Bend (and Brand) Me [1/2]
Title: Bend (and Brand) Me
Author: Anonymous until 1/30/14
For: Everyone
Pairing: Baekhyun/Kyungsoo
Word Count: 15,256
Summary: Baekhyun has spent all his life gaining things for other people. Kyungsoo is somebody he wants to keep for himself.
Warnings: Character death, smut, murder
Rating: NC-17
One
Lined with golden silk of the finest making, the grand oak doors before Xi’an bask in the gleaming morning sun, standing even taller and prouder than usual, lending an air of majesty to the structure. The long strands of fabric resemble intricate finishings made of molten gold as they glimmer against the length of the wood, as if caressed by the sun’s rays.
Xi’an serves many purposes in China, among them being the business hub and administrative capital, but chiefly, it is the Imperial City, core of the royal family’s rule, home to generations of kings and queens. As a matter of fact, it is because of the imperial palace that Baekhyun is here, skin at the mercy of the scorching sun as it climbs ever higher in the sky, awaiting his turn to pass the sentinels guarding the entrance to the city. Every year, the royal family holds a sparring competition in the palace grounds, opening their doors to every man who fancies a proper duel. Qualified finalists are rewarded handsomely with gold and a coveted position in the upper echelon of the imperial army, the kind of opportunity many able-bodied men would never forgo.
Baekhyun stands on the tips of his toes. The guard posts and checkpoints on either side of the large doors are all but invisible, concealed by the massive throngs of people. Being the capital city, hundreds and thousands of people seek entry to Xi’an daily, but Baekhyun has never seen traffic that could rival today’s.
“Get out of the way!” a harsh male voice yells, and Baekhyun jumps aside to make way for a cart carrying hay and what looks to be packages of provisions. It nearly misses him, the umpteenth one this morning alone.
Baekhyun reckons noon is upon Xi’an by the time he approaches the guardpost, if the position of the sun and the heat searing against his back are any indication. He knows he’s made of sterner stuff, but he dearly hopes his back and legs won’t be sore overnight; that wouldn’t do for the competition tomorrow at all. He breathes a drawn-out sigh of relief and relishes in the shade of the City Wall, just as he is beckoned forward by one of the four guards.
“Name?” the stocky man asks gruffly, his mouth almost entirely concealed by his thick beard.
Baekhyun hoists the bag he’s been carrying a bit higher over his shoulders and contemplates using an alias from his collection of alter egos. Maybe the one he used in Kouren? Or Yuzhou? He decides against it at the last minute and tells the guard his real name. A small smile tips the edges of his mouth upwards. “I’m here for the annual sparring competition.”
The guard chances him a sceptical glance. Baekhyun knows he doesn’t come across as somebody who takes joy in battle or enjoyed any strenuous form of exercise; at least, not at first glance. He’s lean but not tall, built yet not overly muscular. Kind of like an errand boy, or in a more dignified context, a scholar. Certainly not a fighter. Baekhyun doesn’t say anything though, and continues to smile until at last, the guard lets out a noncommittal grunt and sends him well on his way.
Baekhyun steps past the threshold of the great wall and squints as the sunlight, now brighter than ever, falls into his eyes once more. He takes a deep breath, inhaling the din of the city and all the sins and politics that come with it.
Xi’an, at long last.
÷
Kouren is coldest at night.
The alleyways are dark and sickly, long tendrils that seem to disappear into endless tunnels of blackness, alluring in a nauseating way. They seem to call out to you, ghostly whispers carried aloft by the wind in a haunting, mismatched rhythm. Even the light from the lamps are nothing but decoys to lull you into a false sense of security, however infinitesimal it may be.
Baekhyun shivers. It’s always unpleasant being out at night. He tightens his fingers on the hilt of his dagger, ready to yank it out of its sheath at the slightest unfamiliar sound. The wooden sign to an abandoned tavern creaks as Baekhyun passes it, causing him to jump and hasten his steps. He needs to get home. He needs to get away.
The meagre amount of money he made from pickpocketing an intoxicated couple jingles in his pocket as he breaks into a run. It’s not much, maybe enough for two days, but it’s leagues better than mouldy bread from last week. He reaches out to grip at his coat, to silence the shrill tinkling amplified by the loneliness of the streets, but his hand is intercepted by icy fingers wrapping themselves around his wrist.
He makes to scream, to fight, anything, but his voice withers away in his throat as his assailant forcefully turns him around. The man’s face is covered with grime and dirt, his lips pulled back in a disfigured smile that makes every hair on Baekhyun’s neck stand on end. What unnerves him the most and sends dread coursing through his veins is not the possibility that this is it - that this is how he might meet his end, at the tender age of ten without so much as a person to miss him - but the gaze that bores into him. A pair of eyes as black and soulless as the night sky stares back at him, pupils dilated and hazy. The grotesque smile on the man’s face widens as he slowly lifts Baekhyun’s hand.
Horror impales Baekhyun like a spear to the heart when he realises his assailant isn’t after his money, but is hunting for food. The man opens his mouth, eyes gleaming with a perverse excitement as he prepares to clamp down on one of Baekhyun’s fingers---
It all happens so quickly.
Baekhyun’s other hand frees his dagger from his belt and he slashes instinctively at the air. Nothing apparent happens, but the man sags lifelessly to the ground, blood spilling from what appears to be no more than a fine incision on the side of his neck. He lets out of wheezing bout of laughter, then falls silent, mouth and eyes still open. The traces of a perverse mirth linger on the man’s features, even as all semblance of life leave him, as if relishing in death.
It’s frightening. The sound of Baekhyun’s heartbeat is a steady, deep beat in his ears, in tandem with the pounding of his eardrums and the rise and fall of his chest. He swallows, still acutely aware of the dagger in his hands.
“You seem to have slit his jugular vein,” a soft voice jarringly interrupts the silence, made louder in the still of the night. Baekhyun jumps back, falling into what he hopes would be an adequate defensive stance. The newcomer continues calmly, unperturbed, “A messy cut, by my standards, but still almost perfectly executed, given you have no training.”
The light from the overhead lamp catches the man as he takes a few steps forward, casting him in an eerie pale green glow. His face is concealed by a hood, for the most part, and he is wrapped in black garb. Baekhyun can see his eyes, though, like flashes in the dark. They would’ve been completely unfeeling, if not for the tinge of amusement flitting through them. If anything, the man seems pleased at seeing a boy slaughter a man right in front of him, in self-defence or not.
As the stranger approaches him with curt steps, Baekhyun hurriedly dips his hand into his coat pocket and produces half his catch, the gold coins sparkling beneath the lamp light. “P-Please, take this, don’t h-hurt me, I---”
“I don’t want your money. I want you,” the man says, in a tone of finality, holding out a hand between them. If the man is at all impatient, it doesn’t show in his voice. Baekhyun blinks, all words escaping him for a moment, then drops his gaze to the ground. He stares pointedly down at the ash grey cobblestone, blood slowly trickling along the crevices like a miniature river of ill crimson.
Baekhyun knows this is not an offer to rescue him. This is an ultimatum, words sharp enough to cut and bleed him dry. The image of his blood mingling with the dead man’s, now pooling around his still corpse and seeping into the stone beneath him, burns at the back of Baekhyun’s eyelids. Escaping death comes at a heavy price; signing himself away will be but a small part of it.
He takes the proffered hand and bites back a shudder when the stranger’s icy cold fingers grip his in turn.
Kouren is always coldest at night.
÷
Baekhyun’s eyes spring open.
Blackness still greets him, but it’s not the serene blanket of stars half-concealed by clouds. He finds himself staring at the ceiling of his room, streaked with strips of light from the window. He can feel his lips quivering, feel the burn in his muscles when he realises he’s been gripping the linen of his sheets too hard. His knuckles are a ghostly white. He hasn’t had that dream in a while.
Baekhyun slips off the bed soundlessly and pads over to the window. He uses the hem of his sleeve to wipe away the sweat forming on his brow as he leans against the glass. It’s cold and smooth against his skin.
Xi’an might be a sprightly, bustling city during the day, but it’s even busier, even more crowded at night. The streets are brimming with energy and packed with people of all ages. The red light from the lantern crosses paths with lights of every other colour from signboards and vendor stalls, casting a rainbowish glow over the town. Even from inside the inn, Baekhyun can hear the faint opera singing, and the cacophony of drums and gongs from what could either be a lion or dragon dance troupe.
It’s a chaotic buzz of activity and fun, but only to the untrained eye.
Baekhyun sinks deeper into the shadows of his unlit room, but his eyes rake across the streets, ever-watchful.
Several groups of men wait under the telltale red lights hung outside brothels and love houses. Ordinary men, perhaps, but their garments are made of embroidered silk, a luxury only the noblemen - ministers, emissaries, generals - can afford. They’re falling all over the women gathered by the threshold, robes hanging precariously loose on their shoulders.
Two shops down, at the mouth of a narrow alleyway, a boy and a girl - both no older than ten, by their looks - sink to the floor with their arms raised above their head, cut and bloody. A woman stands over them, bringing a cane down on the children’s skin again and again and again. Baekhyun wonders what would drive her to such extremes and tries to imagine her expression. Skirting the fringes of insanity, maybe. Terrifying in its beauty.
Xi’an is a grand convocation of corrupt people, out to feed only their own hunger and animalistic desires.
Just like him.
÷
Baekhyun swivels to the side, whistling low when he feels cold air miss his cheek by a hair’s breadth. One. His opponent, a big, tan brute by the name of Jinho, teeters out of control and staggers forward. He growls, clearly displeased at missing his mark, and charges again at Baekhyun with a mighty roar.
The cheers of the crowd are deafening, hoots and hollers and loud calling from the congregation of eliminated contestants, noise befitting the grand stage of the final round. Just as Baekhyun sidesteps the next blow, somebody yells, “Take him out, Jinho!” Two.
Baekhyun clicks his tongue, but remains upright and standing. He doesn’t like crowds, but he dislikes swords even more. They’re too heavy and too long for his liking, too clumsy, too prone to making a mistake. But the rules of the sparring competition are as such, and he has no choice but to make do. He scuffs his foot against the ground; it’s uneven. He’ll have to work around that.
