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“He gutted my turtle, mother. He turned her into a toy,” Soobin laments, hot on their heavenly mother’s heels, the fabric of his robe curling around Beomgyu’s ankles as if he means to trip him here, in the halls of their father’s palace, and shatter his teeth upon the marble floor. Beomgyu rolls his eyes, indignant, and thanks the heavens around him that their mother cannot see the action. He has no desire to feel the harsh sting of her palm across his cheek once more. He, being among the youngest of all his siblings, is more commonly reprimanded and in much harsher ways. Soobin, being much older and much wiser, receives little reprimanding.
“It was not your turtle,” Beomgyu retorts. He crosses his arms over his chest and kicks at his brother’s overly lively robes. “It belonged to the wilds far beyond my cave. Therefore, it would be more aptly called my turtle, and I have a right to use my animals as I so please.”
“It was not your animal!” Soobin shouts, voice echoing down the hallway ahead of and behind them. Their mother spins around with rage in her wide eyes, black hair as lively as the snakes that steal away the minds of the Gorgons. Soobin cowers under her scornful gaze and Beomgyu casts his eyes at the ground. Though not their mother from birth, she has been as such to them from the moment they both set undeserving foot in this palace so many millennia ago, and they both fear her much more than they would their own mothers.
“That’s quite enough, both of you! I do not have time to listen to such a petty argument. Have your siblings cast ostraka on the matter and leave me be.”
“But-”
“Enough!” she shouts. Her voice is thunderous, much more frightening than those of the boys cowering in front of her, no matter how incensed they may be, no matter how loud their voices may become in such fits of petulant rage. “You are both far too old to be acting like… like earthen mutts. Trouble your siblings with the matter; I will hear no more.”
“Yes, mother,” Soobin acquiesces at the same moment Beomgyu does. They keep their heads down, their annoyance with one another stowed upon rapidly weakening shelves in their minds. Their siblings will be of no help, and Soobin is much too large for Beomgyu to comfortably challenge to hand-to-hand combat now. When they were boys – though Beomgyu was still much younger than Soobin – they stood much more equal.
“Go,” she says firmly. “Before I see you both cast into the maw of Charybdis for your insolence.”
“Apologies, mother,” they say again, before pivoting on the hardy leather of their shoes and making haste back up the hallway. Their feet are silent against the marble, footsteps kept light by the fear weighing heavy in their golden hearts. Hearts set to similar end and thus taking similar heed of a gentle, silent gait. They should be friendly to one another, but Beomgyu simply finds Soobin insufferable.
Around the corner from where they have been sent off, Soobin shoves angrily at Beomgyu’s shoulder. The look on his face is one of outright fury, as if Beomgyu has pushed beyond a reasonable boundary this time. They’ve spent centuries grating on one another’s nerves, pushing just to see when the other will give, but it has never come to an argument so hostile.
“You are the mutt,” he spits, pushing harder when Beomgyu stumbles backwards but collects himself before he can hit the ground. His nails dig into the white stones that comprise the walls of the palace as he steadies himself. “Your earthen mother is to blame for such an offense. Perhaps I should pay her a visit to let her know what an embarrassment her progeny has turned out to be.”
“You will do no such thing,” Beomgyu hisses, and as the words leave his mouth he considers his mother, who sleeps peacefully on the floor of her cave in Cyllene, since she so prefers to be left alone. She cradles his empty blanket in her arms as she sleeps, her body never aching for a proper bed, her lips never dried in the hopes of finding nectar and ambrosia upon them. She wants for nothing, and Beomgyu cannot understand why. “My mother could lay no claim over my rearing. It is your home which instills such pompous entitlement upon its inhabitants. Perhaps your mother would appreciate a visit from one of my followers instead. Or, perhaps that boy in Chios is deserving of such a visit. What was his name…? Ah. Yeonjun, was it?”
Soobin pales. He is so, so easy to frighten that it’s almost laughable, and Beomgyu can already tell he has learned his lesson in tossing threats around as if they mean nothing. Regardless, Beomgyu continues, eager to terrify Soobin into a permanent state of submission.
“Though they aren’t exactly trained for it, I’m sure under the guidance of a… loving hand, they could be convinced to steal life as well as goods and trinkets. Don’t you agree, Soobin?”
“You will not lay a hand on him,” Soobin says, as if to remind Beomgyu of something already well known. Beomgyu sneers, taking a step forward, crowding against Soobin’s chest as if he might stand a chance to frighten him. “He is to be King upon a day.”
“If he’s lain with you as you say he has, he’s nothing more than a whore.”
Soobin’s face draws into a harsh sneer. “You wretched little-”
He does not finish the thought, instead opting to throw his body at Beomgyu. Beomgyu’s back hits the stone wall he had steadied himself on a moment ago. Before he can react, before he finds himself able to slip from his tall, lumbering brother’s grasp, something sharp and cold is pressed to his throat. He swallows, holding Soobin’s eye with his own gaze, not daring to glance down at the fletched arrow held to his flesh. This is not new, nor is it particularly threatening. Soobin is gentle and kind most days, and even his hatred of Beomgyu is not enough to turn him into a murderer.
