Chapter Text
Kamakura, Japan 1197
When Namjoon woke up, his bow and arrow were missing.
He jolted awake, then scattered to the headboard of his bed. Even if there were cushions underneath him made with the finest silk, his body was stiff. His mind was running haywire, and only when he blinked rapidly, he noticed there were three maidens in the room.
One was busy cleaning the rug, one was closing the window frame he left opened last night, and the other one was beside him, her smooth hands were holding an ancient cup.
‘W-What are you doing?’ he asked, frightened.
‘Your Highness.’ she smiled, bowing her head in motion. ‘His Majesty requested you to rise and have your breakfast. We had to barge in when no one opened the door, in fear of you being assassinated. Forgive us for our intrusion.’
‘Assassinated?’ Namjoon repeated. ‘Who would do that to a lowborn like me?’
‘Your Highness!’ the maiden gasped. ‘You mustn’t say that. You are the Emperor’s son. Please do not address yourself as–’
‘A bastard child.’ Namjoon finished her sentence, effectively silencing the room. His eyes turned somewhat cold as he looked into the girl’s eyes. ‘My mother is His Majesty’s mistress, and I can assure you that news travels fast.’
None of the maidens said anything to that.
‘Does assassinations happen… often?’ he asked again, fear of the answer.
‘Yes, Your Highness.’
‘When did the last one happened?’
‘…Two days ago, Your Highness.’
Namjoon’s blood ran cold, but he could connect the dots together. ‘And I supposed His Majesty was in the forest until equilibrium is restored?’
‘His Majesty–’
‘Nari. That’s enough.’
The maiden beside him clicked her jaw shut, while the one cleaning the rug shut her. Perhaps it was dangerous to leak information out, and perhaps death was the price.
As if reminded by the idea, Nari–
Nari?
‘N-Nari?’
He repeated the name on his tongue. His face appeared as if he just saw a ghost, and he forced down a hard swallow.
‘Is that your name?’ he whispered. ‘Nari?’
The maiden only hung her head low, whimpering a scared, ‘A servant like me should not mention my name, Your Highness. It’s… an offense to royalties to be known like a highborn.’
She backed away as if she was being plunged into a wolf’s mouth and picked up a tray full of food. A breakfast in bed. Such treatment Namjoon could never afford when he was back with his family, and for a second, the thought of them saddened him but Namjoon entertained himself by the fact that he didn’t need to kill a boar anymore.
‘If you need us, just ring the bell, and unless it is Your Highness’ preference, you may join His Majesty at the dining table.’
‘I think this is enough.’ Namjoon said immediately. ‘And please, keep the windows open. I’d like to hear the birds sing.’
The other maiden did as what she was told, and when they gathered together to bow in respect, Namjoon tried his luck.
‘Nari?’
The one maid snapped her head and made an eye contact with him. Then fear immediately intruded her face as like a walking plague, a virus eating her alive. She dropped herself to the rug, her forehead touching the floor. The two maidens scurried away, and the door closed like a dungeon.
‘F-Forgive me, Your Highness.’
Namjoon’s heart broke at the voice crack. He didn’t understand what she did wrong.
‘I didn’t mean to challenge you in the eyes, but it was a reflex and I– I am at fault. Please don’t hang me and have mercy–’
The girl kept rambling, all the while with slow footsteps Namjoon descended from his bed. He walked towards her and gently touched her shoulders. The girl yelped, and he could see how terrified she was by the trembling of her eyes.
‘I am not to hang you, Nari.’ he said slowly for her to register. Disbelief clouded her face. ‘You look so… young to be working. How old are you?’
‘F-Fifteen, Your High–’
‘Quit calling me that.’
Nari shut her mouth and the fear came back.
‘How about we make a deal?’ Namjoon offered. ‘I call you Nari, and you call me Namjoon.’
‘Y-Your Hi–’
‘No.’
‘But–’
‘No.’
She looked hesitant and small. The boy wondered what made her come here, living a life where making an eye contact with him could cost her a neck.
‘…Namjoon.’
