Chapter Text
Park Jimin, Brownie Class, Identification Code 781:
Your presence is required at the office of Warden Seo, Identification Code 244, Moderator of the Department of Human Affairs, Twenty-Third Division.
In light of recent events, we ask that you kindly refrain from bringing any kind of weaponry with you, lethal or otherwise. We also require that you subdue any form of lingering magic at least twenty-four hours before your allotted time slot .Apologies for any inconvenience this causes in any of your daily department functions. We hope that you understand.
Your appointment slot is between dusk and the moonrise Failure to report to the office on time or without protocol compliance will result in an immediate Wipe.
Please remember to bring a unique-looking rock for the Warden.
Lee Seowon, Sprite Class, Identification Code 638
HUMAN MANAGEMENT DIVISION
Location 456-A
🧹
Jimin looks at the door. He hates this part of the Bureau; with all of the heavy stone walls and sparse will-o’-the-wisps providing the only light this far underground, it feels more like a dungeon than a place of business. The door in front of him only adds to the effect. It’s made of heavy granite, much like the creature that inhabits the office, and has one thin copper sliding plate just above Jimin’s eye level. In blocky, angry handwriting, a little piece of parchment tells Jimin to ‘knock once and slide the rock in.’
As per instruction, Jimin does, rapping hard on the unforgiving surface with the knuckles of one hand. The other clutches a black and white dappled rock.
The copper panel slides open, and a pair of burning coal eyes look down at him through the gap. “What do you have for me?” Warden Seo asks without preamble, voice gravelly and grating.
“I have no clue, but it’s definitely a rock,” Jimin answers honestly. He’d just picked up the first rock he’d seen on the gravel path leading up to the underground entrance. Jimin slides the little rock through the grating and a large, clawed granite hand snatches up the offering.
He can’t see the Warden’s face in the darkness of the room, but he hears sniffing, feels the smokey scent of their breath through the door. They mutter quietly to themself, categorizing the rock in a force of habit, “Intrusive igneous. Coarse-grained. Contains mafic crystalline minerals. Low silica content.” There’s a brief pause, and the Warden hisses in disappointment. “Lazy boy. This is just diorite.”
That means literally nothing to me , Jimin thinks to himself. He doesn’t say it, of course, having no interest in becoming the gargoyle’s latest crush victim. “I’m terribly sorry,” Jimin says instead, voice pitched high and gentle like he’s been trained, “I’m not very well-versed in rock formations.”
“Not even any interesting minerals in here,” the Warden mumbles moodily. They sigh, and the copper slide shifts back into place. There’s a brief rumble, the vibrations so hard Jimin feels it in his feet, and a stone handle lifts from the surface of the previously smooth door.
Jimin grabs the handle and pushes as hard as he can. The foot-thick slab of solid rock doesn’t budge an inch, and he has to actively resist the urge to groan in frustration. Inconsiderate gravel-brained piece of crap , he angrily quips. He’s small, even for a Brownie, and he has to throw his entire weight as hard as he can against the door once, twice, for it to finally push open. Jimin slips through the little crevice and into the cavern beyond.
It’s dark inside, and wet. The stone walls are damp and dripping with lichen. Small, broken off stalactites that the Warden likes to snack on hang from the ceiling, and a variety of luminous geodes are scattered throughout the small space. In the center of the circular room sits a slab of white marble that functions as the Warden’s desk, completely covered in rolled parchments and pots of ink. They sit behind it, and gesture with one craggy hand at Jimin.
“Close the door, if you please,” they request.
Jimin bites his tongue, pastes an overly-bright smile on his face, and slams his body backwards to close the door. It takes a few strenuous seconds to shut it, during which the Warden looks at him blankly, not lifting a finger to help. Jimin’s practically sweating by the time the door booms closed, and isn’t looking forward to having to reopen it in the slightest.
“I’ll never understand you other Fae,” the Warden tells him easily, crystalline eyebrows crushing together in confusion. “What’s the benefit of being so weak?”
I wouldn’t even be having this problem if my magic weren’t suppressed, Jimin thinks acidly. “I’m curious about that as well,” he giggles, all smiles. The Warden nods once, slowly, and waves for him to sit on the polished rock just across the desk.
It’s slick with something Jimin assumes is rotting moss, and he’d really rather not sit on the slimy stuff and ruin his pants, but he does.
“Well then!” the Warden thunders, the sound overly loud and jarring in the enclosed space, “Let’s get down to business, shall we?” They don’t wait for Jimin’s reply before leaning forward on two rocky elbows, pressing down on the desk so hard that Jimin swears he hears the marble groan. “You’ve taken a suppressant for the visit?”
“Yes,” Jimin says. There’s a dull ache filling the space in his chest where his magic usually resides, inhibited by the tonic he’d taken yesterday in preparation. He feels empty without its comforting weight.
“Lovely. The smell of lower Fae power makes me ill,” the Warden tells him, brain-to-mouth filter practically nonexistent. They shuffle through the parchments on the desk for a second before pulling out a thick bundle of them, tied together with a frayed strand of twine that Jimin realizes with a sinking feeling is his own file.
The gargoyle reclines back on their own rock and picks up a quill pen, comically small in their huge hand. “Let’s start in on the incident report then,” they don’t wait a second before asking, “Full name, class, and identification, please?”
“Park Jimin,” Jimin tries not to roll his eyes, because there’s no way they don’t know who he is by now. He works under the direct supervision of Warden Seo. “Brownie Class, Identification 781.”
They scribble furiously on the parchment, so hard that it tears in several different places. The Warden continues writing, undeterred. “Any clan affiliations?”
“None.”
The Warden nods. “Blood color?”
“Silver.”
“Last time you cast a spell?” the Warden asks quickly, too fast to be casual.