Though, there’s always reason to strive for what seems just out of reach.
“Perhaps I could get the little temptress to lie with my followers before I have them cut his throat,” he goads, and Soobin presses him harder into the wall, one heavy arm thrown across Beomgyu’s chest while the other digs the head of the arrow further into his flesh. “How many do you think he would permit to use him before he tired out, hm? Or would he not tire at all? Surely someone as beautiful as that is well-versed in pleasing those who would claim undue ownership over his body. Why, perhaps I should pay him a visit myself.”
“I should kill you for speaking of him in such a manner,” Soobin says through gritted teeth. Beomgyu laughs in his face, stretching his chin upward to expose to Soobin the long line of his throat.
“By all means, brother, kill one of your own for the sake of a mortal’s honour,” he huffs. “See how quickly you’re cast out of this place and cursed to live among your precious animals.”
“That turtle was not yours to kill,” Soobin returns to, though it seems like a lesser issue now. Now, Beomgyu has gone too far, dugs his nails into a wound too fresh to bear the burden of his weight. He knows he’s spoken too harshly about Yeonjun, especially given that he is the one and only being for whom Soobin has ever felt affection in his long life. He would not, of course, see the future King of Chios brought to harm, but he would speak of him as if he were lowlier than a dog begging for table scraps so long as it made Soobin angry enough to threaten his life.
“Forgive me if I did not realize that an animal traipsing about in the fucking Thessalian wilderness was owned, you presumptuous ass.”
“They are all owned, you ignorant fool,” Soobin reminds him pointedly. Beomgyu hears footsteps near the corner they’ve just rounded, and he fears that their mother has returned to reassess the terms of their argument and make sound judgement. Soobin does not seem so intrigued by the sound, and Beomgyu figures his ears are much keener from centuries of hunting. It would not surprise him if Soobin could tell who it was from the rhythm of their gait alone. “And they do not deserve to die so that an infant may make a toy of them.”
“It’s a lyre,” Beomgyu hisses. A gasp sounds from their side, but Beomgyu refuses to look away from the murderous glint in Soobin’s dark eyes lest he really try to kill him.
“Oh dear, you two,” the voice says. It is low and melodic, fitting for a god of music and poetry. Beomgyu detests its owner less than their insufferable brother, but not by very much. “Again?”
“He’s slaughtered one of my animals and spoken ill of someone very dear to me,” Soobin says, sparing a look down the hallway. The courtyard over Soobin’s shoulder bathes him in a dull, white light that makes the lines in his face look even harsher. His eyes are deepened with rage, his lips pulled taut like a dog poised to tear the throat out of an intruder upon his master’s land.
“The boy from Chios?” the voice asks, his tone shifting from disappointment to simple intrigue. When Beomgyu finally glances over, he finds Kai’s eyes squarely upon him, arms crossed over his chest. “Beomgyu, that isn’t very becoming of you. He’s quite a nice boy.”
“I would hesitate to agree,” Beomgyu says with a huff. He nods towards Soobin, then turns his attention back to him, “if he’s fallen in with someone like him. Tell me, Soobin, does he even know our mother is responsible for his father’s death?”
“I had no say in Orion’s death and you know that. He was very dear to me.”
“Beomgyu,” Kai says, more sternly. “You know he was given high honours for his service at Soobin’s side.”
“Oh, yes,” Beomgyu mocks the pleasant tone of Kai’s voice. “Yes, I’m sure his permanence among the stars more than makes up for a painful death wrought upon him in the form of scorpion venom.”
“Do you dare to speak against our mother’s actions?” Kai asks, and damn him for always being one step ahead. Always so damn bright, always so difficult to knock down, but never finding trouble knocking down others. That is supposed to be Beomgyu’s strength.
He grits his teeth, holding Soobin’s gaze even as Soobin releases him and steps away. Kai comes to a halt next to his brother, and Beomgyu wishes they were even a fraction less attractive, less large, less intimidating. It’s difficult not to feel so damn inadequate with the two of them around, always judging others, always attached at the hip, always in perfect contrast. Soobin’s hair is dark and cropped short while Kai’s is a startling blonde that hangs just past the tops of his ears and slightly down his neck. Soobin’s skin is pale because he finds it best to hunt (and visit his dear future King) in the night while Kai’s is a deep gold from his time spent under the light of the sun. Soobin is narrow and thin, built for speed and agility while Kai is broad and slightly rounder, built for versatility and hardiness.
“No, brother, I do not.”
“As I suspected,” Kai says with a grin. Beomgyu detests that – that tenderness, that kindness. He always feels calmed in Kai’s presence, even when he has no desire to be. It is an unfair disadvantage to being so close in age to these two siblings, thicker than any guild of thieves moved by Beomgyu’s existence. “Run along now. I’m sure you’ve better things to do than antagonize Soobin on the basis of his dear, beloved Yeonjun.”