Jinho comes hurtling towards him with astonishing speed, bellowing mightily and putting all his force into his swing. Baekhyun takes a deep breath and sinks at the very last moment, driving the pommel of his sword into his opponent’s belly, disarming and incapacitating him with one blow.
Three.
The ‘thud’ of Jinho’s body against the hard floor is drowned out by fierce cheering from the crowd of men gathered around Baekhyun. Jinho trembles on the floor, coughing small pools of blood, but Baekhyun turns away. “Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the winner of the 108th annual sparring competition, Byun Baekhyun!” The referee’s announcement is met with a mixture of raucous applause and hushed muttering from the participants - certainly nobody had banked on a dark horse to defeat their champion stallion.
Baekhyun bows once at the referee and makes to leave the arena, but his eyes flit towards the main building of the palace, where the Inner Court congregates every morning to discuss affairs of state. Just outside it, the occupants of the imperial palace stand watching. The palace elders and ministers speak amongst themselves, gesturing occasionally at him, whilst the army generals stand with their arms crossed and small, approving smiles on their faces. The maids-in-waiting are gathered in a cluster at the far end, all waving at him and falling into a fit of giggles after.
None of them concern him, save the woman sitting on a raised dais in the center of the row of spectators. In a long, flowing pale blue dress sits Luhan, Queen of China, her jet black hair falling in tresses. Her expression is not unkindly, but stoic, perhaps. As she stands to leave, she raises her chin slightly, eyes trained on him, almost as if regarding Baekhyun for all that he is. Three maids-in-waiting follow Luhan as she retreats into the main building of the palace, her gown and an air of mystery trailing behind her.
÷
The thought of attending an afterparty doesn’t actually occur to Baekhyun until he’s caught in the middle of it. He hadn’t even gotten the chance to retrieve his actual weapons after the competition; he’d been ushered to one of the smaller buildings in the palace complex. Several maids and an official already awaited him, and he was made to change into the garments set aside specifically for the victor of the competition before being whisked away to the grand dining hall to feast and drink with the noblemen and palace officials.
Even now, a goblet of wine in one hand and plates that never seem to empty before him, Baekhyun feels odd - he’s never been clothed in silk before, and he much prefers the scratchiness and familiarity of cotton. He does conceal his discomfort, though; it would be unbecoming to be ungrateful when a feast like this (however extravagant and unnecessary) has been thrown in his honour.
Baekhyun laughs when appropriate and smiles when the time is right, dipping his head with a shy grin on his face when general after general approach him to congratulate him and offer him a place in their respective armies. “Your litheness will be useful in war. Have you decided which of us you’d like to join?” one of the generals asks in a deep, booming voice.
“Not yet, sire,” Baekhyun says, smiling sheepishly. “I have heard tales of the greatness of all the armies of Xi’an, and it would be the highest honour to serve any one of them.”
The generals surrounding him laugh heartily, wine sloshing out of their goblets even as they speak through mouthfuls of bread and fruit. “I like this one,” General Shou declares, thumping his chest. “A choice lies ahead of you, boy, but no matter which of us you end up choosing, your skills would be of great use to Xi’an.”
One of the ladies-in-waiting refills his goblet, the ends of her sleeve brushing against Baekhyun’s shoulder as she casts him a shy smile. Baekhyun inclines his head and sports a grin to match the general’s.
Somebody clears their throat, a newer, softer voice. “Her Majesty requests the presence of today’s victor in her office, m’lords.” A boy with wispy blond hair stands on the other side of the table, all sharp lines and angles, mouth contorted in a smirk that Baekhyun can tell he’s trying to keep polite. The generals all groan in unison, displeased sounds of dismay. One of them pats Baekhyun hard on the back. “Well, there goes, m’boy, if the Lady wants to see you, I doubt you’ll be joining any one of us.”
Baekhyun raises an eyebrow and is about to ask what they mean, but the boy looks impatient enough, so he doesn’t press the issue further. He excuses himself from the table and makes sure to thank the generals for their generosity and company.
“Come with me.”
Baekhyun follows the boy - to his surprise - out one of the side exits, not through the grand doors which he’d entered, and is led down a hallway lined with tapestries and torches. The boy unsettles him, somewhat, clad in only minimum armour and bearing no weapon, yet walks with the stature of a fully-trained soldier. As they round a corner, Baekhyun sees the small scarf he’s wearing. Despite his surprise, he stays his expression by force. From observation, Baekhyun knows all the guards and soldiers wear them, scarves of different colours to indicate which of the seven armies they serve.
Yellow, green, white and brown are the secondary armies, usually dispatched to the outlying districts to handle thievery and small rebellions. Those bearing blue and red scarves are of the high houses, larger armies tasked with guarding the provinces closer to Xi’an, home to several generations of noble families, renowned craftsmen and merchant organisations.
This boy’s scarf is purple.
The imperial guard.
Evening is swiftly falling upon Xi’an, casting shadows in the crevices and junctures of the palace. They’re outside now. The air is cool against his skin; not too cold, but just nice. Not a soul in sight, since the palace occupants have congregated in the grand hall for the feast he’d just left, but Baekhyun notices the boy maintains his caution. He keeps them both in the shadows even along the winding outdoor corridors of the palace complex.
Several turns later, the boy motions for Baekhyun to stop outside a pair of grand wooden doors - mahogany, by the looks of it - then opens them a crack and slips in.
Only when Baekhyun looks up does he notice the sheer breadth of the building; one he’d seen only hours before, the main hall of the imperial palace. From where he stands, he can see the open space where the competition arena had been in the morning. Sculpted dragons wind around the pillars flanking both sides of the grand entrance, glowing softly under the evening light, testament to the fairness and absoluteness of China’s imperial line of rulers. Baekhyun hums in appreciation as he runs a finger along part of the dragon’s body on the left pillar, feeling his fingers dip every time they pass over a gap between its scales. He marvels at their fineness; it would otherwise have gone unnoticed from afar.
The boy’s blond head pops out from behind the door. “This way,” he says.
Beyond the entrance, a secondary pair of doors await at the far end of the spectacularly lit hall, to the Empress’ office. The blond boy closes the door behind them. Baekhyun is greeted by shelf upon shelf of books and archaic scrolls, tomes of knowledge and history. Tomes of secrets.
The lock of the door sounds behind him, loud in the quiet of the room.
Behind the great desk filled with yet more books and stacks of papers sits Luhan, hands clasped on the wooden surface. Baekhyun bows, low and deep, and makes sure to hold his position until she tells him otherwise.
“Raise your head, warrior.” The lilting of her soft words belies the danger that lay dormant in her being. Everything about her reminds Baekhyun of a river, cold but light, gentle but powerful.
Up close, under the light of the lamp, Luhan is even more beautiful than he’d seen her during the day. She’s still wearing the same ice blue dress, but he can see just how fair of face she is now, porcelain skin unblemished and big, brown eyes perceptive. She would otherwise seem demure, but the slow-burning fire in her stance and face tells Baekhyun otherwise.
She stares at him a little while longer, then leans back in her seat. “Byun Baekhyun, you’ve impressed me today. You made your final opponent a fool,” she says, choosing her words carefully.
“With all due respect, Your Majesty, he was a man of power. But with that great strength came an equal amount of clumsiness, and it detracted from his reflexes,” Baekhyun answers honestly.
“You felled all your opponents in three strikes or less.”
The count of one, two, three rings in Baekhyun’s ears. His challengers were pitiful at best in the preliminaries and only marginally better in the semi-finals. Two strokes for the average one; three for those slightly more skilled. “I did.”
Luhan hums. “Ten finalists from today’s competition will be granted a position in the army of their choice, including you.” The man on her left, fairly tall and donning the same clothes as his blond escort, places a bundle on the desk, one that Baekhyun recognises almost immediately. “But I will make your choice for you, Byun Baekhyun.”
She fixes her gaze on him, but maintains an air of nonchalance. “You will serve me, as part of the imperial guard. You will answer only to me. You will take orders only from me. This is an elite squad, my personal guard, and henceforth, riches and protection will extend to you also.” This is not an offer, and Baekhyun knows an ultimatum when he hears one. He’s been there before.
He drops to one knee and places a fist on the ground before him, dipping his head. “I pledge fealty and service to you, Your Majesty, for as long as the throne and the right to rule is yours.”
“Very well.”
When Baekhyun next lays eyes on Luhan, she seems satisfied, elated, even, and beckons him closer. She swiftly undoes the strings holding the bundle of cloth together, pushes the fabric back to reveal two pristine, small daggers. Baekhyun’s original weapons, the ones he’d carried with him for as long as he can remember, relinquished to the palace weaponmaster for safekeeping before the sparring competition had begun.
Luhan runs her fingers along the surface of the blade, polished so clearly that her beautiful reflection could be seen in them. “For all your prowess, you seemed... uncomfortable with a sword. You work best with shorter blades, I take it?”
“Yes, m’lady.”
She gestures to her left, at the boy that had escorted Baekhyun from the dining hall earlier. “Zitao here prefers poisoned darts, and Yixing,” she motions to her right, at the boy that had produced the bundle with his daggers earlier, “the bow and arrow. You would complete this trio nicely.”
Baekhyun meets their eyes proper for the first time. Zitao looks much warmer now, a small smile on his lips, blond hair falling into his tanned face as he tilts his head towards Baekhyun in acknowledgment. There is no bow in sight, but Yixing’s arrows are in a satchel fastened behind his back. He flashes Baekhyun a brilliant grin, returned in similar fashion.
“Then I will see you tomorrow,” Luhan says, ordering Yixing to give Baekhyun a short tour of the palace before showing him to his designated room. She dismisses all three of them with a wave of her hand.
Zitao is first to take the watch tonight, so he bids Baekhyun farewell and disappears into the shadows once again. Yixing shakes his head somewhat fondly, as he and Baekhyun fall into step next to each other. “Zitao’s a good kid. I was here first, but he’s always been really faithful to Luhan,” he says.
A blanket of curiosity seems to fall on them both; Yixing is curious about him, and Baekhyun has questions about everything. Almost as if to break the ice, Yixing pats him lightly on the shoulder. “We were all watching you today. Luhan sees a lot in you, you know,” he comments earnestly.