It’s meant to be a trap, meant to get Jimin to admit something he doesn’t mean to, but he’s not a fool. He knows it’s illegal to be doing what he does in secret, but he doesn’t let his smile crack one millimeter as he answers, “I’ve never cast a spell outside of housekeeping charms. I don’t even have that sort of magic.” It’s an answer that’s been rehearsed and given so many times by now that it doesn’t even feel like a lie anymore.
The Warden narrows their eyes, but continues. “So, in your own words please, Mr. Park, tell me how you managed to get fired in fewer than six hours.”
Jimin can’t contain the frown that darkens his features. “I wasn’t fired ,” he defends instinctively, a hand slapping down onto the desk before he can temper his words. He falls silent a moment later, struggling to get his emotions in check.
The Warden snorts in disbelief, and the acrid scent of burning coal creeps into the room. “Really? Were you or were you not assigned to Lord and Lady Han two nights ago?”
“I was, but-”
“And did you or did you not get ‘released from duty’,” the Warden says, clearly conveying the air quotes in their tone, “before nightfall of the same day?”
Jimin is silently fuming, but he tries not to let it show. Patience, he soothes. “I did.”
The Warden tilts forwards once more, an ugly grin cracking across their face, revealing rows of blunt, iron-cased teeth. “That sounds like being fired to me, Mr. Park. Wouldn’t you agree?”
It takes every single ounce of willpower and years of rehearsed reactions to tamp down hard on his ever-rising annoyance. “Yes,” he chokes out. “Yes, I was fired.”
“There. That wasn’t so hard, eh?” It’s condescending, and demeaning, and about a thousand other things that make Jimin wish he could just leap out of his seat and slap the gargoyle across the face. He doesn’t, thankfully, and the Warden continues on. “Tell me what happened, if you would.” Their pen hovers poised above the parchment.
“I was assigned to the Han Residence two nights ago,” Jimin starts, so determined not to crack again that his fingernails form little half-moon crescents in his palms, “And I left for the house immediately. I arrived just after Moonrise and started in on the housework as soon as possible.” He talks over the sound of a furiously scribbling quill, “Halfway through cleaning the house, I was interrupted by Lord Han.”
The Warden looks up at him expectantly. “I’m assuming you followed protocol?”
“Of course. I vanished.” The Warden nods, satisfied, and Jimin continues, “And then he started yelling obscenities at me for disappearing, like he didn’t read the contract he’d signed.” Jimin’s blood boils at the memory, at being forced to remember the slurs thrown his way for doing his job .
Deep breaths.
For a second, Jimin honestly thinks that the Warden is going to ask him what was said, just to draw out Jimin’s suffering, but they don’t. “And that’s when it happened?”
“When what happened?” Jimin asks hesitantly, like he doesn’t already know what he did. But he’s come too far to give up the facade, and he’s not about to get Wiped for illegal spellcasting.
“According to Lady Han, she walked into the kitchen after her husband and witnessed him bursting into flames,” the Warden drawls, finally setting down their pen and lacing their fingers together. “From what sounds like a very potent fire spell.”
Jimin licks his lips and tries his best to sound perfectly innocent, just like he’s practiced. “I already told you that I can’t cast any spells. I don’t have the reservoirs required for it.”
It’s silent in the room for a solid ten seconds, the only sound coming from the steady drip drip dip of water falling from the stalactites. It’s clear the Warden doesn’t believe him, but Jimin knows that the Bureau has nothing on him. He knows that on parchment, he looks like the good, subservient Brownie who just happens to have extremely bad luck and extremely good timing. It’s the image he’d been forced to cultivate over the years.
“Alright,” the Warden starts again, slower this time. The bright coal eyes burn brighter, more calculating. “Regardless of whether or not you cast the spell, this dismissal is a problem.”
That catches Jimin’s attention. “I’m sorry?”
Warden Seo sighs. “Mr. Park, this isn’t the first time you’ve been dismissed on these grounds. We have you on file for dismissal seven times in the last two moons, not to mention the incidents from group training-”
“Those were never proven to be me!” Jimin interjects.
“Even so. I’ve been asked by the Review Council to have you placed on probation for the foreseeable future,” they say, almost regretfully.
Jimin’s heart stops beating for a second. “ Probation? ” he hisses, taken aback. It’s one thing to be forced to do a job he hates with his entire being, but it’s another thing entirely to have all of his freedom stripped away, sentenced to cleaning the bowels of the Bureau’s underground tunnels for a month like the other failed Brownies. He’d rather stab himself in the eyes with a ladle than have to face the layers of dirt and grime trekked in by the Trolls and Knockers.
“That’s right. In all honesty, you should’ve been placed on the probationary list after the third dismissal,” the Warden sighs, the sound like flint on stone. “You’re to report to the tunnels in two nights to begin the process.”
“I- just-” Jimin flounders for a second, completely at a loss because no way in hell is he going down there. No Brownie that gets stationed in the Tunnels comes back the same. He’s heard stories of the working conditions, of the complete darkness and dampness so thick it eats into the bones. “ No .”
The Warden raises an eyebrow, the little embedded rose-quartz stud rising along with it. “No?” they repeat, low and dangerous. “Would you rather I immediately send you to the Wipers? Have all of your magic stripped away for insubordination?”
Jimin’s mouth dries. That’s a fate worse than death-- worse than the Tunnels for certain. “No,” he whispers, some of the anger fizzling out in his chest.
“Then I’m sorry. The Tunnels are your only option,” the Warden reiterates. The red-hot tinge that’d been creeping over their granite skin in anger fades. They shuffle through the papers on their desk for another minute, seemingly looking for something for Jimin to sign, when their eyes catch on another, slightly more important-looking scroll in the corner.
A devious smile creeps over their face. “Unless…”
Jimin jumps on it. “ Unless? ”
“I hear the Trom-Laighe is looking for a housekeeper,” Warden Seo tells him, picking up the scroll. It’s midnight black, bound tight by a strand of starkly contrasting, white ribbon. “You can serve your probation there if you like.”