“Kai, that is not-”
“Run along, Beomgyu,” Kai repeats. He seems to be in an odd mood today, moved to an unpredictability that is quite uncharacteristic of him. Beomgyu sneers but finds no more strength to fight.
He turns on his heel and stomps away, cursing the usual gentleness of his footsteps upon the marble forcing him to shove his feet down so harshly he feels pain shoot up through the bones of his legs. As he goes, he hears the voice of his older brothers as they begin to bicker about something he couldn’t even care to listen to. It could be about him – it likely is – but he has no energy in him to bother them further. They can speak ill of him, threaten him, treat him as if he’s dirt under their feet all he pleases, for it will never break his spirit. He was born to be a nuisance, his mother once told him, settling against the wall of the cave she so often refuses to leave. She claimed he was born to ensure that the rest of those cretins know their limits, all the manners in which they lack.
He's starting to believe that she was right to hide herself away from the rest of her kin.
Beomgyu has only just settled into the cradle in his mother’s cave when he’s awoken by a crashing sound, a suggestion of inelegance, of a decision made in haste and a lust for blood. He knows because he can taste it in the air, the dampness that lingers from an earlier rain crackling as it would just before their father would strike down a mortal whose existence or countenance displeased him. He is all too familiar with such hatred directed his way, even if the source of such a feeling is usually so kind to him.
There is no question as to what he’s here for. What has drawn his tempestuous brother down from the heavens that could only ever be large enough to house his inflated self-worth. He is egregious in his self-importance, rife with impiety and impatience and impudence. He is a god among gods, Titanic to humans and his own brethren. They all tremble under the sincerity and intensity of his rage, when he feels it fitting to be shown.
And in this moment, he does.
“You are not asleep,” he says through gritted teeth, his hands curled upon the rails of the cradle Beomgyu fits himself into, his body appearing as that of an infant in its crib. “The energy expended towards such deeds of deception is not well spent upon me, brother; I am not one of the fools you take us all to be.”
Beomgyu sighs, the sound unbefitting the body of an infant, and the moment he slinks out of the cradle does he return to his most natural form, bare save for the blanket he uses to cover his lower half. He glances sidelong at the man on the other side of his cradle, his face obscured by the rays of the setting sun. Beomgyu wonders if he has suspended it for the time being, given that Kai is a dramatist in his hollow heart.
“Tell me where you’ve put my cattle or I’ll escort you to the depths of Tartarus myself.”
“You wouldn’t dare see your infant brother so harshly treated,” Beomgyu simpers, batting his eyelashes as if it might charm Kai away from the issue at hand. He recalls the vaunted words Kai paid a dear mortal (whom Beomgyu had decided to visit, though he maintained ample distance. From what he could tell, the future King of Chios was kind. And studious. And very beautiful. And Beomgyu felt his lip curl in annoyance, his mind turn itself over as it tried to reconcile the fact that this perfect man, just shy of his twenty-fourth year, had any reason to be so taken with someone like Soobin. He wondered, of course, whether Soobin came to him as he is – large and strong and gentle and handsome – or if he appeared in his more favoured human vessel – that of a helpless young woman slight in frame and tender in disposition) and how his brothers’ eyes had shone when they spoke of Yeonjun, and he wonders if he might receive the same allowance.
It proves useless. Kai does not even bother to round Beomgyu’s insufferable cradle, nor does he simply nudge it aside. He lifts it, his grip tight around the rail, and throws it clear across the stone room of Beomgyu’s mother’s cave. His face is splotchy and red with anger, the colour nearly deep enough to rival the fires that lick up the gate of the underworld. At once, Beomgyu is pressed against the wall at his back, the feeling of the stone against his skin cold and uncomfortable. He keeps the blanket around his lower half clenched in one hand, the other raised to protect himself from such an assault. A blade of fire appears in his brother’s hand, its shape and colouring matching the rays of the dying sun beyond the cave’s walls.
“Tell me,” Kai demands, standing just as Soobin had only a day earlier with his arm pressed to Beomgyu’s chest and a blade at his throat, the natural heat of the weapon searing the ashen tresses of Beomgyu’s hair where they fall around his chin.
“Pylos!” Beomgyu shrieks, fearful of the blade pressed to his skin, because such an outburst from Kai is rare. The golden laurels upon his brother’s head glisten in the light, rivalled only by the pale gold of his hair. “I left forty-eight of them alongside a section of the river Alpheus in Pylos, where there once stood a large barn across from a plentiful meadow.”
“I had in my possession fifty heads,” Kai says, voice low and slurred in his fiery rage. The blade presses closer to Beomgyu’s throat, dug far enough into the flesh to sting. He wonders, briefly, if he’s begun to bleed, and then he realizes that it would not matter whether his veins have found themselves punctured or not. If he were to lie upon the floor, dead at the hands of his own kin, it would be a minor inconvenience to all but one being upon this earth.