Baekhyun smiles, somewhat glad that he can slip back into more informal speech. “Thanks.”
They continue to make small talk as Yixing shows him around the palace. Baekhyun notices Yixing keeps his voice to a whisper outside, probably out of habit. Yixing shows him the Inner Court, where the palace officials and ministers congregate every morning to report to the Empress, then a few places of lesser importance, like the armoury and the imperial archives. Whenever they pass one of the ministry offices, Yixing runs through important names with Baekhyun to get him acquainted with the figures inside the palace. Their last stop before Baekhyun’s room is Luhan’s chambers, just after the archives.
“The night watch is usually concentrated around Luhan’s chambers,” Yixing explains, turning two corners to a long corridor with smaller rooms. He points to a door on his left, then at another one four doors away. “This is where I am, and that’s yours. Sorry it’s a bit further off, the ones in the middle belong to the keepers of the archive.” Yixing smiles sheepishly, then as an afterthought, adds, “When they’re not just sleeping over their work, that is.”
Yixing tells Baekhyun he can join the guard tomorrow after the prize presentation ceremony, and that he should rest for the night. Baekhyun worries his lower lip. “One more question.”
“Hm?”
Baekhyun gestures around him awkwardly. “I mean, I’ve only met you and Zitao, but... how many of us are there in the imperial guard?”
Yixing blinks at him, then chuckles. “Not all the victors become part of the imperial guard, Baekhyun. Neither do you necessarily have to be a victor. Luhan watches it every year and will only choose someone if they stand out to her. I was second runner-up in my year.”
Gazing at the sky, Yixing places his hands flat against the railing. “There used to be this other guy; his name was Chen, I think. He joined us two years after I did, and he was great and everything, then he just disappeared. No word, no trace. That left just me and Zitao, but now there’s you, so that makes three of us.”
Baekhyun tries not to let his surprise show. “Just us three?”
“Yes. Luhan has... very high standards. Elite of the elite, right?” Yixing laughs softly.
÷
Baekhyun doesn’t turn on the lights in his room. He looks around, inspecting every square inch. The furniture has been kept to a bare minimum - a wooden desk, a cupboard for his belongings and a bed, surprisingly soft. Baekhyun catches peculiar shadows out of the corner of his eye, moonlight from the single window playing tricks on him.
He stands by the window, fingering the small ribbon in his pocket for the first time today. Nigh on three weeks ago, he’d woken up to a single white rose and a letter, fastened together with a small strip of red cloth. Not the first of the letters, but certainly the first of the flowers. The message read:
I’m always watching you, Byun Baekhyun. Best this last series of orders I have for you, and to you, I will reveal myself. To you also, I will extend an invitation to join me.
Be at the imperial sparring competition. The Empress’ time on the throne is drawing to a close.
Baekhyun had spent a large part of his years at a cottage on the outskirts of Yuzhou, hidden from the nearest townsfolk behind impossible fens and a thin forest. He pickpocketed for food, stole fruit and meat when the traders weren’t looking. It helped keep him alive, and it was good training. He spent his days with his benefactor, learning the practice of murder. It was graceful, it was precise, it was an art. It was something Baekhyun discovered he was surprisingly prodigious at. He pleased his benefactor to no end, learning faster than any student should. Which is why the sudden departure of his benefactor, without word or cause, had plunged him into confusion.
The letters began coming the first night he slept alone in the cottage.
They became his sole purpose in life, his sense of direction. The writer spoke not in the tone of his benefactor, but as someone who’d been watching Baekhyun from the shadows, someone who knew his story and much more than an anonymous figure should.
More often than not, the letters bore the name of a person, or an address, or a job description, with an order to kill. Other times, they contained praises for his latest ‘masterpiece’. One time, it was a simple you’re beautiful.
Baekhyun burnt all the letters.
He shuts his eyes and rests his fingers on the chain around his neck, given to him by his benefactor when Baekhyun had first been taken under his wing. The only testament to who he was, and even now, as imperial guard Byun Baekhyun, who he is.
Only when he finally slips under the sheets does he allow himself the smile he’s been holding in.
Things seem to be going his way, with the wind behind its back.
÷
A messenger is already waiting for Baekhyun outside when he emerges from his room. The boy, small and probably in his teens, leads him to the main building again, to the massive hall he’d been in yesterday. In bright daylight, the hall seems even more majestic that it had been the night before. Sunlight bathes the fine marble, and where it falls on the Empress’ throne, the gold is set aglow. Today, Luhan is clothed in a dress of bright and fiery crimson.
The prize presentation ceremony seems a grand affair; there are even more people gathered in the hall than there was at the honorary feast. Baekhyun can see all manner of the palace’s occupants, from ministers to scholars to the ladies-in-waiting. To each of the men, Luhan presents a bag of gold, a brand-new sword and an assortment of scarves for the men to choose from.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the victor of the 108th annual sparring competition of Weiyang Palace, Byun Baekhyun!”
Soft, almost intrigued applause accompanies Baekhyun as he walks up to Luhan, kneeling a few paces away from her. Instead of a sword, she brandishes a new dagger, a dragon sculpted into the wood of its hilt. She places it in his outstretched hands together with his bag of gold. Shocked gasps and low murmurs erupt throughout the hall when Luhan produces a purple silk scarf from the tray offered to her by a lady-in-waiting and fastens it around Baekhyun’s neck.
“May these serve you well,” Luhan says. Favouritism would be heavily frowned upon, so she doesn’t smile, but Baekhyun can see sincerity in her eyes. He looks away.
The plethora of faces and emotions that greet him as he makes his way back to his spot is almost overwhelming. Longing and approval from the generals, intrigue from the palace officials and scholars, burning jealousy from his fellow competitors. Not everybody - or nobody, really - makes it to the imperial guard, after all.
Luhan is delivering her closing words when Baekhyun catches somebody’s gaze. The boy seems young, maybe his age, a little bit younger, with a similar physique. He looks like a scholar, but he isn’t wearing their white uniform. His robes are a pale blue with delicate embroidery down the front. The boy smiles, inclining his head slightly. Baekhyun would have written him off as another demure, polite character in the palace, maybe a diplomat’s son. Senior among the scholars.
But the depth in the boy’s eyes is magnetic, an invitation for Baekhyun to come and drown in them. Something flits across them, light as a feather but heavy and dark, runs away just as quickly as it had come.
Baekhyun licks his lips. It’s something he wants to catch.
÷
Afternoon watch isn’t until later for Baekhyun, so he settles with roaming around the palace and familiarising himself as best he can to pass the time. He comes to appreciate the tiny details that had gone unnoticed in the dimness of the evening before, like the architecture of the roof or the carvings on the pillars. In the day, the palace seems bigger, sunlight easing a breath of fresh air into the hallways.
He wanders past the Secretary’s department and takes note of the other ministry offices he passes, drawing a map of the palace out in his mind as he goes. He might need it, just in case.
Baekhyun ends up straying near the archives, which he recognises from the doors, uniquely fashioned with a golden handle. Statuettes of lionesses flank the sides of the doors, elegant keepers of the knowledge contained within.
The scent of ancient books and scrolls permeates his nostrils as he steps into the archives, row upon row of shelves filled with generations’ worth of information and literature. The archives are much larger than they appear on the outside, Baekhyun notices, bookcases extending almost as far as the eye can see on both sides, each neatly labelled by section.
He picks one at random, fifth to the right from the entrance - its tag reads Chinese Scriptures. He dusts off one of the scrolls and unfurls it. If anything at all, Baekhyun only appreciates the stunning calligraphy and marvels at the small paintings that accompany the text. He hadn’t had the privilege of going to school or learning how to read. His benefactor had taught him a little bit, but Baekhyun is no more proficient at reading than an elementary student would be.
“Having trouble?”
The voice is velvety and sinful, low in tone but lilting in melody. It surprises Baekhyun, having come out of nowhere, but his first instinctual feeling is to want more of it. To drown in it to the point of no return.
Baekhyun looks up, and his breath catches in his throat. The boy he’d seen at the prize presentation ceremony earlier gazes back at him now, leaning against the bookshelf next to him. Baekhyun recognises him in a fraction of a heartbeat - raven blue hair, porcelain skin that could rival even Luhan’s fair complexion, deep set gray eyes that tell of a hundred different tales. In such close proximity, the boy’s beauty assails Baekhyun’s senses like a series of explosions, sending him into complete disarray.
The voice might have been sinful, but its owner even more so.
Baekhyun isn’t entirely sure where the courage bubbling in him comes from. “If I were, would you stay?”
The boy laughs. The sound crawls under Baekhyun’s skin and embeds itself in his heart. “The line you’re trying so hard to read says, ‘To the high heavens you will take me, but drop me not lest I were to escape from this love, from this cage to which I desire to be eternally bound. The wind will cut into my skin, but no wound will hurt more than the one in my heart.’”
Baekhyun doesn’t press him further, content with just the sound of his voice, more beautiful than any and all prose, when the boy continues, “This is the story of a young couple who fall into treacherous love. The man promised to take her to the stars, but on his way up, he drops her and she falls to her death.” The boy’s gaze lifts from the scroll to Baekhyun’s features, searching him.
For lack of a better word to use, Baekhyun says, “That’s really sad.”
The boy nods his agreement. He pries the scroll out of Baekhyun’s hands and slides it back into its spot on the shelf. It’s fire against fire when their gazes meet, never breaking, never faltering. Baekhyun is determined to win this, to be the one to look into the very recesses of the boy’s soul and discover what it is that makes him so captivating. This is one time Baekhyun doesn’t like being in the dark.
“Do you...” The boy tugs Baekhyun forward by the front of his undershirt. Baekhyun isn’t wearing his armour. Unprotected, vulnerable, susceptible. “Do you want me to stay?” he asks, voice now even lower than it was before, coarser.
Baekhyun inhales slowly.
“I want your name,” he murmurs, low so that no one else in the archives can hear them. He rests one hand on a shelf above the boy’s head, the first bar in his cage.
The boy laughs again, and slips out from under Baekhyun’s arm. “I like secrets, Byun Baekhyun. I have dealings with secrets every day.” He gestures around the room, at the books and scriptures laden with years of history. “Maybe if you come here more often, you’ll find the answer.”