Any hope that had been building in Jimin dies on the spot, because he’s heard about the Trom-Laighe. The Nightmare. Stories circulate about him, about how he chews up anyone sent to him and spits them out as little more than sacks of bones and skin. About how he’s strong enough to write nightmares so vivid they consume anyone unlucky enough to experience them, driving them to the brink of insanity. About how he once wrote one so bad, so wicked, that his entire family-
“Well?” the Warden pushes.
Jimin is about to say no, about to quash his pride and just accept the fact that he’s going to be living in the muddy darkness for the next few months, when he sees the Warden’s face. It’s mocking, like they don’t believe Jimin is strong enough or brave enough to actually accept the proposition. It makes Jimin’s blood boil in the worst way-- the way that makes him feel like he’s scalding hot, and might just ‘accidentally’ burn every living thing in the room down with him. Again.
So instead, like the fool he is, Jimin tilts his chin up defiantly and declares, “I’ll do it.”
The Warden’s coal eyes flicker in disbelief. “You- you will? ”
Signing over his life to the worst creature in the Bureau is almost worth seeing the Warden’s priceless expression. “Yes. I’ll work for the Trom-Laighe.”
“W-well. Alright then,” the Warden struggles to regain their composure, clearly realizing the mountain of paperwork they’d just created for themself. “You’re free to return to your residence. A Carrier will be sent over later tonight with the employer profile and expectations packet.”
Jimin stands, thoroughly proud of himself. “Thank you,” he simpers, picking up his discarded satchel from the ground and backing up towards the heavy door. “It’s been a pleasure, Warden.”
With that, he turns on his heel, grabs the door handle, struggles for a dignified three minutes to get the door open, and walks out of the office with his head held high.
🧹
“Tell me what the fuck I was thinking,” Jimin asks, falling back onto his wooden bed with a defeated flop. No one answers, because no one’s in the cottage with him. He’s frustrated with himself because he couldn’t control his temper, especially after such careful practice, and even more frustrated by the resounding silence.
“Problem is, Jimin, you weren’t thinking,” he mutters to himself as he surveys the inside of his little house.
Objectively, he knows that it’s nice and comfortable. The walls are a lovely shade of warm cream, there’s a little redbrick fireplace against the side wall, enough windows that he doesn’t feel like he’s suffocating in the small space, and warm-toned rugs and blankets carelessly tossed about. But it’s messy as all hell-- books are strewn across the table and chairs, bundles of herbs stuffed into glass bottles and hanging from little hooks in the wooden rafters, and useless trinkets littered into the mix-- because when Jimin’s only assigned role in life is to clean up after other people, he’ll be damned if he does it at home as well.
It’s also incredibly quiet. Most of the Fae live out of reach of human villages and towns, limiting any kind of contact with them exclusively to what the Bureau assigns them. Jimin is no exception; his small cottage is in the center of a well-hidden grove of lush, green trees. Most of the time, Jimin thrives on the silence. He needs it.
But sometimes, it’s kind of depressing, especially when he has no one to bitch to. More often than not, he wonders how the hell the rest of his kinfolk live on their own without the necessity of interaction. Jimin feels especially sorry for the rogue Fae, the ones not registered with the Bureau, damned to a life as outlaws. He pushes the thought away before he can get dragged away in the tide of ‘Something Isn’t Right!’ that takes over whenever he thinks too hard about the Bureau.
“Stupid fucking Warden and their stupid fucking probations ,” Jimin grumbles, using the remainder of his energy to pull himself up into a sitting position. He should really be packing right now, considering he only has one day to get everything in order before he’s shipped off to gods know where to work as a servant for some entitled piece of shit higher up the Bureau’s foodchain than he is.
Normally, it’d take him less than three seconds to pack a satchel. His magic, his sanctioned magic that comes with being a Brownie, is made for this kind of thing. Domestic tasks that make his skin crawl and his stomach churn with unease. But his suppressant hasn’t worn off yet, so he has to do it all manually.
He’s not entirely certain what he’s supposed to take. Surely the Trom-Laighe has the basics (pots and pans, brooms, other miscellaneous equipment), but there’s no way in hell he’s going to some foreign mansion without all of his essentials.
Into an oversized satchel goes his glass bottle set, vials of some of his most rare herbs and elixirs, various little containers, and a small enchanted pot-- all things he’s technically not supposed to have, by Bureau mandate, of course. He’s halfway through stuffing multicolored tunics and fitted pants on top of the mess when his eyes drift over to the little square of wood on the floor where he hides his most prized possessions.
A quick little internal battle of ‘I should, I shouldn’t’ plays out in his head before he decides that, fuck it, if he’s already taking a risk bringing his alchemy equipment, he may as well bring his tome as well. Jimin hurries over to the spot on the floor, looking around him carefully just in case a charm’s been cast over his cottage while he’s been gone, and kneels to open the wooden panel.
Inside are all of his precious little knick-knacks: his first assignment sheet from the Bureau from back when he’d been young and starry-eyed, a perfectly smooth moonstone from the Brownie training camps, a scrap of red fabric that his supervisor had assured him was cut from his mother’s tunic before she passed, and his tome.
The tome is leather-bound, rubbed glossy by his hands over the course of many years, and a gold clasp keeps it tightly shut. He’d found it in the back of a forgotten bookcase, in the attic of a sorcerers’ tower he’d briefly been stationed in. Jimin remembers the first time he laid eyes on it-- it’d called to him from across the room, and he’d swiped it into his pocket without another moment’s thought.
Even still, it practically thrums power. Jimin can feel it deep in his bones, from the tips of his hair down to the soles of his feet. Something in him tugs in desperation, a force under his skin singing at just touching the book, and he’s half inclined to try his hand at a spell even with his magic suppressed. It doesn’t matter that he can’t even read half of the spells inside, and can successfully cast even fewer. He just wants to try .