His mother would weep over his body, would set him upon a pyre she crafted with her own frail and pallid hands, and then she would see him properly to the afterlife. He would be more likely to find himself among the Asphodel Meadows than the plains of Elysium, but he would be delivered by loving hands all the same. His mother, the thought of her surviving heartbroken and lonely and hidden by choice from the gods above, is the only reason he does not continue to coax Kai into further anger.
“Upon the lives of two I paid tribute to the gods, for I had never tasted the flesh of a longhorn,” he explains, desperate to keep his life. Desperate to look his mother in the eye once more. “They did not go to waste, brother, nor were they seen to the afterlife on their journey.”
“Lay hand on my possessions ever again and see your life forfeit, do you understand? You will not make me a victim of your schemes.”
“Yes, brother. I- I understand.”
“Then tell me why you would do such a thing,” Kai says, the anger gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced with confusion and exasperation. He has always been an anomaly in that manner. Soobin is likely to still be angry with Beomgyu, would likely still leap on him for a single word spoken out of turn if he were to return to the venerated halls of what should be a home to them both, but Kai is far too capable of simply letting go of that which troubles him. “For the sake of meat you entreat us for blessings? You stand a god yourself.”
“Only in name,” Beomgyu huffs. “I have no place among the rest of you, nor do I have any claim to honest worshippers. This existence is a pitifully lonely one, and I know you are well aware of such a thing.”
Kai laughs softly, the blade dissipates in his hand, returns to the ray of sunlight from which it was torn. “Your followers are thieves, merchants, and other transients. How much honesty might you reasonably expect? And what more companionship do you require than that which you find among the peaks of our home?”
Beomgyu tuts. “Do not pretend to misunderstand my words. Where is Soobin right now?” he asks, pointedly, but he already knows the answer. The shy manner in which Kai ducks his head suggests that he knows very well the point Beomgyu hopes to make.
“He is presiding over the Calydonian festival in his name,” Kai sighs. “They’ve entreated him to fill the nearby forests with more deer, since their families have gone many moons without sufficient meat to feed them.”
“And you,” Beomgyu says, rounding Kai’s body, “only a fortnight prior, when you stumbled through the halls at so late an hour we had all thought you dead, where had you been?”
“Boeotia,” Kai answers, and then he raises his head sharply. “But do not forget, brother, that Pheidias himself constructed your image at the gate of my temple in Thebes.”
Beomgyu laughs humourlessly. “Yes, I recall that old fool lamenting that Scopas was assigned his precious Athene the entire time he worked.”
“Old men are wont to raise complaints for just about anything.”
Beomgyu supposes it’s true, but it had not made it easier to listen to Pheidias lament the straight lines of a man bodily in his twenty-first year, rather than the timeless beauty and supple curves of a goddess so far beyond Beomgyu’s station that he has never seen her upon the slopes of Olympus nor lingering about in its hallways. And he had listened, for every day and every year it took that old man to complete his statue, he had listened. He had nearly felt himself moved to tears at times, at which point he would berate himself for falling victim to a weakness so uniquely human that moisture would not even form in his eyes.
“I suppose.”
“You are a god as any the rest of us are, Beomgyu,” Kai tells him, a hand on his shoulder to reinforce his words. “We may treat you a bit harshly, but do not forget that our father put you here to test us. Your wit, your cunning, your skill, they have not gone unnoticed simply because we are meant to find you… infuriating. Apologies, but that is the truth.”
Indeed, it is, and their father was true to his purpose. Beomgyu’s mother had said so herself. He’s never looked upon his father’s face or been granted audience so that he may ask why. It would be a rare thing for any of his siblings to do so without due course, and such course is not often pleasant. He can’t help but wonder, however, if having any reason to look upon his father’s face would suffice to quiet the loneliness and inadequacy that calls loudly from within him. It demands his attention at every waking moment, gnaws at the inside of his stomach and makes him feel hollow even though he does not need to eat.
Beomgyu opens his mouth to speak to this loneliness, this churning inadequacy, but he does not get the chance. Before Beomgyu can say anything, Kai straightens his back, tilting his head back and forth. Once, when Beomgyu was new to this world and frightened of the outside as his mother seemed to be (but truly was not), a wolf pup wandered through the maw of the cave. It found Beomgyu sitting next to his cradle and, as he spoke to it, raised one ear, then the other. It turned its head back and forth, up and down, as Kai now does, and Beomgyu watches Kai with the same attention he had watched that pup so many millennia ago.
“Tell me, my darling brother,” Kai says, echoing his demand from earlier, though his voice remains gentle and curious. He turns as if drawn by a voice Beomgyu cannot hear, out through the entrance to the cave and onto the hill upon which it hides itself. His mother will return soon, likely with two baskets full of the fruits and berries that are plentiful to this area. He turns to the southwest, his strong nose pointed in the direction of the jagged zeniths of the Arcadian mountains, “is it only a loyal follower that you desire?”