The owner of the name smiled gently for the first time since he arrived at the Imperial Palace. The way a lowborn like Nari mentioned his name made something inside him fluttered–as if he was reminded that this wasn’t where he belongs, that he was with his people and not these rulers.
‘You have a beautiful name, Nari.’ he said in earnest, thinking of an eight-year-old. ‘Be my friend.’
‘But I am a servant.’
‘And I am a bastard child.’ Namjoon smiled. ‘Makes the two of us.’
Trust blossomed in the way she looked at Namjoon, and he hoped it stayed there for a long time. So when Nari nodded slowly, they both rose to their feet, promising each other’s safety. Safety wasn’t free here. The right to breathe was even threatened.
‘A word of warning, Namjoon.’ she said before going out of the door, hiding the bread Namjoon gave to her. She looked around the hallway, paranoid that someone might hear her saying, ‘Never be ashamed of being a bastard child. Wear the title like a crown, and the sky promise you shall never fall down.’
Three months passed like the wind in the high mountain tops Namjoon stared at for an hour from his window frame.
It was scary how easily he adapted to the circumstances, almost like he was meant to be here from the day he was born. Yet again, he didn’t have the right to say that when his birth happened only because of a one-time fling.
But regardless his background, everyone treated him with respect. He planted Nari’s words in his mind like a mantra, and he practiced it day by day. Never once did he let his face dropped in shame when a noble guest judged him with a look when they found out he was nothing more than a mistake. He wore it like a badge to live by, and his voice was firm when he said,
‘I am the luckiest bastard on earth.’
Often, silence invaded as though a cold water rained over a roaring flame. The whole dining table shut down, the servants stopped serving foods to watch the Emperor’s reaction.
The old man blinked and looked Namjoon in the eyes, replying, ‘And I am the luckiest father on earth.’
No noble guest dared to underestimate Namjoon since then.
Not when their chambers were all facing the training field, beyond the vision line was the vast blue sky and furthermore were the misty grey clouds, but only to display Namjoon’s battle skills.
It wasn’t that he favored being watched from the chamber like a prey. If anything, Namjoon didn’t want to be a center of attention, but days passed and he could only afford getting used to the spotlight illuminating his head. Not forgetting the fact that his mother was a mistress, he was still Japan’s Emperor’s son, and three months passed since Nari told him to be proud, Namjoon still wore it like a crown.
Thud.
Namjoon grinned.
That sound, his favorite satisfaction–when the arrow pierced right in the middle of the target, its heartburn.
‘Well aimed, Your Highness.’
Namjoon turned around, only to see a man in his early twenties walking towards him with a fond expression on his face. Choi Minho, tall and well-built captain of the royal guards was the only man in the Imperial Palace that Namjoon showed a mixture of scared and respect. He served since he was five as a kitchen boy. At fifteen he joined the training. At nineteen he gained the title Samurai, and now he was assigned to Namjoon in battlefields.
Unlike the others who held titles, Minho understood Namjoon like a brother, perhaps because they were close in age, only two years older. He let Namjoon kept his bow and arrow after seeing the latter’s attachment to it, though to what Namjoon interpreted now, it looked like Minho was going to convince him to learn something else.
‘Master.’ Namjoon heaved down his fighting tool and bowed slightly. Then he looked at his target once again and grinned, ‘Scored ten, not that you cannot see it.’
‘Proud of yourself?’
‘You thought me well.’ he smiled, humble but mocking. ‘Though I’m now better than you.’
‘Still Master when your father’s here.’ Minho warned lightly. Then he took Namjoon’s bow and arrow and set it equal to his chin. ‘Beat me, small Prince.’
Then he released the string.
The arrow lurched.
Srek!
Thud!
Sixty yards from where they stood, dividing Namjoon’s arrow into two thin sides was the one Minho shot.
‘Scored perfect, not that you cannot see it.’ the older male smirked in triumph. ‘You still have a lot to learn, for a Shogun shall have a Samurai’s skills.’
‘Tell me something I don’t know.’ Namjoon mumbled.
