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The first thing you learn about Folk is this: that they are incapable of lying.
It’s a peculiar thing, the hands that keep them from doing so. But with this, they have been made tricksters. Liars who have never spoken a single lie, puppet masters in the disguise of an innocent sheep wandering, undetected, among the puppets of their choosing.
The second thing you learn about the Folk is this—that you should never give them your name. Never apologise, and never thank them. Names, as the old saying goes, have power. And to apologise, to thank, is to owe them a debt, and the Folk are creatures that live for almost forever.
They are not known for their forgetfulness.
There are two courts among the fae: the Seelie, and the Unseelie. There are those who wander without belonging to either court, but one would know, at a glance, which they would belong to from their appearance alone (though not every Fae must belong to either category; there are so many of them, you see).
The Seelie are beautiful. All light hair and light eyes with pinches of kindness in their veins. Benevolent, beautiful beings. The Unseelie court is nothing like them; the Unseelie are malevolent and terrifying, but there is beauty in their horror.
There is beauty in their king.
Yoo Joonghyuk rules the Unseelie court with an iron fist; with his angular, sculpted features, high cheekbones, dark eyes, sharp-tipped ears, he is a dark elf. And dark elves are not welcome in the Seelie court, because their blood runs with magic that destroys rather than heals, and their intentions have never been said to be good.
He has earned his throne and crown of jagged, twisted thorns through blood and violence and murder. The crown chooses it as its ruler, as its owner, and thus, because it recognises him as heir, it does not bring rot unto his features. Rather, it gives him the power to command the Fae, rivalled only by the crown of the Seelie.
Yoo Joonghyuk cares little for the other courts, though; they have nothing to do with him, and neither courts are keen on the idea of interacting with each other any more than necessary. So they stay away from each other, and this is how peace settles on the land.
There is a siren making trouble on the shores of Unseelie land.
Yoo Joonghyuk wouldn’t mind if it hadn’t bothered his people, but it does. He doesn’t quite understand what the point of it is (there are so many human sailors out there nowadays, afterall) but he keeps hearing about it. Rumours in the form of whispers passed from mouth to mouth. “Did you hear?” One of the Unseelie says. “The siren from yesterday; he sang again. I had to plug my ears and keep a friend of mine from plunging into the sea.”
“I hear he sounds particularly mesmerising for a siren.”
“He sounds beautiful. He sounds so sad, you know.” The Unseelie sighs, then licks its lips, a sadistic sort of gleam in its eyes. “He sounds terrified. How sorrowful that siren must be; his pain only makes his song sweeter. How I would ravage him.”
His friend snickers. “You’d be dead before you touched him, you disgusting pervert.” And he means it, because the Fae are incapable of lying.
Yoo Joonghyuk has to deal with this every day, so it’s a given when he finally gives up. Has this siren had enough of stirring his people? He cares little for those who fall to the temptation of mystery, but he’s been causing a ruckus, a mess, and Yoo Joonghyuk would be lying if he were to say he wasn’t curious himself.
At the dead of the night, the Unseelie king walks along the shores of his land. The waves lap against the sand at his feet, black save for the moon reflected upon its surface. The king waits in silence; at first, there is silence, but then a voice breaks through the sounds of waves.
It’s truly as they say.
A melancholic, melodious voice; the siren is not really singing anything, rather, he is simply humming a melody. A melody that carries over the waves and over miles and miles, infused with power. There is hatred in it. Hatred, and fear, and Yoo Joonghyuk thinks, this is not a fae borne of fae land.
This is an outcast.
The kelpie he called for emerges from the waves. Yoo Joonghyuk mounts it with practised ease, calloused fingers twirling into the mane. “Take me,” he commands. “I would see who this siren is.”
And so the kelpie tosses its great head back, front legs rising, a screech ripping from the depths of its throat, before it sinks into the sea and races towards the sound.
Kim Dokja’s throat catches when the water splashes behind him.
His song cuts off abruptly, his voice echoing nonetheless with that terrible, magical quality taking off with it. He turns around abruptly; how did he get here? His mother had told him Faerieland was a place he would not die in, rich with unclaimed islands full of food. Sing this song, and I will hear it, even as I am among the stars. Make sure I do. Do as I have taught you; it will save you.
Kim Dokja hated his mother, but he loved her, too. So he sings this song every night in hopes of making up for the time they’d lost when the humans had taken her for their experiments and killed her in the process.
“You.”
Kim Dokja whirls around. Where had he come from?
Black on black; their eyes meet. The man’s eyes are as dark and fathomless as an abyss; under the moonlight, they glimmer like jewels. His sculpted features are brought into sharp relief, with strong brows and high cheekbones with long, dark lashes. Full lips set into a straight line, brows drawn. His nose is angular, ears sharp. He is beautiful. He is terrifying. He is terrible.