“Maybe I will.”
“Well, we’ll see who learns each other’s secrets first, then.” The boy’s smile is lopsided but enticing, and Baekhyun wants nothing more than to sear the image behind his eyelids, maybe except to own him and unravel him, careful string by careful string.
“I look forward to it.” A promise. Baekhyun doesn’t make promises often.
Long after the boy leaves, Baekhyun is left trying to quench the fire on his skin where they’d touched and his unrelenting thirst for more.
÷
Baekhyun’s first time taking the first watch of the day is also the first time he watches the palace’s inner court in session. From his position a few paces behind Luhan, he has a full view of the hall. The imperial secretary delivers initial reports about the people and the administration, followed by a collective address of issues brought up by the different ministries and departments.
The entire affair is interesting, politics and hidden agendas abound. The lines between loyalty, personal gain and responsibility have never seemed so thin. Baekhyun pays attention as best he can, but it gets increasingly difficult when all he can see and hear is the boy he’d met at the archives. Baekhyun had guessed that he held a position of relative importance in the palace, if his clothes and stature were anything to go by, but the thought of him being part of the inner court hadn’t even crossed Baekhyun’s mind. The boy is a person of few words, but be as that may, he delivers his points with an enviable succinctness and eloquence, countering many officials senior in both status and age.
For the most part, the boy remains quiet. When he isn’t watching the court, he watches Baekhyun, the stoicism in his face never tainting the curiosity in his eyes. Baekhyun observes him in return, notes his small habits, like the way he tends to brush his hair to the right when they tickle his eyes, or the way he clasps his hands together under the table.
It becomes a battlefield of their own, a mental war, but it never seems to jar the boy’s concentration.
After his fourth morning watching over the Empress’ meetings with the officials, a week and three days since their encounter in the archives, Baekhyun asks Yixing who the boy is. “The scholar kid?” Yixing asks again, confused.
Baekhyun gestures towards the boy. He has his back turned to them, engaged in polite conversation with two old men, whom Baekhyun recognises as the ministers of finance. He says something and laughs, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth. Baekhyun’s lips curve downwards in a frown; the boy’s smile is pretty. He makes it a point to tell him not to hide it the next time they meet.
“Oh, him.” Yixing tightens the strap of his satchel. “He’s one of the two Keepers of the Archives, officially. He was a scholar before that, I think, but he keeps a super low-profile so no one actually knows. I don’t think I’ve ever even spoken to him before in my years here,” he trails off thoughtfully.
Baekhyun turns around at the sound of a soft cough and is greeted by the sight of two young men. One of them is tall and broad-shouldered, almost towering over Baekhyun, regarding him with sharp eyes. He stands with all the regality of a prince, although his raiment is significantly less outlandish compared to Luhan’s. His companion is less intimidating both in height and looks, but his gentle appearance belies a quiet, deadly power.
Yixing smiles fondly at them. “Gentlemen, this is Byun Baekhyun, the newest member of the imperial guard. Baekhyun, this is Wu Yifan, chief of the palace’s advisors, and Kim Junmyeon, the youngest ever to head the Secretary’s department.”
Baekhyun notices, with equal amounts of awe, wariness and surprise, that so much power is in the hands of people so painfully young.
After an exchange of formalities, Junmyeon smiles at Baekhyun. “If you’re wondering, the gentleman you were referring to is Do Kyungsoo. He’s almost always at the archives; Yifan and I see him often when we have to go pull up records.”
Baekhyun turns around. The boy catches Baekhyun’s gaze just as he exchanges goodbyes with the ministers.
Do Kyungsoo, I win.
÷
In the evening, Baekhyun returns to his room, to a lonesome note barely larger than the size of his palm and folded into a tiny square, placed atop his pillow. In it lay a single rose petal, blood red, and time is up, byun baekhyun scrawled in ink.
A familiar thrill courses through his veins, the telltale signs of his primal instincts rising from their dormant state. Suddenly, everything seems sharper, clearer. The sounds of his breathing and the pumping of his heart overlap in a messy song.
He clicks his tongue. He’d meant to visit the archives tonight, but Do Kyungsoo and his declaration of victory would have to wait.
÷
Baekhyun bides his time slowly in the corridors. He knows Luhan usually retires to her chambers past midnight, when sleep beguiles her and work can no longer keep her awake. Depending how long she tarries, Baekhyun only has a small window of time to get things done, maybe slightly more, if he’s lucky. Yixing has the west wing and Zitao will be by the gates, the archive keepers will be--- no, he doesn’t have time to think about them. He can slip past them.
Luhan’s chambers are in the east wing, first to receive the sunlight and last to lose it. A pair of guards are positioned at each of the sharp turns in the corridors leading up to her room. They reciprocate his curt nods of acknowledgment and step aside when he approaches them. Baekhyun straightens the end of his purple scarf - it’s both a blessing and a curse. It helps make his work less messy, he supposes; having to kill nigh on two dozen men is more likely to cause a commotion, but he misses the challenge.
But no matter, he decides, he’s about to tackle a more interesting challenge anyway. Two guards flank the door to Luhan’s chamber, eyes vigilant and grip firm on their spears. Baekhyun can take them out when they bow their heads, or when they exchange greetings, or by creeping up to them in the shadows. Anytime, really, but that would be suspicious - there are other guards around the corner, and they’d be listening. The guards of the innermost corridor are bound by duty to question whomever approaches, unless they mean to take the corridor to the right, towards the gardens.
“What brings you here, sire?” one of them asks as Baekhyun draws near.
“Nothing, just going to check the gardens.” He shakes his head, punctuates his statement with a smile. It’s the last thing they see.
A simultaneous swipe of both his blades slices clean against their throats, severing their carotid arteries. A fine incision, but the damage is done. Baekhyun catches both their spears and slowly eases their limp bodies to the ground, careful not to rouse the other guards, or even Luhan. She’d overheard his conversation with Yixing from inside her study once; he knows her better than to let his guard down even when she’s sleeping.
You know her, a voice at the back of his head chides. He reaches for the guards’ scarfs and tie them around their necks, stemming the slow but steady gurgle of blood tumbling out of the cut. She’s different.
He shuts the voice out of his head, but to a certain degree, it spoke the truth. This isn’t his first job undercover, but this is the first time he’s gotten to know his target before going for the kill. It’s different. Baekhyun isn’t sure if it’s difficult.
Luhan’s chambers are massive, but the darkness is permeated only by one narrow window high on the wall. It’s safer this way, but the loneliness in every line on the floor, in every page of the books spread open on her desk, in every one of her mirrors, is frighteningly poignant. Familiar, even.
Stripped of all her headgear and outlandish robes, Luhan is surprisingly small. Curled up into the sheets, breathing softly, she looks thin and petite, vulnerable, devoid of her mask of composure and the title of Empress. Lines of worry crease her face. She’s still just a girl, and it occurs to Baekhyun that he doesn’t know how old she is, if she had anyone she loved, if---
“Baekhyun?”
Luhan’s eyes flutter open and she pushes the sheets away groggily. “What’s wr---” Her words end in a choked gurgle as Baekhyun blade finds its way across the skin on her neck. Her eyes go wide and she struggles to lift a hand to push him away. It takes but a few seconds for her to expend her energy trying to breathe; she slumps back onto the pillows, blood seeping into the linen, her cotton nightgown, her straight, black hair. Hurt and betrayal are set into the hollow depths of her eyes, once filled with intellect and courage. Baekhyun shuts them with a gentle hand.
He sheaths his daggers, clean despite the cuts they’ve made. By his reckoning, the kill took less time than he’d anticipated. Just as he pads across the length of the hallway to the doors, they open, a small sliver of light from the outside piercing the darkness of Luhan’s chambers. “Your Majesty?” a soft voice calls, and for the first time in a very long time, Baekhyun’s heart leaps into his throat.
Baekhyun takes down the person who spoke, a ginger-haired man, killing him instantly with a slash much larger than he’s used to, probably deep enough to severe both the carotid artery and jugular vein. The figure falls noiselessly onto the carpeted floor, but Baekhyun doesn’t wait to see what happens. He presses the man’s companion against the wood of the door, but he stays his blade the moment he looks up.
Staring back at him with eyes blacker than the night is Do Kyungsoo, hands balled into fists at his side and biting on his lower lip. Baekhyun tightens his grip on his dagger, and forgets to breathe.
Kyungsoo lifts a hand to shut the door, the wood sliding into place behind him. His laugh sounds both bitter and sweet in the night. “Do it. Don’t wait.”
Baekhyun rests the sharp end of the blade against Kyungsoo’s skin. The moonlight casts a ring of silver around his gray irises, traces of fear aglow in the dark. But Kyungsoo doesn’t shake, doesn’t beg for mercy, doesn’t break. His small smile is tight-lipped, refusing Baekhyun his secrets and his stories. There is no regret or surprise in his face, only defiance.
Kyungsoo is fire. Kyungsoo is a challenge. Kyungsoo is a change in tides. The very fibre of Kyungsoo’s being is danger, and danger is all Baekhyun has ever known and all Baekhyun has ever loved.
Baekhyun wants to see him break and wants to be the one to break him.
“Afraid?” Kyungsoo whispers.
Baekhyun pulls down the collar of his robe, careful not to tear the fabric, hashing a small cross just below Kyungsoo’s collarbone with the very tip of the dagger. Kyungsoo grimaces when the metal pierces his skin. Baekhyun slowly brings his mouth to the cut, eyes never leaving Kyungsoo’s, tongue flitting outward to lap at the small drops of blood. He can feel the tensing of Kyungsoo’s muscles, taste the terrible mix of his fear and love for the dark. “I will destroy all that you know and love,” Baekhyun mouths against the skin. “Do Kyungsoo.”
The smallest hint of surprise crosses Kyungsoo’s face at the sound of his name, but disappears as swiftly as a racing deer. “Don’t make promises you’ll regret, Byun Baekhyun.” His voice is cold and hard, but when he wipes off the tiny traces of blood on Baekhyun’s lip, his touch is gentle, possessive.
Baekhyun leaves for the south wing. Kyungsoo takes the corridor to the left, back from whence he had come and to the archives.
