"And I am not a simple whore," Mingyu replied, aching dully. Would that he could be so relatively unfettered and carefree. He took in a breath, focusing on his lotus tattoo. No turning back.
'Show me why you hate yourself,' he asked of the cursed bloom inked into his wrist.
He stood in an ancient building, all wood and paper screens. Chased by a monster, a rotting corpse that chased him, making terrible, rasping screams.
Father. It was father, and in the memory Lee Chang recalled a more distant past, Mingyu taking in glimpses of being a bastard child, a crown prince, a son being taught, commanded to live.
Father's head rolled from his own blade. It was a clean cut, though his hands were shaking. He went numb, went still. A warrior first, then a son. A terrible son. Failed, unfilial.
(Mingyu remembered standing in the rain. Was it raining that night? Was it another night? He remembers screaming his heart out into the storm. He hated them. He hated all of it. He hated being alone. He would be alone for the rest of his life.)
Then it was day and he stood in a field. Another monster, once a mentor, a good and just man. His sword hand was steady, full of resolve. This had been asked of him. It was fulfilling a promise, it was necessary, it—
He sliced through the air, unflinching. He was used to this now. The head tumbled neatly to the ground.
Mingyu felt the searing cold in Lee Chang's lungs as he tried to pull in breath that wouldn't come. They were somewhere else now, a third memory, knelt on frozen ground, the forest around them silent save for the slurred words of the man bleeding out in his arms. The man was a friend, a companion, mumbling apologies with the last of his breaths. It didn't even feel like a betrayal, what Mu-yeong was apologizing for here at the end. It was Lee Chang who failed him, surely. Not protecting him better, not being strong enough as a leader, not seeing this coming.
He hadn't seen this coming.
He kept such a careful eye out, for everything, and he hadn't seen this coming.
His tears choked each of his breaths as he wept for all the loss. He couldn't do this alone. He had to anyway. That was his whole life in summation. He couldn't do it alone. He still had to.
The lotus closed its petals, the memories receding. Its effects lingered. Mingyu felt numb from the cold of the forest, felt all of Lee Chang's various aches and pains, the echoes of every injury.
He couldn't speak. Tears ran down his own face as he clutched at those fading emotions, clutching Lee Chang by the shoulder with white-knuckled grip. There wasn't enough time. There hadn't been enough time to say goodbye, not to anyone, and—
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'Show me why you hate yourself,' he asked of the cursed bloom inked into his wrist.
He stood in an ancient building, all wood and paper screens. Chased by a monster, a rotting corpse that chased him, making terrible, rasping screams.
Father. It was father, and in the memory Lee Chang recalled a more distant past, Mingyu taking in glimpses of being a bastard child, a crown prince, a son being taught, commanded to live.
Father's head rolled from his own blade. It was a clean cut, though his hands were shaking. He went numb, went still. A warrior first, then a son. A terrible son. Failed, unfilial.
(Mingyu remembered standing in the rain. Was it raining that night? Was it another night? He remembers screaming his heart out into the storm. He hated them. He hated all of it. He hated being alone. He would be alone for the rest of his life.)
Then it was day and he stood in a field. Another monster, once a mentor, a good and just man. His sword hand was steady, full of resolve. This had been asked of him. It was fulfilling a promise, it was necessary, it—
He sliced through the air, unflinching. He was used to this now. The head tumbled neatly to the ground.
Mingyu felt the searing cold in Lee Chang's lungs as he tried to pull in breath that wouldn't come. They were somewhere else now, a third memory, knelt on frozen ground, the forest around them silent save for the slurred words of the man bleeding out in his arms. The man was a friend, a companion, mumbling apologies with the last of his breaths. It didn't even feel like a betrayal, what Mu-yeong was apologizing for here at the end. It was Lee Chang who failed him, surely. Not protecting him better, not being strong enough as a leader, not seeing this coming.
He hadn't seen this coming.
He kept such a careful eye out, for everything, and he hadn't seen this coming.
His tears choked each of his breaths as he wept for all the loss. He couldn't do this alone. He had to anyway. That was his whole life in summation. He couldn't do it alone. He still had to.
The lotus closed its petals, the memories receding. Its effects lingered. Mingyu felt numb from the cold of the forest, felt all of Lee Chang's various aches and pains, the echoes of every injury.
He couldn't speak. Tears ran down his own face as he clutched at those fading emotions, clutching Lee Chang by the shoulder with white-knuckled grip. There wasn't enough time. There hadn't been enough time to say goodbye, not to anyone, and—