‘Since you insist.’
He put down the bow and arrow, and the belt around his waist suddenly caught Namjoon’s attention.
‘Today’s lesson.’ Minho said. ‘Is to use my baby.’
Then, emerging from his scabbard was an elegant, curved Katana. The fineness of a Samurai’s most important sword glinted as the sun’s ray shone over the smooth surface, the silent violence it held sent a shiver down Namjoon’s spine.
Minho held it like Namjoon held his bow and arrow. It was visible to every eye that the older male carved his history with its tip blade. Scattering back when his Master pointed it on his throat, Namjoon waited for something to give in.
‘She kept me alive more than my men does.’ Minho said in a grim tone.
Namjoon looked at it. ‘She’s beautiful.’
The Samurai nodded. ‘I forged it myself when I was your age. 200 times I burned it, then perfected it overtime with its finest materials.’ then he drew it back to the ground. Namjoon released the breath he didn’t know he was holding. ‘Now you, Your Highness, must be your own craftsman to your Katana.’
Namjoon shot his eyebrows up. ‘How about my bow and arrow?’
‘Imagine there’s a turmoil in the Imperial Palace and a war break lose. You have fifty men trying to kill you, and you have twenty arrows on your back. With what will you defend yourself from those men by the time you’re running out of arrows?’
The question caught him off guard.
Namjoon never imagined himself being hunted like he hunts the boar in the woods, but perhaps his training and Minho existed solely for preparing him to live under those circumstances.
‘Royal warriors must do their job by then.’ Namjoon answered. ‘For they swore their oath to protect the Shogunate line.’
Minho chuckled. ‘In my years of living in here, I believe people with status is no more trustworthy than a town’s whore.’
Namjoon blinked in surprised.
‘…Then I shouldn’t trust you.’ he boldly said. ‘You are a man with status.’
‘I’m also the man with a weapon right now, aren’t I? One move and your head won’t be together with your neck.’
‘What keeps you from doing it?’ Namjoon looked at the Katana in worry. ‘You have the Emperor’s son as your hostage.’
‘Without disrespect, Your Highness, but how good a bastard child can be as a threat to the Empire?’
The words struck like an oncoming bullet, and Namjoon could only stare at Minho—mildly completive.
The Katana was still on the Samurai’s hand, but it was the least Namjoon was concerned about. It was a tool, but a thought gives it power and he wanted to know what the hell was Minho thinking.
‘Then… why am I here?’ the question suddenly emerged. ‘If the line isn’t passed to me, and I am never going to sit on the throne, why did Father brought me here?’
‘The whole Palace had been questioning that.’ Minho nodded. ‘You are a threat to every dynasty in Japan, Your Highness. If they see an unofficial son like you can inherit so much power in his hands, imagine how many bastard child will create a revolt for the same fate? One ruler is allowed to have up to four mistresses. Chaos is bound to happen, and it’s coming along with the death of the true heir. Twenty arrows will never be enough to exile all the people who want you dead.’
‘But I’m not the true heir!’ Namjoon stressed the part. ‘Every sunrise and sunset my thoughts wander to dangerous territories, and given the throne is the only logical reason I am brought here. If I am such a threat, why did Father risk it?’
Minho stood in silence, his eyes met anywhere but Namjoon. And Namjoon knew he was asking too much, that such information shouldn’t be voiced out loud even if Minho knew it. The man was merely a captain of the royal guards, he understood if Minho preferred to not see past their position and remain in the safe shadow of silence.
‘That should be answered by His Majesty himself.’ finally, the Samurai answered.
Namjoon tried to suppress the feeling of disappointment, and Minho turned around, his long hair swept by the wind. ‘Come, Your Highness. I will show you how to make your own Katana.’
That was the end of the conversation, and Namjoon followed suit.
‘There is a lot you should learn.’ Minho said. ‘As a person who had lived his whole life in the Palace, I shall tell you a myth—that I think you will never have that throne, nor you will be legitimized any lifetime soon.’
The younger stayed silent.