One | Two
Author: Anonymous until 1/30/14
For: Everyone
Pairing: Baekhyun/Kyungsoo
Word Count: 15,256
Summary: Baekhyun has spent all his life gaining things for other people. Kyungsoo is somebody he wants to keep for himself.
Warnings: Character death, smut, murder
Rating: NC-17
One
Lined with golden silk of the finest making, the grand oak doors before Xi’an bask in the gleaming morning sun, standing even taller and prouder than usual, lending an air of majesty to the structure. The long strands of fabric resemble intricate finishings made of molten gold as they glimmer against the length of the wood, as if caressed by the sun’s rays.
Xi’an serves many purposes in China, among them being the business hub and administrative capital, but chiefly, it is the Imperial City, core of the royal family’s rule, home to generations of kings and queens. As a matter of fact, it is because of the imperial palace that Baekhyun is here, skin at the mercy of the scorching sun as it climbs ever higher in the sky, awaiting his turn to pass the sentinels guarding the entrance to the city. Every year, the royal family holds a sparring competition in the palace grounds, opening their doors to every man who fancies a proper duel. Qualified finalists are rewarded handsomely with gold and a coveted position in the upper echelon of the imperial army, the kind of opportunity many able-bodied men would never forgo.
Baekhyun stands on the tips of his toes. The guard posts and checkpoints on either side of the large doors are all but invisible, concealed by the massive throngs of people. Being the capital city, hundreds and thousands of people seek entry to Xi’an daily, but Baekhyun has never seen traffic that could rival today’s.
“Get out of the way!” a harsh male voice yells, and Baekhyun jumps aside to make way for a cart carrying hay and what looks to be packages of provisions. It nearly misses him, the umpteenth one this morning alone.
Baekhyun reckons noon is upon Xi’an by the time he approaches the guardpost, if the position of the sun and the heat searing against his back are any indication. He knows he’s made of sterner stuff, but he dearly hopes his back and legs won’t be sore overnight; that wouldn’t do for the competition tomorrow at all. He breathes a drawn-out sigh of relief and relishes in the shade of the City Wall, just as he is beckoned forward by one of the four guards.
“Name?” the stocky man asks gruffly, his mouth almost entirely concealed by his thick beard.
Baekhyun hoists the bag he’s been carrying a bit higher over his shoulders and contemplates using an alias from his collection of alter egos. Maybe the one he used in Kouren? Or Yuzhou? He decides against it at the last minute and tells the guard his real name. A small smile tips the edges of his mouth upwards. “I’m here for the annual sparring competition.”
The guard chances him a sceptical glance. Baekhyun knows he doesn’t come across as somebody who takes joy in battle or enjoyed any strenuous form of exercise; at least, not at first glance. He’s lean but not tall, built yet not overly muscular. Kind of like an errand boy, or in a more dignified context, a scholar. Certainly not a fighter. Baekhyun doesn’t say anything though, and continues to smile until at last, the guard lets out a noncommittal grunt and sends him well on his way.
Baekhyun steps past the threshold of the great wall and squints as the sunlight, now brighter than ever, falls into his eyes once more. He takes a deep breath, inhaling the din of the city and all the sins and politics that come with it.
Xi’an, at long last.
÷
Kouren is coldest at night.
The alleyways are dark and sickly, long tendrils that seem to disappear into endless tunnels of blackness, alluring in a nauseating way. They seem to call out to you, ghostly whispers carried aloft by the wind in a haunting, mismatched rhythm. Even the light from the lamps are nothing but decoys to lull you into a false sense of security, however infinitesimal it may be.
Baekhyun shivers. It’s always unpleasant being out at night. He tightens his fingers on the hilt of his dagger, ready to yank it out of its sheath at the slightest unfamiliar sound. The wooden sign to an abandoned tavern creaks as Baekhyun passes it, causing him to jump and hasten his steps. He needs to get home. He needs to get away.
The meagre amount of money he made from pickpocketing an intoxicated couple jingles in his pocket as he breaks into a run. It’s not much, maybe enough for two days, but it’s leagues better than mouldy bread from last week. He reaches out to grip at his coat, to silence the shrill tinkling amplified by the loneliness of the streets, but his hand is intercepted by icy fingers wrapping themselves around his wrist.
He makes to scream, to fight, anything, but his voice withers away in his throat as his assailant forcefully turns him around. The man’s face is covered with grime and dirt, his lips pulled back in a disfigured smile that makes every hair on Baekhyun’s neck stand on end. What unnerves him the most and sends dread coursing through his veins is not the possibility that this is it - that this is how he might meet his end, at the tender age of ten without so much as a person to miss him - but the gaze that bores into him. A pair of eyes as black and soulless as the night sky stares back at him, pupils dilated and hazy. The grotesque smile on the man’s face widens as he slowly lifts Baekhyun’s hand.
Horror impales Baekhyun like a spear to the heart when he realises his assailant isn’t after his money, but is hunting for food. The man opens his mouth, eyes gleaming with a perverse excitement as he prepares to clamp down on one of Baekhyun’s fingers---
It all happens so quickly.
Baekhyun’s other hand frees his dagger from his belt and he slashes instinctively at the air. Nothing apparent happens, but the man sags lifelessly to the ground, blood spilling from what appears to be no more than a fine incision on the side of his neck. He lets out of wheezing bout of laughter, then falls silent, mouth and eyes still open. The traces of a perverse mirth linger on the man’s features, even as all semblance of life leave him, as if relishing in death.
It’s frightening. The sound of Baekhyun’s heartbeat is a steady, deep beat in his ears, in tandem with the pounding of his eardrums and the rise and fall of his chest. He swallows, still acutely aware of the dagger in his hands.
“You seem to have slit his jugular vein,” a soft voice jarringly interrupts the silence, made louder in the still of the night. Baekhyun jumps back, falling into what he hopes would be an adequate defensive stance. The newcomer continues calmly, unperturbed, “A messy cut, by my standards, but still almost perfectly executed, given you have no training.”
The light from the overhead lamp catches the man as he takes a few steps forward, casting him in an eerie pale green glow. His face is concealed by a hood, for the most part, and he is wrapped in black garb. Baekhyun can see his eyes, though, like flashes in the dark. They would’ve been completely unfeeling, if not for the tinge of amusement flitting through them. If anything, the man seems pleased at seeing a boy slaughter a man right in front of him, in self-defence or not.
As the stranger approaches him with curt steps, Baekhyun hurriedly dips his hand into his coat pocket and produces half his catch, the gold coins sparkling beneath the lamp light. “P-Please, take this, don’t h-hurt me, I---”
“I don’t want your money. I want you,” the man says, in a tone of finality, holding out a hand between them. If the man is at all impatient, it doesn’t show in his voice. Baekhyun blinks, all words escaping him for a moment, then drops his gaze to the ground. He stares pointedly down at the ash grey cobblestone, blood slowly trickling along the crevices like a miniature river of ill crimson.
Baekhyun knows this is not an offer to rescue him. This is an ultimatum, words sharp enough to cut and bleed him dry. The image of his blood mingling with the dead man’s, now pooling around his still corpse and seeping into the stone beneath him, burns at the back of Baekhyun’s eyelids. Escaping death comes at a heavy price; signing himself away will be but a small part of it.
He takes the proffered hand and bites back a shudder when the stranger’s icy cold fingers grip his in turn.
Kouren is always coldest at night.
÷
Baekhyun’s eyes spring open.
Blackness still greets him, but it’s not the serene blanket of stars half-concealed by clouds. He finds himself staring at the ceiling of his room, streaked with strips of light from the window. He can feel his lips quivering, feel the burn in his muscles when he realises he’s been gripping the linen of his sheets too hard. His knuckles are a ghostly white. He hasn’t had that dream in a while.
Baekhyun slips off the bed soundlessly and pads over to the window. He uses the hem of his sleeve to wipe away the sweat forming on his brow as he leans against the glass. It’s cold and smooth against his skin.
Xi’an might be a sprightly, bustling city during the day, but it’s even busier, even more crowded at night. The streets are brimming with energy and packed with people of all ages. The red light from the lantern crosses paths with lights of every other colour from signboards and vendor stalls, casting a rainbowish glow over the town. Even from inside the inn, Baekhyun can hear the faint opera singing, and the cacophony of drums and gongs from what could either be a lion or dragon dance troupe.
It’s a chaotic buzz of activity and fun, but only to the untrained eye.
Baekhyun sinks deeper into the shadows of his unlit room, but his eyes rake across the streets, ever-watchful.
Several groups of men wait under the telltale red lights hung outside brothels and love houses. Ordinary men, perhaps, but their garments are made of embroidered silk, a luxury only the noblemen - ministers, emissaries, generals - can afford. They’re falling all over the women gathered by the threshold, robes hanging precariously loose on their shoulders.
Two shops down, at the mouth of a narrow alleyway, a boy and a girl - both no older than ten, by their looks - sink to the floor with their arms raised above their head, cut and bloody. A woman stands over them, bringing a cane down on the children’s skin again and again and again. Baekhyun wonders what would drive her to such extremes and tries to imagine her expression. Skirting the fringes of insanity, maybe. Terrifying in its beauty.
Xi’an is a grand convocation of corrupt people, out to feed only their own hunger and animalistic desires.
Just like him.
÷
Baekhyun swivels to the side, whistling low when he feels cold air miss his cheek by a hair’s breadth. One. His opponent, a big, tan brute by the name of Jinho, teeters out of control and staggers forward. He growls, clearly displeased at missing his mark, and charges again at Baekhyun with a mighty roar.
The cheers of the crowd are deafening, hoots and hollers and loud calling from the congregation of eliminated contestants, noise befitting the grand stage of the final round. Just as Baekhyun sidesteps the next blow, somebody yells, “Take him out, Jinho!” Two.
Baekhyun clicks his tongue, but remains upright and standing. He doesn’t like crowds, but he dislikes swords even more. They’re too heavy and too long for his liking, too clumsy, too prone to making a mistake. But the rules of the sparring competition are as such, and he has no choice but to make do. He scuffs his foot against the ground; it’s uneven. He’ll have to work around that.