A knock sounds on the door, and Jimin blinks into invisibility in shock. Another perk of Brownie-dom. “C-coming!” he calls to whoever nearly gave him a heart attack. He rapidly shoves the book back into the floorboards and replaces the wooden covering, concealing the spot with a nearby rug for good measure.
“Park Jimin?” an impatient, brassy voice calls from outside.
“Just one second!” Jimin shouts, rushing over to the door. He has to take a few deep breaths to phase back into opacity, calming down his suddenly racing heart. Smile, Jimin, he tells himself, pasting on the smile that he knows makes him look young and eager.
He pulls open the door, peers around it with practiced bashfulness. “H-hello?” he asks, making his voice stutter just enough to be endearing.
A tall, willowy Elven male stands outside of his cottage, looking thoroughly unimpressed with everything. He’s completely golden, and his high cheekbones and perfectly sculpted face make Jimin hate him on the spot. That, and the fact that he feels shorter and less attractive by even being in the Elf’s presence. He tries his best not to judge any creature based on appearance, always has, but in his experience with Elves, the more gorgeous the exterior, the more rotten the personality.
“Here,” the Elf says brusquely, unceremoniously shoving a package of twine-bound parchments into Jimin’s arm. No introduction, no polite bow.
Jimin takes some solace in the fact that he’s still an excellent judge of character. “Thanks.”
The Elf looks at him a moment longer, clearly expecting something from Jimin. It takes him an embarrassingly long time to understand what the Elf wants from him, and he shifts to one foot uncomfortably as he realizes. “Oh. I uh- I don’t have any gems for you,” Jimin admits, a little cowed. “I wasn’t informed that my Carrier would be Elven.”
“Typical,” the Elf sighs, rolling his glimmering gold eyes, shining as they catch in the early morning sunlight. Without any further discussion or instruction, the Elf turns on his heel and stalks back into the grove of trees. “Not even a tip. Fucking lower Fae.”
Jimin almost shouts at the Elf to come back and curse him to his face, but he’s already let his hot temper get him into enough trouble for today. He settles for clutching the packet of parchment to his chest tightly and slams the door behind him so hard that the door shakes on its hinges sadly.
“Fucking lower Fae,” he mocks, mood souring considerably. It’s not like he doesn’t know how the Bureau sees him, where he stands in the rankings. He understands that most of his higher-ups consider his class as disposable workers to be used for the benefit of humans and higher Fae. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t get righteously angry each time it’s thrown back in his face that he’ll never be able to legally use his magic-- magic that Brownies aren’t even supposed to possess . Or that he’ll never amount to anything more than a Worker in the Human Management Department, even though he’d literally kill to be on the Review Council. Hell, he’d even settle for being a Hunter, tracking down and disposing of rogue Fae. He knows that some Brownies, most of them actually, take great pride in their work, but Jimin would rather do literally anything besides what he’s currently doing-- meaningless household chores that make him feel unappreciated and dead inside.
Things like this, Jimin thinks, staring down at the Bureau’s contract packet in his hands. He crosses the room and sits down next to the barren hearth, useless in the summer months. It’s late for him to be awake, the sun already peeking over the horizon, and his eyes droop sleepily, but he only has one more day before he’s expected at the Trom-Laighe’s manor. He needs to be prepared for whatever the asshole in charge can throw at him.
So Jimin sits on the floor, crosses his legs underneath him, and unties the papers. The one on the top immediately catches his attention, and Jimin finds his eyes skimming over his new contract.
Park Jimin, Brownie Class, Identification Code 781
RULES AND EXPECTATIONS:
Jimin groans. He can already tell that the Trom-Laighe is going to be particularly difficult as he reads through the first page.
Most of it is the regular sort of tasks that Jimin is always asked to do in his households: preparing regular meals, tending to the animals and gardens, cleaning the house, mending the clothes-- the list goes on and on. Some of the new expectations are odd, like the one asking him to always leave the windows open and the glass slightly cloudy, or the one informing him that he should clean the manor from the top down and in concentric circles.
Even more strange are the rules he’s expected to follow. Apparently, he’s not to let any other creature in the mansion, should never ever cook any avian meat cuts, and isn’t allowed to clean the study between one and two in the morning.
Below that, in a slightly smaller font, are Jimin’s own rules in the contract, witten and approved for Brownie workers by Warden Seo. They're all regulation-- that the master of the house isn’t to interrupt while Jimin works, that Jimin will disappear if the Trom-Laighe enters the room with him, and all of the other pointless rules meant to keep the master-worker divide firmly in place. It’s the same contract the Bureau writes for their human clients.
Jimin moves on to the next page, and is immediately interested once again. It’s his new employer's profile. The page is almost completely barren, by far the smallest profile Jimin’s ever received. It reads:
Jeon Jeongguk, Weaver Class, Identification Code 058
Status: Active Weaver, Trom-Laighe Specialization. Dream division.
Term of Bureau Affiliation: the Second Settling - Present
Notes: None.
Special Characteristics: Unknown.
Clan Origin: Unknown.
Jimin’s momentarily taken aback because holy shit , Jeongguk’s bloodline is old as dirt. Jimin’s only a little over a century old, and assuming that Jeongguk’s parents first registered with the Bureau as soon as it was created, they must’ve been well over nine centuries old before they passed. Hell, if they’d been around since the Second Settling, they must’ve been alive during the Bureau’s formation a little under a millennium ago. Jimin prays that Jeongguk was born relatively recently, that he isn’t some crotchety, immortal old Fae by now.
Below the little block of text, there are two hand-drawn lines. On the top line is a signature, unexpectedly looped and graceful, that Jimin identifies as the Trom-- as Jeongguk’s, Jimin corrects. The line underneath it is blank, meant for Jimin to sign and complete the contract.
“This is your last chance,” he says out loud, just to fill the silence and make the whole situation feel less like he’s about to sign his soul away. Jimin only debates it for a moment. All it takes to steel his resolve is remembering how Warden Seo had looked at him-- how the Elf from earlier had talked down to him. The need to prove himself comes shooting back.