Beomgyu would not ever claim to know what his older brother is thinking at any given moment, nor would he ever think to second-guess his brother’s mysterious schemes. He is not cunning in the way Beomgyu is, though he does not ever speak plainly. His words are better understood through the Pythia, even by the other gods, who often visit her in their chosen human forms to decipher the riddles of their dear brother. As he stands outside a secluded temple to said dear and mysterious brother, he finds himself overcome with the need to ask why.
“I had forgotten there was a temple built in your honour this far from any human settlement,” Beomgyu mutters, kicking at a rock in the dusky orange dirt beneath his feet. Dry, green shrubs and small trees decorate the area, allow it to seem as unassuming as any other slightly flat plain upon a major mountain range.
Kai hums, raising his shoulders in equal parts confusion and resignation. “The Phigaleians are an odd people. Silence. Listen.”
Beomgyu obeys, unperturbed by the lingering harshness in his voice when he gives such an order. Initially, he hears nothing but the cawing of birds in nearby trees and the lowing of cows in the distance. As his ears acclimate to the relative silence of the Arcadian mountains, especially where such a large structure is concerned, he begins to hear the faintest signs of life, of deliberate but harried movements. Someone fearing for their safety, their life. Glancing over their shoulder and moving swiftly atop perfectly polished floors.
A thief. In his brother’s temple.
“Are you sure you would not…” he turns to find Kai, who had been standing at his side only a moment ago. Now, however, he is nowhere to be found, neither among the dry green grasses nor the tall white columns at the top of the stark white stylobate. He turns this way and that, hoping to at least glimpse his brother’s retreating back or the uncertain wobbling of space recently vacated by a god. He finds no such indication as to his brother’s whereabouts. “Kai?”
He receives no answer, yet the thief is set to nefarious purpose inside such a sacred structure, so Beomgyu steels himself to enter. He knows there is nothing a lowly human thief could do to harm him, but it is a frightening thing regardless, to sneak up behind someone in the process of committing not only a crime, but such an egregious display of impiety. It’s a fortunate and vexing thing that Kai hasn’t shoved his way into the main chamber and torn the thief to pieces where he stands. It would make a mess, Beomgyu supposes, especially if the thief is near the altar, but the dedicated followers of his brother that comprise so much of this area’s population would deem themselves blessed to have such work in cleaning blood from their sanctuary.
At the top of the stairs, gazing through the entryway at the permanently burning sconces mounted on the walls, Beomgyu finds himself overcome with nerves. Perhaps this is not mere human folly born of obvious desperation (what other reason would a single man have to molest the temple of a god among gods in such a manner?), but a test. Perhaps Soobin has led something large and violent into the inner sanctum and now he, alongside Kai and as many other gods as they see fitting to witness his humiliation, lie in wait somewhere beyond view. Perhaps he is simply as much a plaything to them as humans are.
He considers turning around and returning to his cradle, but he does not. A voice sounds from deeper in the sanctum, cursing as something clatters to the ground. It is, evidently, not an animal, but that does not mean he is not about to be humiliated in front of those he would call his kin. Drawing a deep breath regardless of his apprehensions, he presses onward.
If there is anything Beomgyu had once been envious of but no longer has any reason to be, it is the hidden caches of gold and jewelry behind the altars in the temples of the gods among gods. His own wealth, stolen from all over, remains hidden behind illusory walls in his cave, which is so often occupied by himself or his mother that robbing it would simply be impossible. Here, however, the cache occupies a room under a dropped section of the stone floor at the base of the golden statue behind the shrine, accessible only if one knows which section of Kai’s gilded robe to tug on. This thief seems to know of such a secret, and he has no qualms about kneeling down into the dust and rodent droppings so he cannot be seen unless searched for.
Beomgyu notes the bag lying on the base of sculpture, carelessly left out in the open, as the man rifles through the precious trinkets kept hidden from the temple’s visitors. He mutters to himself quietly, but his voice carries around the large room. He sounds young, his voice high and warm and lilting in the way that only a youth’s might be upon speaking to themselves. It carries among its barely audible words a playfulness directed at one’s own actions and lack of discretion.
“In the market for a new accessory?” Beomgyu asks into the open silence of the sanctum. He receives a sharp gasp, airy and terrified, and then a hefty thud sounds from the open door behind the altar. There comes more cursing just before a head rises sharply through the wooden door. For a moment, the young man just squints around the room, searching for the source of the voice. When his eyes settle upon Beomgyu near the entryway, Beomgyu feels his chest constrict.
He's beautiful, even more so than the future King of Chios, with a long, sharp nose and round cheeks, eyes wide and dark and sparkling. His mouth hangs half open in shock, and Beomgyu finds it difficult to look away from the pink of his lips, deep enough to put to shame the petals of bougainvillea that climbs the high perimeter walls of so many wealthy seaside homes. His skin is a warm, sun-kissed brown, his hair nearly black.
“How have you found me here?” he asks, and he does not sound at all ashamed by his being caught stealing from a god. Though perhaps he should not be, because the gods themselves are adept at disguising themselves among humans and he has no reason to believe he now faces one.