Jinho comes hurtling towards him with astonishing speed, bellowing mightily and putting all his force into his swing. Baekhyun takes a deep breath and sinks at the very last moment, driving the pommel of his sword into his opponent’s belly, disarming and incapacitating him with one blow.
Three.
The ‘thud’ of Jinho’s body against the hard floor is drowned out by fierce cheering from the crowd of men gathered around Baekhyun. Jinho trembles on the floor, coughing small pools of blood, but Baekhyun turns away. “Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the winner of the 108th annual sparring competition, Byun Baekhyun!” The referee’s announcement is met with a mixture of raucous applause and hushed muttering from the participants - certainly nobody had banked on a dark horse to defeat their champion stallion.
Baekhyun bows once at the referee and makes to leave the arena, but his eyes flit towards the main building of the palace, where the Inner Court congregates every morning to discuss affairs of state. Just outside it, the occupants of the imperial palace stand watching. The palace elders and ministers speak amongst themselves, gesturing occasionally at him, whilst the army generals stand with their arms crossed and small, approving smiles on their faces. The maids-in-waiting are gathered in a cluster at the far end, all waving at him and falling into a fit of giggles after.
None of them concern him, save the woman sitting on a raised dais in the center of the row of spectators. In a long, flowing pale blue dress sits Luhan, Queen of China, her jet black hair falling in tresses. Her expression is not unkindly, but stoic, perhaps. As she stands to leave, she raises her chin slightly, eyes trained on him, almost as if regarding Baekhyun for all that he is. Three maids-in-waiting follow Luhan as she retreats into the main building of the palace, her gown and an air of mystery trailing behind her.
÷
The thought of attending an afterparty doesn’t actually occur to Baekhyun until he’s caught in the middle of it. He hadn’t even gotten the chance to retrieve his actual weapons after the competition; he’d been ushered to one of the smaller buildings in the palace complex. Several maids and an official already awaited him, and he was made to change into the garments set aside specifically for the victor of the competition before being whisked away to the grand dining hall to feast and drink with the noblemen and palace officials.
Even now, a goblet of wine in one hand and plates that never seem to empty before him, Baekhyun feels odd - he’s never been clothed in silk before, and he much prefers the scratchiness and familiarity of cotton. He does conceal his discomfort, though; it would be unbecoming to be ungrateful when a feast like this (however extravagant and unnecessary) has been thrown in his honour.
Baekhyun laughs when appropriate and smiles when the time is right, dipping his head with a shy grin on his face when general after general approach him to congratulate him and offer him a place in their respective armies. “Your litheness will be useful in war. Have you decided which of us you’d like to join?” one of the generals asks in a deep, booming voice.
“Not yet, sire,” Baekhyun says, smiling sheepishly. “I have heard tales of the greatness of all the armies of Xi’an, and it would be the highest honour to serve any one of them.”
The generals surrounding him laugh heartily, wine sloshing out of their goblets even as they speak through mouthfuls of bread and fruit. “I like this one,” General Shou declares, thumping his chest. “A choice lies ahead of you, boy, but no matter which of us you end up choosing, your skills would be of great use to Xi’an.”
One of the ladies-in-waiting refills his goblet, the ends of her sleeve brushing against Baekhyun’s shoulder as she casts him a shy smile. Baekhyun inclines his head and sports a grin to match the general’s.
Somebody clears their throat, a newer, softer voice. “Her Majesty requests the presence of today’s victor in her office, m’lords.” A boy with wispy blond hair stands on the other side of the table, all sharp lines and angles, mouth contorted in a smirk that Baekhyun can tell he’s trying to keep polite. The generals all groan in unison, displeased sounds of dismay. One of them pats Baekhyun hard on the back. “Well, there goes, m’boy, if the Lady wants to see you, I doubt you’ll be joining any one of us.”
Baekhyun raises an eyebrow and is about to ask what they mean, but the boy looks impatient enough, so he doesn’t press the issue further. He excuses himself from the table and makes sure to thank the generals for their generosity and company.
“Come with me.”
Baekhyun follows the boy - to his surprise - out one of the side exits, not through the grand doors which he’d entered, and is led down a hallway lined with tapestries and torches. The boy unsettles him, somewhat, clad in only minimum armour and bearing no weapon, yet walks with the stature of a fully-trained soldier. As they round a corner, Baekhyun sees the small scarf he’s wearing. Despite his surprise, he stays his expression by force. From observation, Baekhyun knows all the guards and soldiers wear them, scarves of different colours to indicate which of the seven armies they serve.
Yellow, green, white and brown are the secondary armies, usually dispatched to the outlying districts to handle thievery and small rebellions. Those bearing blue and red scarves are of the high houses, larger armies tasked with guarding the provinces closer to Xi’an, home to several generations of noble families, renowned craftsmen and merchant organisations.
This boy’s scarf is purple.
The imperial guard.
Evening is swiftly falling upon Xi’an, casting shadows in the crevices and junctures of the palace. They’re outside now. The air is cool against his skin; not too cold, but just nice. Not a soul in sight, since the palace occupants have congregated in the grand hall for the feast he’d just left, but Baekhyun notices the boy maintains his caution. He keeps them both in the shadows even along the winding outdoor corridors of the palace complex.
Several turns later, the boy motions for Baekhyun to stop outside a pair of grand wooden doors - mahogany, by the looks of it - then opens them a crack and slips in.
Only when Baekhyun looks up does he notice the sheer breadth of the building; one he’d seen only hours before, the main hall of the imperial palace. From where he stands, he can see the open space where the competition arena had been in the morning. Sculpted dragons wind around the pillars flanking both sides of the grand entrance, glowing softly under the evening light, testament to the fairness and absoluteness of China’s imperial line of rulers. Baekhyun hums in appreciation as he runs a finger along part of the dragon’s body on the left pillar, feeling his fingers dip every time they pass over a gap between its scales. He marvels at their fineness; it would otherwise have gone unnoticed from afar.
The boy’s blond head pops out from behind the door. “This way,” he says.
Beyond the entrance, a secondary pair of doors await at the far end of the spectacularly lit hall, to the Empress’ office. The blond boy closes the door behind them. Baekhyun is greeted by shelf upon shelf of books and archaic scrolls, tomes of knowledge and history. Tomes of secrets.
The lock of the door sounds behind him, loud in the quiet of the room.
Behind the great desk filled with yet more books and stacks of papers sits Luhan, hands clasped on the wooden surface. Baekhyun bows, low and deep, and makes sure to hold his position until she tells him otherwise.
“Raise your head, warrior.” The lilting of her soft words belies the danger that lay dormant in her being. Everything about her reminds Baekhyun of a river, cold but light, gentle but powerful.
Up close, under the light of the lamp, Luhan is even more beautiful than he’d seen her during the day. She’s still wearing the same ice blue dress, but he can see just how fair of face she is now, porcelain skin unblemished and big, brown eyes perceptive. She would otherwise seem demure, but the slow-burning fire in her stance and face tells Baekhyun otherwise.
She stares at him a little while longer, then leans back in her seat. “Byun Baekhyun, you’ve impressed me today. You made your final opponent a fool,” she says, choosing her words carefully.
“With all due respect, Your Majesty, he was a man of power. But with that great strength came an equal amount of clumsiness, and it detracted from his reflexes,” Baekhyun answers honestly.
“You felled all your opponents in three strikes or less.”
The count of one, two, three rings in Baekhyun’s ears. His challengers were pitiful at best in the preliminaries and only marginally better in the semi-finals. Two strokes for the average one; three for those slightly more skilled. “I did.”
Luhan hums. “Ten finalists from today’s competition will be granted a position in the army of their choice, including you.” The man on her left, fairly tall and donning the same clothes as his blond escort, places a bundle on the desk, one that Baekhyun recognises almost immediately. “But I will make your choice for you, Byun Baekhyun.”
She fixes her gaze on him, but maintains an air of nonchalance. “You will serve me, as part of the imperial guard. You will answer only to me. You will take orders only from me. This is an elite squad, my personal guard, and henceforth, riches and protection will extend to you also.” This is not an offer, and Baekhyun knows an ultimatum when he hears one. He’s been there before.
He drops to one knee and places a fist on the ground before him, dipping his head. “I pledge fealty and service to you, Your Majesty, for as long as the throne and the right to rule is yours.”
“Very well.”
When Baekhyun next lays eyes on Luhan, she seems satisfied, elated, even, and beckons him closer. She swiftly undoes the strings holding the bundle of cloth together, pushes the fabric back to reveal two pristine, small daggers. Baekhyun’s original weapons, the ones he’d carried with him for as long as he can remember, relinquished to the palace weaponmaster for safekeeping before the sparring competition had begun.
Luhan runs her fingers along the surface of the blade, polished so clearly that her beautiful reflection could be seen in them. “For all your prowess, you seemed... uncomfortable with a sword. You work best with shorter blades, I take it?”
“Yes, m’lady.”
She gestures to her left, at the boy that had escorted Baekhyun from the dining hall earlier. “Zitao here prefers poisoned darts, and Yixing,” she motions to her right, at the boy that had produced the bundle with his daggers earlier, “the bow and arrow. You would complete this trio nicely.”
Baekhyun meets their eyes proper for the first time. Zitao looks much warmer now, a small smile on his lips, blond hair falling into his tanned face as he tilts his head towards Baekhyun in acknowledgment. There is no bow in sight, but Yixing’s arrows are in a satchel fastened behind his back. He flashes Baekhyun a brilliant grin, returned in similar fashion.
“Then I will see you tomorrow,” Luhan says, ordering Yixing to give Baekhyun a short tour of the palace before showing him to his designated room. She dismisses all three of them with a wave of her hand.
Zitao is first to take the watch tonight, so he bids Baekhyun farewell and disappears into the shadows once again. Yixing shakes his head somewhat fondly, as he and Baekhyun fall into step next to each other. “Zitao’s a good kid. I was here first, but he’s always been really faithful to Luhan,” he says.
A blanket of curiosity seems to fall on them both; Yixing is curious about him, and Baekhyun has questions about everything. Almost as if to break the ice, Yixing pats him lightly on the shoulder. “We were all watching you today. Luhan sees a lot in you, you know,” he comments earnestly.