Before he knows it, Jimin’s picked up a quill and signed on the line. The top two pages of the packet evaporate into thin air, a useful charm sending them back to the Warden’s office, no doubt. All that’s left of the packet is an exceedingly detailed map to the manor, and a list of Warden-recommended supplies. Jimin rips the second up spitefully and keeps the first, looking it over briefly.
“You’ve got to be kidding me! ” Jimin screeches when he sees the route he’s supposed to take. It’s well over ten hours long, even with Jimin’s enhanced speed, and curves through a dense forest, past a swamp, and around several human towns. Whoever had drawn it up seems to have been determined to fuck him over. Jimin bets it’s that douchebag in Internal Management that he’d punched in the face during training years ago for calling him a house-rat.
Jimin lets himself wallow in the fact that he’s going to show up at the manor looking like a whole mess for exactly one minute, and then he pulls himself up to his feet and slaps the parchment onto his dining table.
Right now, he’s too annoyed to even consider memorizing the route or continue packing. He spares a glance outside his window. The sun’s already well above the horizon, and it’s really too late for him to be out drinking, but there’s an underground tavern nearby and he’s pissed and in the mood to get angrily drunk. Maybe even take someone home with him.
So Jimin shakes his head in frustration, snatches up his little belt-loop pouch, and stalks out into the early morning light.
🧹
“You what?! ” Eunjoo screeches in Jimin’s ear, her pint glass slamming down onto the table with unnecessary force. For a Pixie, she’s surprisingly strong and brash-- even more so when she’s hammered.
“Keep your voice down,” Jimin hisses, glancing around nervously. The tavern is small and overly crowded, and even in the low-lighting from the candles burning every few feet, Jimin can see the curious glances pointed his way. It sets him on edge; there are few individuals Jimin can call his friends and even fewer who like him enough to try for the distinction in the first place. In the crowded tavern, Jimin’s not entirely sure who’s listening in on their conversation, and it makes his skin crawl.
Eunjoo ducks her head and whispers, comically quiet over the sound of the instruments playing themselves by the hearth, “You what?! ”
Jimin smiles and sips on his own honey mead. “I took the job.”
“Why?” Eunjoon exclaims loudly, already forgetting Jimin's warning. “Are you an idiot? Do you want to die?”
Jimin wrinkles his nose. “You didn't see the way the Warden was looking at me. Like I'm just a helpless little Brownie.”
“But you are a Brownie!" Eunjoo points out. She shakes her head, finger tracing thoughtfully around the rim of her glass. “Not that it makes you weak or anything, but. Fuck, Jimin, you don't even have combat magic, and he’s-- he’s probably one of the strongest Fae in the Bureau.”
Jimin doesn't say anything, because she's not exactly wrong. He has something , some strange magic manifestation that's not really classifiable, but it's definitely not combat focused. All that he can regularly do is light things on fire, and he can’t even do that on command. But it doesn't keep the remark from stinging. "So?" he asks, a bit more defensive than he probably should be.
“ So,” Eunjoo frowns at him, “Is taking a job for the Trom-Laighe really the best decision? I get that you don't want to end up in the tunnels, but is this really your only option here? You could actually die .”
“It's not about not wanting to be in the tunnels,” Jimin starts. Eunjoo shoots him a skeptical look, and he amends, “Well. Not only about that. It's… complicated.”
“Have you even heard the stories about him?” Eunjoo whispers urgently, eyes wide and cheeks flushed.
Before Jimin can say anything, another voice breaks through the din of the tavern. “The stories about whom?” Jimin bites back the groan that naturally wants to come out of him at the sound of Jackson’s voice. He really doesn’t want to have to deal with the annoying Spectre that haunts the tavern right now. Especially not when Jackson has a bad habit of spreading rumors around like wildfire.
Jimin forces himself to turn around as Eunjoo quietly explains to Jackson, “Jimin got reassigned. Probation.”
“Oh?” Jackson grins with interest. He kicks his feet up into the air, gliding up and around Jimin’s table as he goes. His ash-grey skin glows semi-sheer in the dim candlelight. “Who’s the miserable bastard that agreed to take him on?”
Jimin shoots a very pointed look at Eunjoo. “Say nothing if you value your life.” Eunjoo snorts at the threat, adding fuel to the fire.
“Come on,” Jackson whines, descending until his translucent face is level with Jimin’s. “I’ll find out anyway. I could haunt you all night. Come with you back to your cottage. Expose all of your secrets.”
“I’d exorcise you,” Jimin huffs. But then Jackson is pouting at him, and Jimin isn’t a complete asshole. Besides, he’s pleasantly buzzed, and any restraint on his mouth that he’d been gripping tightly to all day is already well past evaporated. “Fine,” Jimin sighs, carding his hand through his silver hair. “I got assigned to the Trom-Laighe’s estate.”
Jackson immediately shrieks the news out to the rest of the tavern in shock. “You got assigned to the Trom-Laighe?! ”
All of the heads, eyes, and floating skulls in the bar snap over to Jimin’s table. In the dark, crowded space, the attention feels suffocating. Lingering conversation dies. The enchanted instruments in the corner stop playing. Fae freeze with their drinks halfway to their mouths at the mention of the Trom-Laighe. Jackson, to his credit, looks exceedingly embarrassed; his hands are clapped over his mouth, and if ghosts could blush, Jimin’s sure he’d be bright red.
As it stands, Jimin wishes he actually knew an exorcism charm, because Jackson’s just earned himself a spot on Jimin’s hit list.
“The Trom-Laighe?” someone whispers from an adjacent table. “That can’t be right.”
Another hisses: “I heard that the last time he had a housekeeper, he peeled their flesh off of their bones and used it in one of his potions.”
“-it’s true! My cousin told me that his stare can kill you on the spot. It’s cursed or something-”
“-or what about what he did to his whole family? Just the way they all died, you know? It was brutal.”