‘As an older male in our brotherhood, I shall tell you a fact—you will live more that way. You will not be tainted with rules and your obedience will rarely be asked. You shall have the chance to go on countless expeditions, as many as you wish—in which you will map out ancient seas and conquer grim mountains.’
Minho took his time and looked at the sky. It was blue today, and clear of clouds. He seemed like he was recalling the times he went outside the Palace walls.
‘The best of all of being a bastard child, Your Highness,’ he continued. ‘Is to have one luxury than any true heir could ever have.’
A pause. A dead silence—
‘What is it?’ Namjoon asked impatiently.
‘To be happy.’ Minho answered. ‘You are allowed to love people from another class due to your insignificance in the Shogunate line. True heirs don’t get to do that.’
They arrived in front of a grand door. Namjoon was now rearranging his scattering thoughts, all information processed between the haywire in his mind.
Minho pushed the door open, and revealed to the young prince were the varieties of battle equipment—a collection of Katana, spears, gears, and his favourite, the bent wings of bows and arrow.
‘And as your Master and a Samurai, I shall teach you how to live as free as a bird with the power of a roaring lion.’ Minho gave him that knowing smile. ‘Come, Little Prince. Choose your Katana. Blood shall spill with its blade, and the more you own it, the more it owns you.’
Seoul, Korea, Current Time
The billows of the wind ran their phantom hands through Namjoon’s dark purple hair.
He leaned closer to the railing of the balcony. Underneath him, a thousand cars honked along with another cacophony of noises, the cityscape grasped in a blink of an eye.
‘Escaping responsibility?’
Jeongguk appeared next to him before Namjoon could move.
‘Just getting’ some fresh air.’ He mumbled and received nothing more than a soft hum.
Then they both stood and fell in silence, a whirlpool of questions unvoiced swirling inside both of their heads.
Namjoon pretended he didn’t notice the younger besides him kept looking his way, a stare that felt like a lifetime burned his side profile.
Then a harsh wind blew, and the hair in Namjoon’s neck stood aroused before his legs anchored to the floor when Jeongguk wrapped his arms around his shoulders.
‘Your ass is freezing out here.’ the CEO grumbled softly.
Namjoon felt a weight of a suit and he finally turned to him. ‘You’re being awfully domestic.’
‘Tell me you don’t like it.’
That had his jaw slacked shut.
In front of him, Jeongguk looked at him with eyes all too familiar, and something stirred inside Namjoon’s stomach—a feeling he couldn’t afford to shake, like a déjà vu; like he’d been like this with Jeongguk, but not quite right.
‘I should probably get inside.’ Jeongguk broke the spell, and only when he looked away, Namjoon noticed how close they were in the first place. ‘Text me when you want to go back. I’ll drive you.’
Left after a nod, he turned back to the cityscape. The glimmers of lights and the scenery of the metropolis offered him a weird tranquillity.
Inside him, something bloomed. Fast. Devastatingly fast and before he could register what he was doing, Namjoon was wincing and grimacing in pain. His chest hurt. It was aching. Aching because it lacked something. Aching because it was so… empty.
He’d been like this longer than he could remember. The hole inside him expanded at times when he was vulnerable. It threatened to rip him apart, and Namjoon wondered if he was just using work as an escape to the constant emptiness; a pulsing loneliness.
Loneliness craved him a life with no warmth. And warmth never was provided wherever Namjoon was.
Not thirty stories up away from Seoul’s traffic road, where the world rotated and went on, even if he decided to jump off to a dreamland from the balcony.
‘What the hell.’ he mumbled.
The thoughts were almost real when the back of Namjoon’s spine tingled.
That was when he noticed he wasn’t alone.
Kamakura, Japan 1200
Three Years Later
He was twenty when he roamed over the hallway.
Namjoon’s red robe hung gracefully on his knees. Red. That was his signature colour. Red was the colour of bravery, and with it alone did he led his Red Army to a bloodshed with many troops of other empires.
Namjoon was twenty when he was acknowledged.