“I simply followed your stench,” Beomgyu jests. The young man looks at him with contempt at first, and then confusion, and then he ducks his head towards the hollow under his arm.
“Very amusing,” he retorts. His eyes flash with something Beomgyu’s mind cannot decipher at the moment. Or perhaps he simply does not want to decipher it, since he’s been put to task by his brother and would not be able to forgive himself if he became too distracted to stop this thief. He knows, however, that it is the distraction of an unexpected beauty, of the potentially judgemental gaze of someone truly beautiful, weighing upon his mind. “Who are you?”
“Who are you?” Beomgyu returns sharply.
“I am… a caretaker to this temple,” he tells Beomgyu. His lie would have been obvious even if Kai had not sensed a thief in one of his temples and delivered a thief’s patron god directly to the crime, “and I’ve been tasked with rearranging its storage area. It’s really quite a mess.”
“Mm, well, I can see why. Followers of Artemis Triclaria are very dedicated to their offerings.”
The man laughs. “Indeed, they are.”
Beomgyu narrows his eyes, stepping closer. His feet make no sound across the stone floor, and he glances at the images high upon the walls of the sanctum’s interior. Gesturing at the images, he turns towards the young man again, who has begun to climb out of the cache chamber. Beomgyu has no doubt he’ll work to uphold his lie for now and return after dark when it is safer to continue.
“Do you know what these images depict?” Beomgyu asks innocently. The young man shakes his head, dark hair falling into his eyes. Beomgyu presses on. “These here,” he says, gesturing to the northern and western sections, “depict the battle between the Lapiths and the unruly Centaurs, fostered by a lack of civility when the Centaur Eurytion attempted to interrupt the wedding of the Lapithian King Pirithous and abduct his bride, the fair Hippodameia. And these,” he gestures at the eastern and southern sections, “depict the balances of good and evil; the Greeks against the Amazons, respectively. In both tales, goodness and civility triumph over barbarism and preserve the sanctity of human life.”
“Interesting,” the young man says, though he doesn’t sound sincere. “Though how can one measure true goodness on a scale created by one people?”
“Excellent question. May I raise one?”
The young man narrows his eyes briefly in confusion, then blinks rapidly as if to collect himself. He nods.
“Do you know why this temple was constructed?”
The young man’s shoulders rise in a short bout of laughter as if Beomgyu has asked him an unreasonable question. He sits on the base of the statue now, seemingly entranced by Beomgyu’s presence. His feet dangle where he lets his legs hang over the edge like he might push himself down and away from the storage cache to approach this new presence in the temple fully. Something like pride swells in Beomgyu’s chest, to know that even if his siblings can see through his wit, his arrogance, his cunning, humans still cannot.
“To entreat the god’s favour and thank her for the plentiful wildlife in this region,” he says simply. Beomgyu nods. This young man really is beautiful, the light from a crack high on the wall above his head illuminating him as if this temple was built in his honour. Perhaps it’s blasphemous to feel such a thing, but Beomgyu would not be surprised to see a creature like this wandering the halls of Olympus.
“Of course,” he grins. “That is typically what we construct such silly structures for, is it not? Good fortune, vague thanks. To pour libations in the interest of the hypothetical.”
“Potentials for disaster,” the young man agrees.
“Indeed. Famine, war, plague. All good reasons to pray often, and to live one’s life honestly.”
The man’s head twitches to the side. “I would agree.”
“I suppose you haven’t enough years in you to recall the plague that devastated Athens nearly half a century ago?” Beomgyu asks. The young man opens his mouth to answer, but Beomgyu doesn’t give him the opportunity. He’s clearly an intelligent young thing, adept at deception, skilled in feigning innocence. Beomgyu may have been fooled by his lie were he not even more adept at such things. “It devastated the population. A potential for disaster come true to life, and on the eve of an Athenian victory against Lacedaemon and her allies, no less. Victims and spectators alike feared its strength and its source, and they were never given answers to put their fears to bed. When the plague once again reared its head only a few seasons later, threatening further spread across Attica and the Peloponnese, those questions and fears were rekindled anew.”
He scuffs the tip of his shoe along a groove in the stone. The young man says nothing, though he keeps his head cocked as if he is a diligent student hanging onto every word spoken to him by his revered instructor.
“The potential for destruction remained uncertain to most. One thing was certain, however; the Phigaleians were spared from the plague. Their people were unharmed, their markets remained unshuttered, their crops could be tended without fear of loved ones dropping dead in the fields. They were a lucky people, indeed,” he says, pausing to take a breath. He’s nearly upon the young man now, and this close, he can see something beyond interest in his bright eyes. Something exhilarating. Something Beomgyu has never seen or felt directed his way before. He tilts his head back on his shoulder to glance up at the sanctum’s high ceiling. “They felt they needed to pay their respects for their fortune, so they constructed a temple upon a hill to show their thanks.”
He meets the young man’s eyes once more. He feels himself drawn too easily to them, their depth, their warmth, the innocence over which they have no rightful claim.