Jimin levels Jackson with a look that promises a slow and painful eternity. “You’re right. I don’t regret telling you one bit,” he drawls, sarcasm dripping off of his words.
“That’s not-- I’m sorry,” Jackson curses. He comes to float right next to Jimin’s chair. “But you’re not lying? You’re not just messing with me?”
“I’m not,” Jimin says dryly. He looks down into his empty cup mournfully. It’s too late for him to get another one, and too early for more bad decisions.
Jackson doesn’t say anything else for a solid minute, until the whispers and pointed glances from the tavern’s other patrons die away or refocus somewhere else. “What in gods’ names were you thinking?” he asks after a moment.
“He has a really good excuse, I promise,” Eunjoo slurs, amusement written across her petite features. “It has to do with honor and preserving his dignity and all that. A great premise for a ‘coming of age’ story, if you ask me.”
Jimin huffs out a begrudging laugh. “You’re drunk, Eunjoo. And it is a good reason,” he says. “Besides, he can’t be that bad, right?”
Jackson splutters, amazed. “Are you serious? Do you think that the fact that his nickname is the Nightmare is just a fun little joke?” Even for someone of his translucent complexion, Jackson looks pale. “Jeon Jeongguk-” Jackson starts, lowering his voice when heads swivel back in their direction at the Trom-Laighe’s real name, “Jeon Jeongguk is a monster, Jimin. Seriously.”
There’s something about the way Jackson is speaking, something in the Spectre's voice, low with warning, that makes Jimin’s spine crawl. “I know,” he says firmly, but it comes out a little weak even to his own ears. He clears his throat and tries again. “But it’s just a regular cleaning job! I’ll be gone as soon as my probation dries up. I’m not afraid.” He puffs out his chest to prove his point.
“You should be,” Eunjoo chimes in again. Even she looks uncharacteristically serious.
Jimin’s confidence falters when Jackson nods in agreement. “Jimin, I’m literally dead . Like, there’s nothing Jeon Jeongguk could possibly do to me to make me even more dead, and I’m still afraid of him.”
A tiny, almost insignificantly small spark of fear lights up in the pit of Jimin’s stomach, but he refuses to be shaken. He refuses to let apprehension show. “Stop trying to make this into a big deal,” Jimin tells them both resolutely, “It’s a non-problem. I do this kind of shit all the time and it turns out just fine.”
Eunjoo scoffs over the rim of her cup. “Right. If you call eight dismissals in the last two months ‘just fine’.”
“Hey!” Jimin exclaims, lips downturned.
“Just… be careful, okay?” Jackson says. He lifts off of the ground nervously and circles the table. “I don’t want to see you in the Beyond any time soon, alright? It’s already dead enough in there as it is.”
Eunjoo and Jimin groan in unison at the crappy pun. “If the Beyond is filled with spirits like you, then I’m going to make it a point to never die,” Jimin drawls.
“Whatever. My genius unappreciated over here,” Jackson turns his lip up in mock-disgust and starts to float away. “But seriously, be careful.”
He’s halfway across the tavern when he calls back to Jimin, “And if you make it out alive, bring me back a souvenir!”
🧹
Jimin lays awake in bed for a long time after he comes back from the tavern. He stays there, motionless, until the midafternoon sun shines behind his curtains, tired but unable to sleep. He’s restless, and it’s all Jackson’s fault. Something uncomfortably foreboding stirs in his stomach, triggered by Jackson’s words.
Jeon Jeongguk is a monster.
It really shouldn’t be bothering him as much as it is. Going to the tavern was a really bad idea, and not just because of the way his forehead pulses in radiating pain. Jimin knew what he was getting himself into the moment he said yes to the Warden’s offer, but at least he wasn’t scared .
Jimin hates the fear. He wants nothing to do with it.
In a flurry of flung-off bed sheets and flailing legs, Jimin sits upright in bed. There’s no way he’s sleeping now, just like there’s no way he’s walking into his new position tomorrow without arming himself with everything ever written about Jeon Jeongguk. Jimin crawls out of bed, stumbles over his overstuffed satchel, and makes his way over to one of the bookcases he has braced against his walls.
It takes a while to find the book he’s looking for. Jimin rummages around for a good ten minutes before he finds the cracked spine in between a human play and an old history book. It’s red, lined with bright gold filigree, and has An Introduction to The Bureau written across the front.
“Gotcha,” Jimin mumbles to himself. He pulls the book out and makes his way to sit on one of the cushions by the hearth. “Now tell me what I want to know.”
The book itself is almost five hundred years old, a hand-down that Jimin was issued when he was old enough to start working for the Bureau. It’s the same copy that’s given to all new recruits; it details the functions, various departments, and members of the Bureau for all trainees. Jimin remembers the first time he’d been assigned to read it in training camp. At the time, he’d found the discussion of bureaucracy so mind-numbing that he seriously considered asking the Ghoul next to him to put him out of his misery and kill him on the spot.
Currently, however, Jimin’s incredibly glad that he didn’t burn it at the end of his training period like most of his peers did during the Summer Solstice after graduation. He flips open the front cover, searches the index for what he’s looking for. It’s there, at the bottom of the page: Human Management Division: An Overview . Just under it is a smaller subheading, so tiny that Jimin has to squint to make it out. It reads, The Weavers .
Jimin flips to the right page and immediately remembers why he hated this book so much.
“Park Jimin,” the book lisps, sounding very unimpressed. “It’s been a while. Read any other good books while you’ve been neglecting me?” The book itself doesn’t move, but the sound seemingly emanates from the very pages.
Jimin rolls his eyes and props the book against the hearth. Whoever thought that charming the introduction book with a voice was a good idea can go straight to burning in the Beyond. “Have you?” Jimin counters, equally unimpressed.
“I read myself every day,” the book drawls. “And I think that I’m very interesting.”
“As someone who had to read you, I can assure you that you’re not .”
If the parchment could frown, Jimin is sure that the book would be scowling. “I see you’re just as grumpy as ever,” it mumbles.