The city people, the servants, the nobles. They all knew him as that prince.
Who came home bringing triumph for his father? That prince.
Who presented the head of his Master when Choi Minho decided to attempt an assassination? That prince.
Who sent 5,000 men for aid and food supply to a starving village when winter struck and harvest failed? That prince.
Who looked un-tempted to be legitimized when he turned eighteen—age fit to rule and corrupt the Shogunate line? That prince.
Who shall and deserve to be the next Emperor?
That prince. Kim Namjoon. A selfless son of a nameless mistress.
‘There you are, Japan’s darling.’
Namjoon scowled in secret when Nari approached him. ‘Offer me some respect.’ he grumbled.
Nari merely grinned. She was eighteen when she became the head of the servant house, and she treated them like human beings. Growing up humane and beautiful, Namjoon was never so proud of her.
‘The response to your last visit to Kyoto Orphanage was very positive.’ she marked. ‘The city now is very fond of you. Excellent work to strengthen your political power.’
‘Ah, I didn’t do it to gain any influence.’ Namjoon brushed it off with his hand. ‘I just want to see the kids.’
‘You were looking for your sister, weren’t you?’
Namjoon threw his look away. ‘Even if I was, she wasn’t there.’
He didn’t continue further and the girl merely hummed. The clinking of Namjoon’s Katana filled the grand hallway.
‘Tell whoever is in charge to fund their transportation here in the Palace Town next week at the Joma Shinji Festival.’
‘You care for them to that extent.’ Nari genuinely asked. ‘Or are you doing this for yourself?’
‘For myself.’ Namjoon replied surely. ‘I grew up wondering where did my father go. I need not to be them to feel twice the pain as an orphan.’
The girl nodded. ‘Very well. I shall pass this notice on the charge. Though I came here not to serve you.’
The prince raised his eyebrows.
‘His Majesty seeks your presence.’
That caught Namjoon off guard. The only time someone was sent to him under the order of his Father was when the news of him chopping down Minho’s head blossomed in the Imperial Palace. Though Namjoon was pretty fond living here, he wasn’t very fond of entering his Father’s chamber.
‘Am I at fault?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘Then for what reason?’
Nari looked a bit clueless before she turned and suddenly very cautious. Then she leaned, whispering, ‘This is just a hunch, Namjoon. But last night I saw a carriage entering the back entrance when I was off to the wine cellar.’
Namjoon frowned. ‘It might be an old wagon carrying straws for the food storage. And what are you doing in the wine cellar in the middle of the night?’
Nari merely showed her neck, and there was a purple bruise.
‘Oh.’
‘Anyways. I thought it was a wagon too until I saw the Empire’s symbol on the wheel.’
‘A royalty carriage.’ Namjoon mumbled. ‘In the back of the entrance. Why was I not informed we are having a noble guest? Who were the guards on duty last night?’
‘If you are to whip them, I shall not tell.’
‘Nari. I will not punish anyone unless they are contributing to a treason or plotting the unknown.’ Namjoon spoke to her in his negotiating voice. ‘A royal carriage means a royal guest, and eight out of ten people who are resting under this roof have attempted to assassinate my father. Do you wish to contribute to this mess?’
‘But this isn’t just a royal guest!’ Nari whispered-yelled.
Then her eyes widened in a fraction.
‘I think… I think I saw the Empress.’
Three years since Namjoon moved in, never once did he ever saw the Emperor’s wife.
Nobody talked about it. Nobody breathed anything about it until Namjoon drew a conclusion that it was a touchy subject.
Now Nari.
Sweet little innocent Nari brought a ground-shaking news.
Which led Namjoon knocking on his father’s door almost right away.
Nobody opened the door. He knocked once more, and silence replied to him.
Perhaps blinded by the awful sense of dread, he dared to slide the door open, founding the big bedroom was surprisingly empty.
The last time he was here, Namjoon was busy fearing that his Father might say when he brought home a dead man’s head. Too busy to see and marvel at the crafted ornaments, ancient goods displayed like a museum.
‘Holyshit...’