The Seelie court, Lee Sookyung had told him, when she had been alive, and when he was a child. Are full of the light fae. With light hair and light eyes, Dokja. They’re beautiful. But beware; they might be known for benevolence, but no fae is innocent.
The man before him, with his dark eyes and dark hair and dark coat, is nothing like the fae of the Seelie court.
Kim Dokja catches sight of a circlet; it is made of twining thorns, black as the man’s hair, black as the night.
The crown of thorns belongs to the Unseelie King. You would do well to treat him with respect; the Unseelie are not known to be good folk.
“Your High—uh—Your Majesty,” Kim Dokja stutters. Shit, he thinks. I fucked up.
The king raises a single, disinterested eyebrow. His footsteps are silent when he stalks forward, and Kim Dokja finds himself stepping back. Is he going to kick him out, after all Kim Dokja’s gone through to get here and fine an uninhabited island for himself?
“So you know I am king,” the king says, his voice velvety smooth, tone sharp as a whip. His eyes narrow as they alight upon the rags Kim Dokja wears, undoubtedly human garb. “Siren.”
“Yes,” he says, compelled to speak before this man’s presence. Unseelie King. But he had been told the Unseelie fae were of hobgoblins and the like. This is no hobgoblin. This is an elf. This is a beautiful and terrifying person before him. Kim Dokja swallows. “Yes, Your Majesty. I… My mother told me tales.”
“Your mother,” the king echoes. He takes a step forward, and Kim Dokja takes a step back. Perhaps Kim Dokja would have been allured to him; the king before him speaks softly and slowly, but now there is an edge of suspicion to it, and his dark gaze makes Kim Dokja feel completely and utterly seen. “Was one of the folk.”
“Yes.”
“And what of your father?”
Kim Dokja swallows. “I…” He looks away. “He was human.”
Silence.
At first, Kim Dokja thinks that he hears coughing. But when he looks up, that is not so; no, the king before him is laughing. Or, well. He is trying to hold back on it. Eyes cast sidewards, a dimple deep on the right side of his cheek, a hand raised, palm facing outward. It is a deep laugh. Deep and dark and menacing and oh, how it sends a thrill down his spine. The moonlight glints off the dark silk of the king’s cloak; beneath it are clothes of utmost quality, hugging muscular form and shapely legs.
Kim Dokja tears his eyes away. “So you are a half-blood,” Yoo Joonghyuk says, with no particular malice. Rather, he sounds as though he is stating a mere fact, as easy as the weather. It’s sunny today.
“... Yes.”
Will he be punished?
Kim Dokja gasps when rough fingers hook beneath his chin; he is forced to look up into the eyes of the king before him, glinting like the edge of a knife in the bleak moonlight. They are so close that the king’s dark hair tickles his forehead as he looks down at him; their breaths mingle, their noses nearly touch. He does not think he should be allowed to be this close, and yet, here he is.
“Do you know, siren?” Murmurs the king, voice barely a whisper. “Do you know how your voice carries over the water and my shores to my people? How you lure them to you every night, and how they long for your voice dipped in melancholic waters?”
Kim Dokja sucks in a breath. “... You can all hear me?”
Another chuckle; warm breaths slide off of Kim Dokja’s lips. “Oh, yes. Every night they hear you. How popular you have become among my people.”
“But… But I’m just singing to my mother…”
“You sing the song of sirens with magic in your blood. You can’t control your powers, can you?”
“I… I can’t.”
The king releases him, regarding him for a moment as he steps back, head tilted. “Very well,” he says. “You may call me Joonghyuk.”
Never give them your name. “... You can call me Dokja.”
The king turns. “Follow.”
“Where? Why?”
“So many questions,” the king says, raising a hand. Kim Dokja thinks he looks like an idiot and wonders if he’s meant to take it for a moment before the water bursts, and, from it, rises a horse much larger than any horse Kim Dokja’s ever seen (online, obviously), its fur sleek and as dark as the waters of the night sea. It regards him with cold, curious eyes. Somehow, it doesn’t seem to be wet. “Come.”
“Tell me why first.”
The king—Joonghyuk—turns to look at him. “I cannot have you stirring trouble, Dokja,” he begins. “I will take you with me, and you will learn to master your powers.” He reaches out, forefinger brushing the bottom of Kim Dokja’s chin. Kim Dokja shivers, eyelashes fluttering. There is a hungry glint in the king’s eye. “What a pretty little thing you are.”
“You… huh?”
The king’s lips quirk ever-so-slightly. “Perhaps my court will have a new singer to grace it,” Joonghyuk says, turning back, releasing Kim Dokja’s chin—but not before he brushes his thumb over his bottom lip. The siren watches the king mount the horse—water horse?—with ease, a hand outstretched once he has settled upon it. “Better to keep an eye on you for all that you’ve done. Come.”
(Kim Dokja tries not to think of how fit this king is as he wraps his arms around him on the journey back.)