are trembling but he’s fighting to stay upright because the second he buckles, the knife Minseok is holding will slip and gouge him deeply. Minseok presses the blade into the man’s skin, not enough to cut, but hard enough to get the point across. Inconsolable rage -- for how unfairly he’s been treated, for his last memory of his father going up in flames.
“One. Reason.”
“Minseok!”
Minseok’s attention snaps up to where his mom is standing in the crowd, standing among the rest of the seated spectators. She has tears in her eyes, her hands cupped around her mouth.
“You win!” she yells, her voice trembling.
She brings Minseok back to his senses. He looks at the knife he has pressed to skin, and realizes that killing this man would bring no satisfaction to him. He would only be stooping down to his level, a petty revenge for a petty crime. Minseok slides off of the man’s back, still holding up the knife even as the man turns around to face him. He sees fear in the man’s eyes, and watches as he falls to his knees, signalling his defeat. Minseok tosses the knife on the ground in front of the man as he’s announced winner, and Minseok doesn’t feel any better about what happened… but he doesn’t feel much worse, either.
That’s something.
--
Yifan, Minseok and a man named Jongsoo move on to the strategy round. Minseok is considerably more calm, but his knee still jiggles while he’s seated. All three of them are individually watched as they map out a scenario for offensive and defensive maneuvers; Jongsoo passes, Minseok passes, and Yifan…
“Fail.”
Minseok’s gaze snaps up, disbelief written on his features as the instructor declares Yifan defeated. Yifan himself doesn’t seem too surprised -- he lets out an exasperated sigh, ruffling his hair and sending Minseok a sheepish smile, as if to say ‘oops’.
Minseok wonders, then, if this competition has been rigged from the start for him to win. Yifan had made contact with him at the exam, sitting right next to Minseok when there were so many other seats available. Yifan had revealed himself to Minseok, and then took his time to personally help Minseok train. For what? Why? What is so special about Minseok that the crowned Prince is vying for his favor in this competition?
When Yifan passes Minseok on his way out of the tent, he gives Minseok’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
Whatever the reason… Minseok won’t let him down.
--
The archery competition is to happen just before dusk. Minseok is staring at the target, and for this final round, only one shot will decide the winner. A bullseye hit to a target two-hundred and fifty meters away. If Minseok had his own bow and arrow, this would be no problem. But as Jongsoo equips next to him, Minseok feels dread grow in his gut. He’d been supplied with standard bow and arrow, identical to Jongsoo, and it feels foreign in Minseok’s hands, like he’s never held archery equipment before.
The bow is stiff, the string too thick, the arrows heavy. Minseok’s brows are furrowed as Jongsoo stretches beside him, and Minseok feels like a fool. He’d been so sure about this round. He’d shown off in the beginning, and his arrogance has made him pay gravely. Jongsoo will win, even if Yifan has given Minseok a nudge in the right direction, and Yifan will have Jongsoo as his personal guard from here on out. Minseok thinks about how he’ll never see Yifan again; how he’ll return to iron working, helping his mother around the house and wishing they had clean water to bathe in, to drink from. Such a grim outlook, after three such positive weeks.
Surely he’s disappointed his father.
“Hey.”
Yifan’s voice brings Minseok out of his misery, and Minseok looks up to see Yifan approaching. The Prince has his bow and quiver in hand, and when he’s close to Minseok, he holds them out with a confident smile.
“Use mine.”
Minseok feels his heart squeeze. “I--” he shakes his head, looking up at Yifan. “I can’t. I can’t do this.”
Shaking his head, Yifan steps closer. He gingerly takes the standard bow from Minseok’s hand, and then carelessly tosses it aside. He does the same with the quiver, the arrows scattering about. He then straps the quiver across Minseok’s shoulders, reaching around Minseok’s slender body to buckle the strap and speak in Minseok’s ear.
“I was not rooting for you on accident.” Yifan murmurs softly, pressing his bow into Minseok’s hand. Pulling away, Yifan’s smile is the warmest Minseok has ever seen it. “Shoot true.”
Yifan then turns and walks away to join the spectators, and Minseok is left staring after him. His gaze then drops to the bow in his hand, which feels… suspiciously like his own. But it is indeed Yifan’s, decorated ornately with paint. He reaches up to feel over the feathers of an arrow, lifting it testingly out of the quiver. Lightweight, and yet with just enough drag… Minseok’s brow furrows. How is their equipment so similar?
Next to him, Jongsoo brings his bow to the ready. Minseok watches him for a moment, thumb sliding over the handle of the borrowed bow idly; an etching feels familiar under his thumb, and Minseok glances down, feeling his heart thud.
His father’s initials are engraved very intricately into the wood, almost disappearing into the design. Eyes wetting, Minseok’s gaze lifts to the crowd, seeing Yifan seated next to his mother. What does this mean? How did Yifan get this bow? Yifan only has a mysterious smile on his face as he holds his thumb up, and Minseok looks back down at the bow.
