Chapter Text
Superstitions rarely start as superstitions.
Fears running generations deep do not start with unfounded belief.
They start with death.
“How’s your kin?”
“How’s the family, sir?!”
“My regards to the misses!”
Jimin growls at that one, pausing long enough for Jungkook to catch up.
“Stop dawdling! If one more person asks after my wife , I’m going to actually give them something to be afraid of.”
Jungkook grumbles, head tucked as he shuffles along the path between market booths. Just a few more items to get and they can go home and shake off the endless staring and stink of fear. At least here, in the largest port city in the country, they can move about freely. At least here they can trade and make purchases and live out of the shadows.
Jungkook doesn’t lift his head, fingers wrapped around what looks like a glass bead.
“What do you have there?”
Jungkook thrusts the bead into his pocket in jerking movements. “I found it on the ground.”
Jimin laughs, looping his arm through Jungkook’s to make sure he keeps pace. He doesn’t care if Jungkook found the bead or swiped it from a booth or some unsuspecting woman’s ear.
For better or worse, the laws here protect them. At least on the surface.
“Let’s get the bread and rice and get home so you can put it up.”
Jungkook’s steps get an extra bounce to them, just as ready as Jimin to be out of the center of town. “Can we get something fresh too?” He pleads, eyes gone round and sparkly in an attempt to sway Jimin.
It’s working unfortunately.
Jimin keeps a stern face all the way to the stall at the end of the street, but when he asks the merchant for a loaf of bread and a bag of rice, he tacks on a request for a handful of ripe strawberries as well. Jungkook is practically vibrating next to him.
He holds the parcel away from Jungkook and continues on the path North and out of the city, towards the thick tree line. “Wait until we’re home. Unless you want to explain to Hoseok why your lips taste so sweet but you didn’t bother to share.”
Jungkook looks positively stricken and Jimin cackles as they pass the last row of businesses, where the cobblestone peters out into packed earth. It’s not a long walk to their home, but the trip is made increasingly longer by Jungkook stopping to check on little traps he’s set in the underbrush, or to chatter to birds perched on low hanging branches.
“I don’t know why you even bother,” Jimin mutters as they stop at yet another little contraption in the detritus. “You always end up letting them go.”
Jungkook frowns at him. “I feel bad when they look so scared,” he says, eyes as big and watery as any poor creature he’s likely to have caught.
“Alright, well where did the fish we had for dinner the other day come from?”
“I caught it,” Jungkook says as if Jimin were an idiot.
Jimin scoffs. “So fish are fine then?”
“Yeah, fish don’t have feelings.”
“I don’t think that’s factual,” Jimin mumbles to himself. He’s passionate about winning arguments, but not nearly as passionate as he is about meat on his plate.
They’ve made it home and he watches as Jungkook hoists himself up into the lower limbs of a massive oak. He drops down a basket on a rope and waits for Jimin to load their goods in securely before lifting it up into the boughs. Jimin jumps a little for momentum, then swings himself up into the tree alongside Jungkook.
They climb a little higher until ropes and ladders begin to spiderweb out from the central tree. Jungkook keeps hold of their modest bounty and let’s Jimin lead the way across a large limb before dropping down onto a small wooden landing braced against the trunk of another large tree.
There aren't as many of them as there used to be.
They aren’t native to this area, following where the food went. Unfortunately, in recent years, the food became more protected than them. A whole race of people dwindling to a handful of roughneck boys.
Jimin wonders if their mothers would be proud of them.
Jungkook lands next to him and ushers him out of his thoughts and around the edge of the platform.
Home.
The three of them live in the nest that Jungkook’s great grandfather built. A few rounded rooms woven of twig and straw until sturdy and warm, joined to a small enclosed space in the middle, opening up to the platform wrapping around the thick trunk.
There are a few others, spread out among the old nests. Jimin could easily find an empty nest and have it all to himself, but the thought of such a quiet and empty home is too much for him to handle.
Jungkook ducks through the circular opening and into their shared space. Jimin gives him a moment to kick off his heavy boots and move away from the entrance before following after.
Jimin removes his own boots on the thatched mat and moves them into a small cubby hole next to Jungkook’s. He removes his scarf and hangs it near the opening in hopes of airing it out some.
The mornings still hold the chill of winter, but the days warm more and more as they move into spring. Sweat clings at his neck and lower back, sending chills down his spine as he removes his outerwear. He flings his coat into the small hole into his room, hopes it lands somewhere relatively reasonable and goes to climb through the hole Jungkook disappeared through.
The largest room of their home belongs to Jungkook, but not once since moving in has Jimin seen him sleep in there. It’s mostly become a common room in which they can share meals or mend clothes together, unwind after a long day and bask in each other’s company.
By design they could do all these things in the shared space, but Jungkook’s room is bigger. And more beautiful.