Baekhyun smiles, somewhat glad that he can slip back into more informal speech. “Thanks.”
They continue to make small talk as Yixing shows him around the palace. Baekhyun notices Yixing keeps his voice to a whisper outside, probably out of habit. Yixing shows him the Inner Court, where the palace officials and ministers congregate every morning to report to the Empress, then a few places of lesser importance, like the armoury and the imperial archives. Whenever they pass one of the ministry offices, Yixing runs through important names with Baekhyun to get him acquainted with the figures inside the palace. Their last stop before Baekhyun’s room is Luhan’s chambers, just after the archives.
“The night watch is usually concentrated around Luhan’s chambers,” Yixing explains, turning two corners to a long corridor with smaller rooms. He points to a door on his left, then at another one four doors away. “This is where I am, and that’s yours. Sorry it’s a bit further off, the ones in the middle belong to the keepers of the archive.” Yixing smiles sheepishly, then as an afterthought, adds, “When they’re not just sleeping over their work, that is.”
Yixing tells Baekhyun he can join the guard tomorrow after the prize presentation ceremony, and that he should rest for the night. Baekhyun worries his lower lip. “One more question.”
“Hm?”
Baekhyun gestures around him awkwardly. “I mean, I’ve only met you and Zitao, but... how many of us are there in the imperial guard?”
Yixing blinks at him, then chuckles. “Not all the victors become part of the imperial guard, Baekhyun. Neither do you necessarily have to be a victor. Luhan watches it every year and will only choose someone if they stand out to her. I was second runner-up in my year.”
Gazing at the sky, Yixing places his hands flat against the railing. “There used to be this other guy; his name was Chen, I think. He joined us two years after I did, and he was great and everything, then he just disappeared. No word, no trace. That left just me and Zitao, but now there’s you, so that makes three of us.”
Baekhyun tries not to let his surprise show. “Just us three?”
“Yes. Luhan has... very high standards. Elite of the elite, right?” Yixing laughs softly.
÷
Baekhyun doesn’t turn on the lights in his room. He looks around, inspecting every square inch. The furniture has been kept to a bare minimum - a wooden desk, a cupboard for his belongings and a bed, surprisingly soft. Baekhyun catches peculiar shadows out of the corner of his eye, moonlight from the single window playing tricks on him.
He stands by the window, fingering the small ribbon in his pocket for the first time today. Nigh on three weeks ago, he’d woken up to a single white rose and a letter, fastened together with a small strip of red cloth. Not the first of the letters, but certainly the first of the flowers. The message read:
I’m always watching you, Byun Baekhyun. Best this last series of orders I have for you, and to you, I will reveal myself. To you also, I will extend an invitation to join me.
Be at the imperial sparring competition. The Empress’ time on the throne is drawing to a close.
Baekhyun had spent a large part of his years at a cottage on the outskirts of Yuzhou, hidden from the nearest townsfolk behind impossible fens and a thin forest. He pickpocketed for food, stole fruit and meat when the traders weren’t looking. It helped keep him alive, and it was good training. He spent his days with his benefactor, learning the practice of murder. It was graceful, it was precise, it was an art. It was something Baekhyun discovered he was surprisingly prodigious at. He pleased his benefactor to no end, learning faster than any student should. Which is why the sudden departure of his benefactor, without word or cause, had plunged him into confusion.
The letters began coming the first night he slept alone in the cottage.
They became his sole purpose in life, his sense of direction. The writer spoke not in the tone of his benefactor, but as someone who’d been watching Baekhyun from the shadows, someone who knew his story and much more than an anonymous figure should.
More often than not, the letters bore the name of a person, or an address, or a job description, with an order to kill. Other times, they contained praises for his latest ‘masterpiece’. One time, it was a simple you’re beautiful.
Baekhyun burnt all the letters.
He shuts his eyes and rests his fingers on the chain around his neck, given to him by his benefactor when Baekhyun had first been taken under his wing. The only testament to who he was, and even now, as imperial guard Byun Baekhyun, who he is.
Only when he finally slips under the sheets does he allow himself the smile he’s been holding in.
Things seem to be going his way, with the wind behind its back.
÷
A messenger is already waiting for Baekhyun outside when he emerges from his room. The boy, small and probably in his teens, leads him to the main building again, to the massive hall he’d been in yesterday. In bright daylight, the hall seems even more majestic that it had been the night before. Sunlight bathes the fine marble, and where it falls on the Empress’ throne, the gold is set aglow. Today, Luhan is clothed in a dress of bright and fiery crimson.
The prize presentation ceremony seems a grand affair; there are even more people gathered in the hall than there was at the honorary feast. Baekhyun can see all manner of the palace’s occupants, from ministers to scholars to the ladies-in-waiting. To each of the men, Luhan presents a bag of gold, a brand-new sword and an assortment of scarves for the men to choose from.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the victor of the 108th annual sparring competition of Weiyang Palace, Byun Baekhyun!”
Soft, almost intrigued applause accompanies Baekhyun as he walks up to Luhan, kneeling a few paces away from her. Instead of a sword, she brandishes a new dagger, a dragon sculpted into the wood of its hilt. She places it in his outstretched hands together with his bag of gold. Shocked gasps and low murmurs erupt throughout the hall when Luhan produces a purple silk scarf from the tray offered to her by a lady-in-waiting and fastens it around Baekhyun’s neck.
“May these serve you well,” Luhan says. Favouritism would be heavily frowned upon, so she doesn’t smile, but Baekhyun can see sincerity in her eyes. He looks away.
The plethora of faces and emotions that greet him as he makes his way back to his spot is almost overwhelming. Longing and approval from the generals, intrigue from the palace officials and scholars, burning jealousy from his fellow competitors. Not everybody - or nobody, really - makes it to the imperial guard, after all.
Luhan is delivering her closing words when Baekhyun catches somebody’s gaze. The boy seems young, maybe his age, a little bit younger, with a similar physique. He looks like a scholar, but he isn’t wearing their white uniform. His robes are a pale blue with delicate embroidery down the front. The boy smiles, inclining his head slightly. Baekhyun would have written him off as another demure, polite character in the palace, maybe a diplomat’s son. Senior among the scholars.
But the depth in the boy’s eyes is magnetic, an invitation for Baekhyun to come and drown in them. Something flits across them, light as a feather but heavy and dark, runs away just as quickly as it had come.
Baekhyun licks his lips. It’s something he wants to catch.
÷
Afternoon watch isn’t until later for Baekhyun, so he settles with roaming around the palace and familiarising himself as best he can to pass the time. He comes to appreciate the tiny details that had gone unnoticed in the dimness of the evening before, like the architecture of the roof or the carvings on the pillars. In the day, the palace seems bigger, sunlight easing a breath of fresh air into the hallways.
He wanders past the Secretary’s department and takes note of the other ministry offices he passes, drawing a map of the palace out in his mind as he goes. He might need it, just in case.
Baekhyun ends up straying near the archives, which he recognises from the doors, uniquely fashioned with a golden handle. Statuettes of lionesses flank the sides of the doors, elegant keepers of the knowledge contained within.
The scent of ancient books and scrolls permeates his nostrils as he steps into the archives, row upon row of shelves filled with generations’ worth of information and literature. The archives are much larger than they appear on the outside, Baekhyun notices, bookcases extending almost as far as the eye can see on both sides, each neatly labelled by section.
He picks one at random, fifth to the right from the entrance - its tag reads Chinese Scriptures. He dusts off one of the scrolls and unfurls it. If anything at all, Baekhyun only appreciates the stunning calligraphy and marvels at the small paintings that accompany the text. He hadn’t had the privilege of going to school or learning how to read. His benefactor had taught him a little bit, but Baekhyun is no more proficient at reading than an elementary student would be.
“Having trouble?”
The voice is velvety and sinful, low in tone but lilting in melody. It surprises Baekhyun, having come out of nowhere, but his first instinctual feeling is to want more of it. To drown in it to the point of no return.
Baekhyun looks up, and his breath catches in his throat. The boy he’d seen at the prize presentation ceremony earlier gazes back at him now, leaning against the bookshelf next to him. Baekhyun recognises him in a fraction of a heartbeat - raven blue hair, porcelain skin that could rival even Luhan’s fair complexion, deep set gray eyes that tell of a hundred different tales. In such close proximity, the boy’s beauty assails Baekhyun’s senses like a series of explosions, sending him into complete disarray.
The voice might have been sinful, but its owner even more so.
Baekhyun isn’t entirely sure where the courage bubbling in him comes from. “If I were, would you stay?”
The boy laughs. The sound crawls under Baekhyun’s skin and embeds itself in his heart. “The line you’re trying so hard to read says, ‘To the high heavens you will take me, but drop me not lest I were to escape from this love, from this cage to which I desire to be eternally bound. The wind will cut into my skin, but no wound will hurt more than the one in my heart.’”
Baekhyun doesn’t press him further, content with just the sound of his voice, more beautiful than any and all prose, when the boy continues, “This is the story of a young couple who fall into treacherous love. The man promised to take her to the stars, but on his way up, he drops her and she falls to her death.” The boy’s gaze lifts from the scroll to Baekhyun’s features, searching him.
For lack of a better word to use, Baekhyun says, “That’s really sad.”
The boy nods his agreement. He pries the scroll out of Baekhyun’s hands and slides it back into its spot on the shelf. It’s fire against fire when their gazes meet, never breaking, never faltering. Baekhyun is determined to win this, to be the one to look into the very recesses of the boy’s soul and discover what it is that makes him so captivating. This is one time Baekhyun doesn’t like being in the dark.
“Do you...” The boy tugs Baekhyun forward by the front of his undershirt. Baekhyun isn’t wearing his armour. Unprotected, vulnerable, susceptible. “Do you want me to stay?” he asks, voice now even lower than it was before, coarser.
Baekhyun inhales slowly.
“I want your name,” he murmurs, low so that no one else in the archives can hear them. He rests one hand on a shelf above the boy’s head, the first bar in his cage.
The boy laughs again, and slips out from under Baekhyun’s arm. “I like secrets, Byun Baekhyun. I have dealings with secrets every day.” He gestures around the room, at the books and scriptures laden with years of history. “Maybe if you come here more often, you’ll find the answer.”