“And I see that you’re just as irritating as ever,” Jimin quips right back. “But for what it’s worth, I do need something from you today.”
The book scoffs. “Workers these days. Whatever happened to learning for learning’s sake? When did reading for academic pleasure get exchanged for sappy romance novels and adventure tales? What about the cultivation of the mind?” the book rambles, “Where along the way did us books go wrong? Did we just stop being interesting, or-”
Jimin cuts it off by slamming the front cover closed. He waits for a few seconds. After a blissful reprieve, Jimin cracks it back open. “Are you finished yet?”
“You are a horrid little gremlin,” the book grumbles.
“I’ll leave you somewhere where it’s damp,” Jimin threatens, “I’ll let you get all moldy and disgusting, you old bundle of papyrus.”
“ Papyrus?! ” the book shrieks. “How dare you! I’ll have you know that I’m made from the very best kidskin around, and I will not be-” Jimin starts to slowly, threateningly, close the front cover again, and the book backtracks, “No, no! Wait, wait, wait-- I didn’t mean it. It’s so nice to be read. I’ll behave, I swear on the gods.”
Jimin looks down at the slightly yellowed pages skeptically. “You have exactly one more chance. Don’t test me.”
“Fine, fine!” the book says frantically, desperate for companionship. “What can I help you with, Mr. Park?”
Jimin, thoroughly satisfied with the formality, taps lightly on the chapter heading he’d flipped to. “Narrate this chapter for me, if you would.”
“On the Weavers?” the book asks, curious. “What an odd selection.”
One of Jimin’s eyes twitches. He’s already irked enough at the situation without a talking book intervening and making everything worse. “Now.”
He adds as an afterthought, “Please.”
“Well, since you asked so nicely,” the book says sarcastically. The pages ruffle a bit, and the chapter heading lights up in shimmering gold print.
A basso voice rumbles out of the book’s bindings and starts narrating, the corresponding written words illuminating at the same time. “The Weavers,” it begins, “A branch of high Fae employed by the Bureau to fabricate human hopes, desires, emotions, dreams, and more. The Weavers are a unique component of the Human Management Division, and work in tandem with the rest of the departments therein to guide humans in day-to-day activities. While typically reclusive, the Weavers on whole tend to be-”
“Next section,” Jimin interrupts. He knows most of this already, and he’s really only interested in one subdivision of the Weavers.
The book’s natural voice asks, “Which part of the next section would you like to read? They include: the EmotionWeavers, the SensationWeavers, the IntellectWeavers, the DreamWeavers-”
“The DreamWeavers,” Jimin cuts the book off again. He shifts closer to the hearth, propping himself up against the cool brick surface.
“Very well.” A brief pause, and the lower voice comes booming back. “Subsection three: the DreamWeavers. Located on the Edge of Bureau territory, Somnus Estate is home to the Jeon family, the only collection of DreamWeavers ever recorded in Bureau history. The estate itself contains one thousand one hundred and forty-three windows, fifty-six chimneys, and thirty-seven staircases. There are over one hundred different rooms, fifty fountains, six different gardens, and one thousand and twenty paintings.”
Jimin’s mouth dries up. He’s going to die-- he’s actually going to die. He suddenly understands the Warden’s shocked expression, because only a complete idiot would agree to be the housekeeper for such a large estate. Jimin almost blacks out when he realizes that he’s supposed to do it all by himself .
“At one point, there were seven members of the Jeon family, each of which specialized in a unique form of DreamWeaving,” the book continues, oblivious to Jimin’s crisis. “After a tragedy that claimed the life of six of the members, only the NightmareWeaver, the Trom-Laighe , survived. Currently, he works for the Bureau as the director of DreamWeaving.”
Jimin blinks, struggling to come out of his shock. He barely spends a second wondering how a NightmareWeaver can write dreams for humans before he slams the book shut again, cutting off the narrator.
One hundred different rooms, Jimin thinks. And fifty fountains. Fifty. “Who the fuck needs fifty fountains?” Jimin exclaims into the empty cottage.
He slides down the fireplace, back scraping against the harsh material as he falls. The manor is daunting, considerably larger than anything he’s ever had to clean before. He’ll be lucky if he gets through even one full cleaning of the house before his probation runs out. No wonder all of Jeongguk’s workers come out traumatized and scarred for life.
It’s as he mourns the fate of his future self that Jimin realizes the book didn’t really tell him anything about Jeongguk . He flicks the front cover open again.
“Came crawling back, huh?” the book snaps. “Could you maybe not slam my lid down so hard? I’m over five hundred years old, I’ll have you know!”
“I’ll rebind you soon,” Jimin promises, scanning through the index once more. “I need one more thing.”
The book sighs. “It’s always ‘something else’ for you Fae. And then one thing turns into a hundred, and I’ll never get a break again in my life.”
“I’m sorry, but weren’t you just complaining about me never reading you?” Jimin points out, eyebrows furrowing in annoyance.
“I’m entitled to be complex,” the book sniffs haughtily, “Never judge a bo-”
Jimin groans. “Finish that sentence and I’ll dog-ear every single one of your pages.”
“You’re a monster.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Jimin brushes it off. “What can you tell me about Jeon Jeongguk?”
The book goes quiet for a moment, and each of the index lines light up momentarily as the book searches through its contents. Jimin turns the pages as the golden light traces up and down the columns before stopping at one of the chapters near the very end of the thick book. “Page eight hundred and twelve, in the updated employee registry.”
Jimin flips to the correct page, squinting down at the text. “You were recently updated?”
“Of course,” the book says defensively, “I receive an update every hundred years. Even you’re in the new edition.”
Jimin perks up. “Really?”
“Page eight hundred and thirty, second line from the bottom.”
“What does it say about me?” Jimin asks, excitement running up his spine. A little tremor of pride flashes in his chest, glad that the Bureau thinks he’s important enough to include in the updated version.