Hoseok is already sitting on a mound of cushions at the small table in the middle, chopping kimchi into bite size chunks. The lanterns hanging around the space cast shimmering colors across every surface, including Hoseok’s face. Every bit of wall is woven with ribbons and beads and scraps of paper covered in art, chains of little artifacts hanging down like streamers. The space glitters around them in the low light.
Hoseok giggles before quickly chastising Jungkook for practically bowling him over in greeting.
“Look at this bead I found! Jimin bought strawberries,” Jungkook exclaims before rummaging in a few trunks around the edge of the room until he finds a bit of twine. Jimin smiles at the sharp focus on Jungkook’s face while he surveys the room for the best spot. He half crawls over Hoseok to get to a long tail in the middle of the room, years of string and chord adding bits and bobs cascading from the roof. He ties the bead to the end and lets it swing back into place, just barely avoiding scraping across the top of the table.
“That better not end up dipping in my soup,” Hoseok teases, but pulls Jungkook in his lap. He was practically there anyway.
“It reminded me of you,” Jungkook pouts.
Hoseok pulls the little black and blue bead closer to examine. Jungkook pulls at Hoseok’s hair a little to drive the point home.
They share that same gene, but neither Hoseok nor Jimin call him out on it. Besides, of all their hair, Hoseok’s seems to have the bluest sheen to it. Perhaps from spending so much more time under the Sun than the others.
“I love it,” Hoseok says with his biggest heart shaped smile, his tattoos crinkling next to his eyes, so delicate in comparison to both Jimin’s and Jungkook’s, but face paint free in the comfort of their own home. Jimin is suddenly very aware of how thick it sits on his own face, how he’d very much like to clean up.
“Dinners ready, I was just about to set everything out.”
“They only had one bag of rice,” Jimin lets him know, picking up the parcels from where Jungkook left them. He puts the bread and strawberries on the table, drops the bag of rice next to the dry goods shelf.
“Where are you going?” Jungkook asks, gripping the table with white knuckles and refusing to look away from the strawberries.
“Just to wash up.”
Jungkook makes a sound in the back of his throat, somewhere between a growl and a whine. It sends Hoseok into a fit of giggles, but he pops one of the strawberries into Jungkook’s mouth and waves Jimin off.
In practiced paces, Jimin clears the opening to the shared room and pulls himself up to where his room sits, just slightly higher, following the natural shape of the tree. He rolls through the hole and onto his discarded coat.
Where Jungkook’s room glimmers and shines like the best kept treasure room, Jimin’s seems to eat the light. He doesn’t bother to light a lamp, knows the space by heart. Knows every scrap of paper laid and overlaid up the walls and across the ceiling, so thick that not even the sun can bleed through in warm ambient hues. Faces and words, some torn from books, others crafted by his hand or given as gifts. Little memories thatched around him.
He moves his coat out of the way and removes his clothes, kicking them closer to the hole. He should probably wash them later. Tomorrow. Maybe.
There’s a small basin and cloth just inside the strip of light cascading across his room. He scrubs himself clean, starting with his face and working his way down. He’s sure he’s leaving some smudges behind but the smell of jjigae wafts around him and his stomach rushes him along. He’ll make a trip down to the river. Tomorrow. Maybe.
He grumbles to himself, already irritated at the chores ahead of him. A pair of light linen pants and a soft sweater get pulled out of the small trunk at the end of his pallet and he makes quick work of dressing and clambering back down from his room.
Jungkook has moved to his own spot next to Hoseok, helping to pass bowls and plates around the table. Jimin sits across from them and nods in thanks when Hoseok slides a bowl of soup over to him.
The jjigae is spicy and hot and soothing to the scratchy feeling in Jimin’s throat from bartering all afternoon.
“How was market?” Hoseok asks around a mouthful of jjigae. “The strawberries are a surprise.”
Jimin shrugs. “About the same as it always is. People staring and avoiding us, or worse, yelling out the usual stupid things.”
Hoseok nods. He knows, he’s seen it and heard it all the same as Jimin and Jungkook. The same as any of them.
“I asked Jimin to get something fresh and the farmer had strawberries,” Jungkook says between big heaping bites of rice.
“Last job paid better than expected.”
“Ah. Well, we received another bird while you were out.”
They continue to eat in silence for a bit, not quite ready to break the good mood. Hoseok motions for Jungkook to finish his food when he makes a move to go find the note.
“Seems to be getting more frequent,” Jimin mumbles, clearing his place.
“Yeah… Hyuka said Yeonjun has been out three times this month so far.”
“Why so many?” Jungkook asks, helping to gather up the dishes into the shallow wooden barrel with Jimin’s.
“The birds keep coming, and I think he tries to keep Kai away from the work as much as possible.”