The last bow his father had ever made was intended for the royal family. It was supposed to bring luck, his father had said, and lots of wealth to them should the royal family decide it was worthy. Minseok had forgotten all about it, because nothing came to fruition of his design. And yet here it is, in his hands, real as the ground he’s standing on.
Jongsoo shoots, the twang of his string bringing Minseok back to the present. He watches Jongsoo’s arrow hit the target on the inner rim of the red circle, but just shy of bullseye. Jongsoo seems pleased with it, though; he, along with the other competitors, are no doubt betting on Minseok’s loss due to the lack of his prized bow.
But Minseok only smirks, equipping his bow as steadily as ever. He can sense Jongsoo’s surprise; Minseok had just been fumbling with the standard bow five minutes earlier, but now he has all the confidence in the world.
And he rightly has it. He has his father in his hands. His father’s guidance, and Yifan’s trust.
Taking aim, Minseok lets out a breath, closing his eyes. When he opens them, his gaze is sharper, clearer, and honed in on the bullseye. His string barely makes a noise as the arrow is released from it, and Minseok holds his stance, watching his arrow fly. It hits the bullseye dead on, and for a moment, there’s a stunned silence that washes over the arena.
Yifan is the first to cheer, standing up and whooping loudly. Next is Minseok’s mother, the sound of her tears laced into her cries making Minseok’s heart thump. And then the rest of the crowd is cheering too, a mixture of shock and disbelief. Jongsoo curses loudly, throwing his bow on the ground and stomping off of the field. Minseok himself is stunned, staring at his arrow, and he’s only brought out of his stupor when strong arms wrap around his shoulders, hoisting him up.
“You did it!” Yifan cheers, hugging Minseok tightly to his body.
Minseok hugs him back, tears flowing down his face, his father’s bow still clasped tightly in his hand. His mother joins the hug, kissing the tears off of Minseok’s cheeks, and as the sun sets and the crowd celebrates, Minseok thinks that his father’s final creation couldn’t have been any more perfect.
--
“The captain of the guard at the time knew not of good craftsmanship,” Yifan says, as he and Minseok stroll the palace gardens. “He thought your father’s bow and arrows were not sufficient for the army. Too weak, too… pretty.”
Minseok understands why someone would think that. His father’s designs were meant for easy carrying, and easy execution. Not those heavy, cumbersome bows and arrows that the army has used for years.
“I was very young when the bow and quiver were given to me,” Yifan explains. His hand is resting on the small of Minseok’s back. “I did not know much about any sort of tactical warfare, let alone about weaponry… but something about your father’s design breathed life into me. I practiced every day, from then on, perfecting my own archery skills. I thought it was unfair that such a beautiful instrument was rejected. When I saw his surname on the roster for contestants to partake in the exam… I knew I had to make it happen, this time.”
Minseok feels so honored, and so warm. Yifan has a grand heart and a soul of gold. To think of Minseok’s father after such a long time truly speaks of Yifan’s integrity.
“I might have cheated the system a bit, in order to ensure your progression,” Yifan says, ducking his head a bit. “But I knew the son of the man who crafted this bow and arrow must be as, if not more brilliant, than his father before him. I would be a fool to not want such a mind by my side.”
“You flatter me,” Minseok says, feeling his cheeks tinging pink. Yifan has gotten very comfortable and familiar with him lately, and Minseok isn’t quite sure how to handle it. His mother has been moved into a cottage near the castle where she is provided clean water and food daily, while Minseok himself resides in the palace, and Minseok is sure Yifan’s generosity knows no bounds.
“I am nothing but honest,” Yifan chuckles softly.
They stop walking in front of a fountain feature, water trickling steadily out of the mouth of a stone dragon. Minseok studies the statue for a moment, and when he turns up to Yifan to tell him that the dragon reminds him of the Prince, he is surprised to find the Prince already regarding him.
“My Lord?” Minseok inquires softly.
Yifan smiles. “Your father would be proud.”
The words catch Minseok off-guard, and he rolls his eyes to hide the pleased blush spreading over his features. “My father would be proud of you, Your Highness. He had always dreamed about someone like you taking the throne.”
Grinning, Yifan drapes an arm around Minseok’s shoulders, looking at the water feature and saying nothing more on the subject. After a few moments, he points at the dragon, “Do I look like that?”
Minseok hums, “Sometimes when your brows get really fluffy.”
Yifan’s hand shoots up to run his fingers over his eyebrows self-consciously, and Minseok laughs brightly, pulling away.
“Would you care to practice in the field with me?” Minseok invites Yifan along to his archery practice with ease, as it is something they make time for every day, with or without invitation.
“Is the moment not romantic enough to stay here?” Yifan pouts.
It’s Minseok’s turn to shrug as he turns away, “Perhaps you should give Cupid lessons in archery~”
Yifan chases after Minseok. As Minseok laughs and runs through the garden maze, dodging Yifan’s hands, he can’t help but count his lucky stars.
Thank you, father.
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