The book scans itself for a moment before replying, “Park Jimin. Brownie Class. Identification Code 781. Houseworker.” It goes silent.
Jimin waits expectantly. When the book doesn’t add anything, he frowns. “What- that’s it?”
“It’s really more of a formality to include Workers at this point. Placation tactics and all that,” the book explains apologetically.
Fucking typical. “Right. Of course,” Jimin fumes. “All right. Narrate Jeongguk’s entry, please.”
“I’m terribly sorry that your entry isn’t longer, Mr. Park, but don’t be discouraged,” the book says, disregarding Jimin’s instructions. “We can’t all have long entries.”
“Who’s ‘we’?” Jimin asks.
The book’s pages shift a tiny bit. “You know. Us important creatures and artifacts.”
Jimin’s irritation ticks up another notch, because if the book is implying what he thinks it’s implying, then- “Are you seriously telling me that you have an entry in yourself? How does that even work? ”
“Mind-bending, right?” the book laughs. “My entry in myself is five lines, too! The perks of being an important Bureau artifact.”
Jimin’s going to light himself on fire. He’s going to bash his head against the wall until he dies, because the Bureau considers a fucking book more important than him. He takes several calming breaths. “Jeon Jeongguk’s entry.”
But the book isn’t done complimenting itself. “Really, it’s hard being so well-known. There are so many expectations, and-”
“Jeon Jeongguk. Now .” A little spark of Jimin’s magic flickers back to life in his chest, the tonic’s effects slowly wearing off.
Maybe the book can feel it, because it rustles uneasily. “Of course. Ahem.” The basso voice takes control again. “Jeon Jeongguk, Weaver Class, Identification Code 058. Last surviving member of the Jeon clan. One hundred and twenty-three years of age.”
Jimin lets out an internal sigh of relief. Jeongguk is actually younger than him by a few years. At least he isn’t the ancient old Fae Jimin had been worried he would be.
“Avian features,” the book continues, and well. That explains the whole ‘no cooking birds for dinner’ policy. “Special characteristics are unknown. Jeon clan origins are unknown. There are no additional notes for this entry.”
“Are you serious?” Jimin asks. “That’s all? You get a five line description, and one of the most important members in the Bureau only gets seven? ”
The book scoffs. “I don’t write myself, you know. The Bureau updates me. I’m just a receiver.”
Jimin furrows his brow in confusion. “Wait. Wait. Are you telling me that this is everything the Bureau knows about Jeon Jeongguk?”
“It appears so. Barring censorship, this is the entire written record of Jeon Jeongguk.”
Jimin’s even more confused and less reassured than when he started this whole research session. There’s no way that after a hundred-odd years the Bureau knows nothing else about the Trom-Laighe. It doesn’t make sense . “Is censorship common?” Jimin asks the book.
It hesitates to answer. “...I’m afraid that I’m not at liberty to discuss that with you.”
The non-answer tells Jimin enough. The Bureau is almost definitely hiding something about Jeongguk, and that scares Jimin more than the prospect of cleaning one hundred rooms over and over. What’s so bad about the Trom-Laighe that even the Bureau needs to keep it quiet? he silently wonders.
Considering everything that already circulates about Jeongguk, Jimin can only imagine what he’s actually like. For the first time, Jimin thoroughly regrets accepting this job instead of just sucking it up and cleaning the tunnels. And he’s actually worried. Now Jackson’s warning actually sounds… warning .
Jeongguk’s done something enough to warrant censorship, and Jimin has no inkling of what it is. Jimin doesn’t know if he has magic outside of DreamWeaving. He doesn’t even know what he looks like. He’s walking into his probationary job completely blind, armed with only vague warnings, a handful of terrifying anecdotes, and whatever little scraps of magic he can dredge up once the tonic’s effects wear off.
It’s not enough.
“Is that everything?” the book interrupts his rapidly-spiraling train of thought.
“Yes,” Jimin replies, voice hoarse with tension.
The book lets out a brief sound of satisfaction. “Well, then. Close me lovingly, if you wouldn’t mind.”
Jimin spitefully slams it shut.
He sits against the hearth for a few more moments, watching the sun slowly making its way down the horizon. The rays are golden and rich, and shine through the edges of his thick curtains to dapple the surrounding hard-wood floor. If Jimin hadn’t wasted the entire day worrying about tomorrow night, he’d be waking up right about now, fully rested after a good day’s sleep.
As it is, there’s no point of even trying to catch a few hours of rest. Every hair on the back of Jimin’s neck is standing to attention, and anxiety pools deep in his stomach. Slowly, Jimin pulls himself from the floor and replaces the book into his bookcase, careful to keep it protected from the direct sunlight despite his threats.
Easy , Jimin mentally soothes himself as he removes his sleep-shirt. This is just another job. You’re there to clean. That’s it .
He tugs on an emerald green tunic, tying a brown sash around his waist to cinch it in. Just for a month or two, and then you’re out. And if anything goes wrong, you can just light him on fire like you always do.
His cream pants come next, and Jimin’s mental pep-talk surges optimistically. You’re worrying about nothing. It’ll be over before you know it, and you’ll be home safe. Jackson will be wrong, and you can laugh in his face for being an idiot. It’ll be fine .
It’s just a job . Jimin looks in the mirror, smooths his silver hair down. “It’s just a job,” he repeats out loud, to make it real.
The reflection in the mirror winces at the same time that Jimin does. Right, his overly-rational brain corrects, it’s just a job. Except that it’s not. Except for the little, tiny fact that you’re going to waltz into the home of a monster, clean one hundred rooms, and most likely be torn to shreds because he’s powerful and you’re just a Brownie .
It’s infuriating, but it’s most likely true. Even if he does have unsanctioned magic, it’s definitely not enough to even leave a mark on Jeongguk.
He’ll be lucky if he even makes it through the first day.
Jimin sighs, grimacing at his reflection.
“Fuck.”