“This temple is dedicated to Apollo Epikourios. And you, dear boy, are not its keeper.”
The young man does not react to the accusation. Even as Beomgyu draws nearer and nearer – so near, in fact, that he could reach out and place his hands upon the thief’s knees, could carve out a space for himself between his thighs – he remains still in his seat. He seems perfectly pleased with himself, willing to attempt to hide his crimes but not willing to argue against what they both very well know of him. He is a thief, he has been lying, and he will not walk out of this temple as easily as he had walked in.
“Then you are not here by chance,” he accuses in turn. His eyes are darkened by the words, as if he had any trust to lose in a stranger who had walked up behind him. For all he knows, they have both come here for devilish reasons.
“I fear I am not,” Beomgyu acquiesces.
“Who sent you?”
“Allow me to call him a dear friend of mine.”
The young man hums, pushing himself from his perch along the bottom of the statue. He leaves the door to the cache chamber wide open and his bag upon the floor, evidently more interested in Beomgyu. Their chests are pressed nearly flush like this, the heat of a human body counteracting the frigidity of the golden ichor within Beomgyu’s own chest. His flesh, though richly tinted gold by the sun, lacks a softness, an obvious give in its many imperfections. Though this man appears to have no such imperfections to speak of, Beomgyu can smell that fallibility, that vulnerability, slick upon him.
“And your friend,” the young man drawls, taking a step closer to Beomgyu as if he means to challenge him. That something that Beomgyu cannot quite place holds fast to the darkness of his irises, incandescent even in this lighting, “he had seen me enter this temple but chose to do nothing himself?”
“Perhaps he is too much of a coward,” Beomgyu shrugs. The temple shakes around them, dust falling from a wooden beam high above their heads. Beomgyu glances upward as if he might see his heavenly brother through the stone of the roof, as if he might offer an apology with the self-satisfied smile he feels grace his lips at the thought of his brother so incensed by his words.
“Perhaps not a coward, then,” he says as he meets the young man’s eyes again. He reaches upward to knock dust from the dark ends of the young man’s hair, and he is pleased to find that his advance is not poorly received. Beomgyu can feel a stuttered breath across his lips, aches to know the taste of a foreign tongue upon his own. “Perhaps just overly cautious.”
“He sent you because you do not stand as such.”
“Oh, you are perceptive, aren’t you?”
The young man shrugs, but Beomgyu can now see the fear in his eyes, can hear the rapid pounding of his heart beneath the cage of his ribs. He may understand the situation he’s found himself in, or it may be a retained ignorance that draws from him such uneven breaths. Either way, he’s frightened, and Beomgyu does so enjoy the panic of a mortal outwitted. The young man flinches when Beomgyu raises a hand to brush his hair more properly from his wide eyes. He trembles like a newborn deer left to die on the unforgiving floor of a dark wood.
He cocks his head, hoping he communicates some thread of innocence in the action. Beomgyu has no interest in bringing humans to harm, least of all ones whose beauty rivals that of Aphrodite herself, but that does not mean he would not allow himself some amusement at their expense.
“Tell me, little deer,” Beomgyu implores, “what is your name?”
At first, the young man seems inclined to answer, mouth opening obediently upon hearing such an innocent question, and then he reconsiders. He holds his jaw firmly shut, and as quickly as a human can possibly move, he procures from the belt around his waist a small, silver dagger. Beomgyu glances down when it presses into his side and finds himself slightly in awe of the ornate hilt and the solid gold pommel visible in the young man’s grip.
“Unhand me,” he says through gritted teeth, though the threat is not nearly as intimidating from a human as it is from Beomgyu’s own brothers. “Now.”
Beomgyu laughs, though there is a fire in his belly whose heat he cannot dampen. “You will make no such demand of me.”
He grips the blade pressed into his belly, much too quickly for a human mind to comprehend, and wrenches it from the young man’s grasp. In the time it takes the young man to gasp in fear, Beomgyu has pressed him back against the altar, a hand curled so tightly in his hair that tears cling to his long lashes as he pulls. Beomgyu bends him backward, as far as the fragile bones of spine can take, the tip of his own blade drawing blood from the side of his throat where Beomgyu digs it into his flesh. He makes a pitiful sound, one of fear, of resignation, of an understanding that he may very well die here. That he has pushed too far. Something raw and carnal licks up Beomgyu’s spine, something that aims to draw him closer to such a vulnerable body. Something so weak, to be kept at his mercy.
Yet he withholds such a feeling, because as beautiful as this boy is, as intelligent and cunning and – as Kai had suggested after shattering Beomgyu’s beloved cradle to pieces against the wall of his mother’s cave – potentially loyal a follower he may be, Beomgyu does not appreciate being spoken to in such a manner.