“Maybe I will.”
“Well, we’ll see who learns each other’s secrets first, then.” The boy’s smile is lopsided but enticing, and Baekhyun wants nothing more than to sear the image behind his eyelids, maybe except to own him and unravel him, careful string by careful string.
“I look forward to it.” A promise. Baekhyun doesn’t make promises often.
Long after the boy leaves, Baekhyun is left trying to quench the fire on his skin where they’d touched and his unrelenting thirst for more.
÷
Baekhyun’s first time taking the first watch of the day is also the first time he watches the palace’s inner court in session. From his position a few paces behind Luhan, he has a full view of the hall. The imperial secretary delivers initial reports about the people and the administration, followed by a collective address of issues brought up by the different ministries and departments.
The entire affair is interesting, politics and hidden agendas abound. The lines between loyalty, personal gain and responsibility have never seemed so thin. Baekhyun pays attention as best he can, but it gets increasingly difficult when all he can see and hear is the boy he’d met at the archives. Baekhyun had guessed that he held a position of relative importance in the palace, if his clothes and stature were anything to go by, but the thought of him being part of the inner court hadn’t even crossed Baekhyun’s mind. The boy is a person of few words, but be as that may, he delivers his points with an enviable succinctness and eloquence, countering many officials senior in both status and age.
For the most part, the boy remains quiet. When he isn’t watching the court, he watches Baekhyun, the stoicism in his face never tainting the curiosity in his eyes. Baekhyun observes him in return, notes his small habits, like the way he tends to brush his hair to the right when they tickle his eyes, or the way he clasps his hands together under the table.
It becomes a battlefield of their own, a mental war, but it never seems to jar the boy’s concentration.
After his fourth morning watching over the Empress’ meetings with the officials, a week and three days since their encounter in the archives, Baekhyun asks Yixing who the boy is. “The scholar kid?” Yixing asks again, confused.
Baekhyun gestures towards the boy. He has his back turned to them, engaged in polite conversation with two old men, whom Baekhyun recognises as the ministers of finance. He says something and laughs, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth. Baekhyun’s lips curve downwards in a frown; the boy’s smile is pretty. He makes it a point to tell him not to hide it the next time they meet.
“Oh, him.” Yixing tightens the strap of his satchel. “He’s one of the two Keepers of the Archives, officially. He was a scholar before that, I think, but he keeps a super low-profile so no one actually knows. I don’t think I’ve ever even spoken to him before in my years here,” he trails off thoughtfully.
Baekhyun turns around at the sound of a soft cough and is greeted by the sight of two young men. One of them is tall and broad-shouldered, almost towering over Baekhyun, regarding him with sharp eyes. He stands with all the regality of a prince, although his raiment is significantly less outlandish compared to Luhan’s. His companion is less intimidating both in height and looks, but his gentle appearance belies a quiet, deadly power.
Yixing smiles fondly at them. “Gentlemen, this is Byun Baekhyun, the newest member of the imperial guard. Baekhyun, this is Wu Yifan, chief of the palace’s advisors, and Kim Junmyeon, the youngest ever to head the Secretary’s department.”
Baekhyun notices, with equal amounts of awe, wariness and surprise, that so much power is in the hands of people so painfully young.
After an exchange of formalities, Junmyeon smiles at Baekhyun. “If you’re wondering, the gentleman you were referring to is Do Kyungsoo. He’s almost always at the archives; Yifan and I see him often when we have to go pull up records.”
Baekhyun turns around. The boy catches Baekhyun’s gaze just as he exchanges goodbyes with the ministers.
Do Kyungsoo, I win.
÷
In the evening, Baekhyun returns to his room, to a lonesome note barely larger than the size of his palm and folded into a tiny square, placed atop his pillow. In it lay a single rose petal, blood red, and time is up, byun baekhyun scrawled in ink.
A familiar thrill courses through his veins, the telltale signs of his primal instincts rising from their dormant state. Suddenly, everything seems sharper, clearer. The sounds of his breathing and the pumping of his heart overlap in a messy song.
He clicks his tongue. He’d meant to visit the archives tonight, but Do Kyungsoo and his declaration of victory would have to wait.
÷
Baekhyun bides his time slowly in the corridors. He knows Luhan usually retires to her chambers past midnight, when sleep beguiles her and work can no longer keep her awake. Depending how long she tarries, Baekhyun only has a small window of time to get things done, maybe slightly more, if he’s lucky. Yixing has the west wing and Zitao will be by the gates, the archive keepers will be--- no, he doesn’t have time to think about them. He can slip past them.
Luhan’s chambers are in the east wing, first to receive the sunlight and last to lose it. A pair of guards are positioned at each of the sharp turns in the corridors leading up to her room. They reciprocate his curt nods of acknowledgment and step aside when he approaches them. Baekhyun straightens the end of his purple scarf - it’s both a blessing and a curse. It helps make his work less messy, he supposes; having to kill nigh on two dozen men is more likely to cause a commotion, but he misses the challenge.
But no matter, he decides, he’s about to tackle a more interesting challenge anyway. Two guards flank the door to Luhan’s chamber, eyes vigilant and grip firm on their spears. Baekhyun can take them out when they bow their heads, or when they exchange greetings, or by creeping up to them in the shadows. Anytime, really, but that would be suspicious - there are other guards around the corner, and they’d be listening. The guards of the innermost corridor are bound by duty to question whomever approaches, unless they mean to take the corridor to the right, towards the gardens.
“What brings you here, sire?” one of them asks as Baekhyun draws near.
“Nothing, just going to check the gardens.” He shakes his head, punctuates his statement with a smile. It’s the last thing they see.
A simultaneous swipe of both his blades slices clean against their throats, severing their carotid arteries. A fine incision, but the damage is done. Baekhyun catches both their spears and slowly eases their limp bodies to the ground, careful not to rouse the other guards, or even Luhan. She’d overheard his conversation with Yixing from inside her study once; he knows her better than to let his guard down even when she’s sleeping.
You know her, a voice at the back of his head chides. He reaches for the guards’ scarfs and tie them around their necks, stemming the slow but steady gurgle of blood tumbling out of the cut. She’s different.
He shuts the voice out of his head, but to a certain degree, it spoke the truth. This isn’t his first job undercover, but this is the first time he’s gotten to know his target before going for the kill. It’s different. Baekhyun isn’t sure if it’s difficult.
Luhan’s chambers are massive, but the darkness is permeated only by one narrow window high on the wall. It’s safer this way, but the loneliness in every line on the floor, in every page of the books spread open on her desk, in every one of her mirrors, is frighteningly poignant. Familiar, even.
Stripped of all her headgear and outlandish robes, Luhan is surprisingly small. Curled up into the sheets, breathing softly, she looks thin and petite, vulnerable, devoid of her mask of composure and the title of Empress. Lines of worry crease her face. She’s still just a girl, and it occurs to Baekhyun that he doesn’t know how old she is, if she had anyone she loved, if---
“Baekhyun?”
Luhan’s eyes flutter open and she pushes the sheets away groggily. “What’s wr---” Her words end in a choked gurgle as Baekhyun blade finds its way across the skin on her neck. Her eyes go wide and she struggles to lift a hand to push him away. It takes but a few seconds for her to expend her energy trying to breathe; she slumps back onto the pillows, blood seeping into the linen, her cotton nightgown, her straight, black hair. Hurt and betrayal are set into the hollow depths of her eyes, once filled with intellect and courage. Baekhyun shuts them with a gentle hand.
He sheaths his daggers, clean despite the cuts they’ve made. By his reckoning, the kill took less time than he’d anticipated. Just as he pads across the length of the hallway to the doors, they open, a small sliver of light from the outside piercing the darkness of Luhan’s chambers. “Your Majesty?” a soft voice calls, and for the first time in a very long time, Baekhyun’s heart leaps into his throat.
Baekhyun takes down the person who spoke, a ginger-haired man, killing him instantly with a slash much larger than he’s used to, probably deep enough to severe both the carotid artery and jugular vein. The figure falls noiselessly onto the carpeted floor, but Baekhyun doesn’t wait to see what happens. He presses the man’s companion against the wood of the door, but he stays his blade the moment he looks up.
Staring back at him with eyes blacker than the night is Do Kyungsoo, hands balled into fists at his side and biting on his lower lip. Baekhyun tightens his grip on his dagger, and forgets to breathe.
Kyungsoo lifts a hand to shut the door, the wood sliding into place behind him. His laugh sounds both bitter and sweet in the night. “Do it. Don’t wait.”
Baekhyun rests the sharp end of the blade against Kyungsoo’s skin. The moonlight casts a ring of silver around his gray irises, traces of fear aglow in the dark. But Kyungsoo doesn’t shake, doesn’t beg for mercy, doesn’t break. His small smile is tight-lipped, refusing Baekhyun his secrets and his stories. There is no regret or surprise in his face, only defiance.
Kyungsoo is fire. Kyungsoo is a challenge. Kyungsoo is a change in tides. The very fibre of Kyungsoo’s being is danger, and danger is all Baekhyun has ever known and all Baekhyun has ever loved.
Baekhyun wants to see him break and wants to be the one to break him.
“Afraid?” Kyungsoo whispers.
Baekhyun pulls down the collar of his robe, careful not to tear the fabric, hashing a small cross just below Kyungsoo’s collarbone with the very tip of the dagger. Kyungsoo grimaces when the metal pierces his skin. Baekhyun slowly brings his mouth to the cut, eyes never leaving Kyungsoo’s, tongue flitting outward to lap at the small drops of blood. He can feel the tensing of Kyungsoo’s muscles, taste the terrible mix of his fear and love for the dark. “I will destroy all that you know and love,” Baekhyun mouths against the skin. “Do Kyungsoo.”
The smallest hint of surprise crosses Kyungsoo’s face at the sound of his name, but disappears as swiftly as a racing deer. “Don’t make promises you’ll regret, Byun Baekhyun.” His voice is cold and hard, but when he wipes off the tiny traces of blood on Baekhyun’s lip, his touch is gentle, possessive.
Baekhyun leaves for the south wing. Kyungsoo takes the corridor to the left, back from whence he had come and to the archives.
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