There was a hot water tub to his right. No wonder the Emperor never left his chamber earlier than midday. The man had a private little sauna as a morning bath.
He looked away from the private bathtub reluctantly, still with a vague jealousy and amazement, when his eyes rested upon an exquisite painting.
A drawing.
Much taller and bigger than a size of a man. It hung on the wall, a handmade tapestry spoke glory and wealth on its background.
Framed with carved ornaments was a drawn man, unfamiliar to Namjoon but still stirred him into a net of intrigue. He had eyes–golden eyes that put shame to all the treasure Namjoon found in the dark caves or shipwrecks. It was enticing, the way they were visualized, too detailed he felt like they were staring right at his soul. Then Namjoon was reminded of the sun, and how it was held there, in front of him, in the form of an oil painting but shone nevertheless as if they were challenging all the stars and constellations.
The room was eerie quiet when, spellbound, Namjoon dared himself to step closer as if he was dragging himself into a danger.
Danger never looked so fine.
Danger never had eyebrows of crescent moons nor chapped berry lips.
Chapped berry lips remarked as a straight line. Grim. Unhappy. The beautiful stranger looked unhappy and something inside Namjoon—something that felt a lot like an underlying loneliness—burst into pixels like a supernova.
Before he had the chance to rob back the stolen air from his lungs, the door behind him was thrown open.
Seoul, Korea
Namjoon turned his body.
‘Why are you here?’
The voice was heard first before he could register the new company.
Faced with him was another man, in his early twenties, sharp silver hair with sunrise-gold eyes.
Something inside Namjoon broke.
He couldn’t hear anything but the sound of his terrified heartbeat, resonating so loud in his ears he thought his ribcage was going to shatter into fragments. A force struck him. A recognition of something so… distant and vague had shot him like an oncoming bullet.
Then whirls of winds pooled, hitting his face. Thirty stories up from the bustling city of Seoul, in front of him, was the man, still standing, being completely close but so, so far. Out of his reach. Out of Namjoon’s league.
‘Why… are you crying?’
To the hail in his mind, the stranger’s voice was merely a snowflake. So it took a while for Namjoon’s befuddled brain to register the words. By the time they were, the stranger stepped closer and Namjoon smelt something like a woodsy scent before reaching out of his right eye and swiped it gently.
A gloss shone on the man’s thumb, and what was left of a single tear gone completely without a trace.
Then Namjoon knew something—a heart; a tension; an emotion—just something really did break inside him.
‘W-Who are you?’ he asked, almost a whisper.
His mind was in turmoil. He couldn’t shake the thought that he knew this person. From another time. Another realm. Another life. He just… Namjoon just couldn’t remember it.
The nameless man smiled, and Namjoon’s knees went weak.
‘Ah. Sorry.’ he said. ‘I’m Kim Taehyung, Prosecutor Kim’s financially-romantic client.’
Kamakura, Japan
‘What are you doing here?’
No one was allowed to be in the Emperor’s bedroom, so Namjoon spun faster than he intended, almost asking the same thing when he saw the intruder.
Golden eyes.
Chapped berry lips.
Straight. Grim. Unhappy.
He was the unhappy stranger in the portrait hanging behind him
The ache—
‘Why… are you crying?’
—the emptiness; loneliness in Namjoon’s veins pulsed even faster.
He didn’t understand.
He did not understand why he was like this, why a stranger made him feel a whirl of emotions, why, w-why—
‘W-Who are you?’
The answer to his question came very later.
Way later after Namjoon drowned in the thought of painting a smile on that sad lips.
After Namjoon, for the first time since he moved to the Imperial Palace, threw his mind back to the forest where he killed a boar—just because the intruder smelt the same like the trees and evergreen leaves.
‘You… You don’t know who I am?’ asked the nameless man with eyes like treasure.
Namjoon wanted to say he wants to.
‘Ah, my apologies.’ he straightened his back. Then that chapped berry lips smiled gently, ‘I am Kim Taehyung, the heir to Japan’s first empire, Kamakura Shogunate.’