“We can take some of their birds,” Jungkook says with a deep frown. “There’s more of us anyway.”
Hoseok shrugs. “Yeonjun can be prideful sometimes. He knows we’re here if he needs us.”
“Besides, Kai will come tattle on him in a heartbeat,” Jimin laughs.
They lapse into a thoughtful silence as they clean up. Jungkook offers to take the dishes down to the river and scrub them clean with the silt.
“There’s been too many birds lately,” Jimin mutters. For years it’s been one or two every couple of months. Now, one of them is out almost every night.
“I haven’t read the note yet, wanted to wait for the two of you.”
“I’ll go. Jungkook took care of the last one.”
Hoseok hums, wiping his hands clean. “We’ll read it together and decide.”
The chill has crept back into the air by the time Jungkook is back. Jimin and Hoseok drape a heavy mat over the entrance to their home while Jungkook puts the dishes away, trapping their body heat inside.
Hoseok leads the way into his room once they are done, Jungkook and Jimin following after. Hoseok’s room is always the warmest. Jimin has wormed his way into Hoseok and Jungkook’s bed many times over the years claiming it was for the warmth, a partial truth at best.
Hoseok’s room is just as vibrant as Jungkook’s. Dozens of brightly colored fabrics drape down from the ceiling in waterfalls of patterns until they pool at the edges of the floor. A plush carpet covers the wood, a pallet big enough for two cozy in the middle. It’s meticulously kept, but inviting and homey all the same.
Jungkook removes a couple layers, folding and stowing the garments away in a trunk. He must have rinsed in the river, no smudges of paint remaining on his hands or face. He sighs when he lets his hair out of its knot. Hoseok helps run his fingers through it to untangle the braids woven with beads from the rest of the strands.
“These better be fresh,” Hoseok quips, tugging at the clothes still covering Jungkook.
“Always,” Jungkook scoffs, offended. He crawls into the pallet, wiggling under the blankets until satisfied.
“Feel like I’m reading you a bedtime story,” Jimin teases, grabbing the tightly rolled parchment from Hoseok’s side of the pallet.
“Wish it had a happy ending,” Jungkook mumbles, mouth under the covers.
“Getting paid is a happy ending.”
Hoseok hums in agreement and gestures for Jimin to read the note.
“ At the earliest opportunity, the throne requests-“
“It’s never a request though,” Jungkook grumbles. It’s what they’re all thinking.
A request implies an opportunity to decline.
“ -the attendance of one of our most esteemed Magpies-“ Jimin rolls his eyes. “-for council with his highness, the King. ”
“Who should go?” Jungkook asks, making Jimin snort.
Hoseok fixes him with one of those looks reserved almost exclusively for Jungkook. The one filled with fondness and humor.
“You’re about two blinks from falling asleep.”
“I’ll go,” Jimin decides.
“You sure?” Hoseok asks.
It’s been the longest since he’s taken a job. He’s easily the most capable out of all of them, the young ones included. But the job takes its toll on Hoseok in a way it doesn’t catch up with the others as badly.
Food in their bellies washes away Jimin’s guilt. He locks it up in a trunk heaped with his chains in the corner of his mind. He has no intention of unpacking it.
He thinks of Yeonjun and Kai. He’d go out every night if he could give Hoseok what little bit of peace they had control over.
Jimin tucks the scroll into his clothes. “Yeah. I want something warm for breakfast when I get back.”
Hoseok grips his shoulder and nods, relief melting over his shoulders despite the conflict on his face.
“Fly fast, fly sure,” Jungkook murmurs, eyes barely open, limbs lax.
“Fly fast, fly sure,” Hoseok echoes.
Jimin nods and climbs back out into the central room of the nest. He pulls his upper body into his room, just far enough to grab hold of a corner of his coat. He shrugs it on before rummaging in a basket of paints on the floor of the shared space. He pulls out a couple jars of the mixtures he prefers, thick and resistant to water but still easy to swipe on.
He has jars and brushes in his room that he usually insists on using, taking the time to paint intricate patterns across his eyes and temples, covering or accentuating his tattoos in turn. But he’s tired- not just from the day, ready to crawl into bed and sleep, but tired of this endless burden they’ve all been shouldered with.
He dips his finger into the white, pressing the cream into his skin, using his fingernail to create sharp edges in his work. It’s followed quickly by black, much less neatly and feathering out to his blackblue hair. He wipes his hands clean on a semi-clean rag in the basket before pulling out another jar of black, the liquid inside thin and sloshing.
He’s careful opening the jar. He takes his time when he dips each finger individually into the ink, allowing it to stain his skin. With each digit, he prays to the gods, he promises silently to Hoseok and Jungkook a successful job, he focuses his mind, he thanks his ancestors for their lessons and their sacrifices.
Once the ink has dried, he drags his boots back over to the mat. Hoseok ducks out of his room as Jimin is peeling back the thick cover from the front entrance.
He doesn’t look nervous, he knows Jimin is good at what they do. If the throne had the authority to dictate which of them responded to the requests, they’re sure Jimin’s name would be scrawled across the parchment more often than not. Hoseok does, however, look regretful.
Jimin doesn’t give him time to apologize or offer to take his place.
“Fast and sure,” he promises.
Hoseok nods and Jimin slips out into the night.
…..
Jimin silently makes his way into the heart of the port city and not for the first time is struck by how the opulence of the palace is overshadowed by its humble size, surrounded by its working class citizens and stretches of poverty.
He suspects at one time that the palace was merely a shrine, a simple but elegant place of worship, the bones of which have been built over and built over until nothing sacred remains. What he sees peeking over the top of the towering walls is gaudy and from previous visits, he knows the inside is no better. Stolen treasures taken in the name of help, home, sanctuary. A false promise.
One that Jimin once believed.
As always, there will be guards at the gate, a few walking the perimeter of the wall, a handful scattered around the grounds, and at least two in the throne room. As always, he slips past all of them undetected. If his highness was more intelligent and less blood thirsty, he might consider hiring Jimin and his band of brothers to secure the palace.
But perhaps that would give them too much leg to stand on. Best to keep them hidden and under his thumb.
When he waltzes into the throne room, he’s mildly surprised to find it empty of guards. He wonders if maybe it’s arrogance instead that keeps the king unworried of how well he may or may not be protected.
He sits atop his golden throne, wine in one hand and a sword loosely held in the other. The picture of nonchalance despite the trained assassin in the room.
“Your highness,” Jimin greets.
The man takes a sip of his wine. They are on his time here, and Jimin has no choice but to wait. Through the night if he has to.
Eventually the king speaks, a slow drawl that frustrates Jimin on the best days. “I have a job for you, Magpie.”
Jimin does his best not to sneer. The word has become a cruel joke in his eyes. That is not what his people are called.
“The Shrike must show its ferocity,” the king continues.
The Shrike. Another joke. A name the king has given to himself, one meant to strike fear into his enemies. And perhaps it does, but Jimin can’t help but laugh when he’s in the safety of his own home at the notion that this man thinks himself a hunter. Jimin and the others are the only ones with blood on their hands.
“Who shall I string up for you, my king?”
The Shrike preens a bit at the faked show of loyalty. “My advisor.”
Now that does surprise Jimin. He’s thankful for the paint around his eyes, hopes the jump of his eyebrows isn’t too noticeable.
“This night or another?”
“Before the sun rises.”
Jimin bows, ready to take his leave. Yi Hwangsik, the king’s advisor, is not young or spry by any means. He should have this done in no time at all, he’s already planning to go home and get some sleep before he demands his warm breakfast from Hoseok.
“Make it excessively public.”
“Yes, your highness.”
“Let it be known that no one makes a fool of the Shrike.”
Jimin nods, not entirely sure what it means but he knows his place so he takes his leave.
As he passes by one of the lush gardens on the property, he hears tinkling laughter. A small group of young women and men lounge across the thick grass, sharing wine, sharing fruit and easy touches.
Ah, the concubines of the king, affectionately referred to as his Songbirds. His most prized possessions, lauded as the most exquisite and talented as far as any boat has ever touched. Singers and poets and artists as well as the picture of youth and beauty. He’s heard through the rumor mill that the women are more for show than for… use. Not that Jimin cares one way or another, but he finds it odd that they’d be out in the chill of the night, odder still that they’d be revelling. In the time that he’s worked for the throne, he’s mostly seen them tucked away sleeping or studying or seeking out anywhere quiet and private if only for a moment. Never touching each other or kissing or laughing vibrantly into the night air.
A show, he realizes as he sees the King join them among the flowers. Unseen and unheard until the King requires them.
They’re similar in that way.
He slips out into the courtyard and follows the lines of the scholar’s building, and the more modest homes of the King’s most trusted.
Or at least they were his most trusted.
It takes only a few moments to locate Yi Hwangsik’s quarters. Even less to cut out his tongue and gag him with the muscle and a bit of cloth nearby.
“Unfortunately,” Jimin murmurs. “You’ve made a fool of the king.”
…..
In the morning, the first merchants to the market will scream and rouse the surrounding townsfolk from their blissful sleep.
In the morning Yi Hwangsik’s body will be draped from the eaves of two buildings on either side of the market street, arms spread wide as if in flight, entrails spilling all the way down to the stone pavers like the tail feathers of a great inmyeonjo.
Jimin laughs at his small joke as he wanders back home through the woods, pockets heavy. If he is a bird, let them all be birds.
And long live the king.