“You humans have grown too fucking full of yourselves,” he spits. “You pillage, you rape, you take what does not belong to you and you do so without any code of honour, any boundaries by which to measure your impiety. Your self-important-”
“That’s quite enough, brother,” Kai says from the entryway into the sanctum. He seems at peace with the display here, with the disrespect wrought all across such a sacred place. Beomgyu finds himself at the mercy of a foul taste in his mouth and wants nothing more than to spit onto the floor. He does not release the human clutched beneath his fingers as Kai approaches, clucking his tongue as if Beomgyu is a child that has refused to share his toy. “I did not bring you here to kill the poor thing.”
“I believe it may be fitting punishment.” He cannot imagine why Kai would have brought him to deal with this thief if he would not let Beomgyu exact punishment on him as he saw fit. It is his duty to guide the thieves of the world, indeed, and to sway them from acts of inane stupidity such as stealing from a god.
“Beomgyu. You will not kill one of your own followers within the walls of my temple.”
Beomgyu feels his face curl into a sneer. “He is no follower of mine. He is an embarrassment to all who share that title.”
The young man looks between the two gods, his eyes wide with fear and confusion and, shortly after such initial reactions, realization. He looks to Kai as if silently asking for his aid, and he looks to Beomgyu as one would a mad man speaking in tongues in the centre of the acropolis. Beomgyu feels none of the sympathy he would usually expend towards thieves, even those who would direct themselves towards spoils they have no hope of acquiring. Rather, he feels white-hot rage at a thief who would be so comfortable in his recklessness that he would threaten anyone who dared stumble upon his crime.
Though perhaps he is being unfair, since there is no way this poor fool would have known Beomgyu’s status among the heavens.
“Your short temper is unbecoming,” Kai tells him, and then Beomgyu hears the damp, deliberate separation of his lips. His footsteps recede, tracing a path back towards the wide entryway. “By all means, kill the boy if it so pleases you. But know that you will be the one to clean his blood from my altar.”
And with this warning, Kai takes his leave. The sanctum is awash in silence once more, save for the shivering heaves of a boy clinging to life only because Beomgyu has never once taken the life of a human. He has delivered souls to the plains of the underworld and he is undoubtedly acquainted with death in an intimate manner, but he has not once taken the power to end a life into his own hands.
“Your name,” he repeats harshly. He has no need for the boy’s name, but he wants to hear it now on a matter of principle, for the reason of being paid a bare minimum respect by a human. The boy’s eyes are damp with tears he refuses to shed, delicate fingers clenched tight around Beomgyu’s wrist as he presses the boy’s blade into his throat with a finality that suggests he will not be asking once more. The blade’s tip is stained red from the small wound weeping at the side of his neck, long and slender, and Beomgyu wonders somewhere in the darkest recesses of his mind what his palm might look like more properly pressed into the flesh there.
“Taehyun,” the boy tells him. His eyes are so wide and frightened that Beomgyu is momentarily drowned in remorse. “My name is Taehyun.”
Clenching his jaw, he removes the blade from the boy’s throat. It clatters to the ground from his loosened fingers as a sign that Beomgyu does not intend to cause this Taehyun anymore harm. The wound on his neck continues to bleed, a thin trail of crimson rushing towards the pale grey of his robes.
“You have some nerve, treating the gods with so little respect,” he huffs, though he finds himself unable to look away from Taehyun’s neck as he stands up straight once more. He stands half a head below Beomgyu’s impressive height (a fact of the latent godliness even in this favoured human form), his limbs long and possessing an elegance that Beomgyu has yet to see in any other human.
“My apologies,” Taehyun says as he stoops into a deep bow, and the words sound sincere. “I had not known you stood as such.”
Beomgyu cocks his head. “You knew this was a temple when you entered it, did you not?”
“I…” Taehyun sucks his plump bottom lip into his mouth. Beomgyu is mesmerized by the sight of it, unable to give the matter at hand the proper attention it warrants. “I suppose I could not have thought it used for any other purpose.”
“Indeed not, unless you stood as blind as the fabled seer himself.”
Taehyun seems to grow shy at the quip, his cheeks flaring red as he ducks his head so that Beomgyu cannot see his face. A pity, really, given that Beomgyu had just about fallen completely into those eyes, finding himself entranced by the gentler (but still so timid) cadence of Taehyun’s voice now that they’ve found themselves upon slightly more equal footing.
He’s quite the intriguing specimen; a voice like honey, skin like the sun, eyes as dark and deep as Tartarus itself and lips a daring, dainty pink in a world so drenched in blood and muck. Although Beomgyu can tell in his demeanor and his countenance that he is human, he does not appear as such. He appears radiant, divine, a rival to the beauty that Beomgyu and his siblings possess. Beomgyu wonders, sparingly, how a boy such as this one has been passed over in the gods’ endless labours, in their ceaseless conquest over humanity through means of sex and covetousness. Surely, someone among Beomgyu’s flock would covet this boy.
Perhaps they have simply never had the pleasure of laying eyes upon him.
Perhaps Beomgyu is the first, brought here upon the will of a god among gods to confront a human in a temple over which Beomgyu lays no claim. A labyrinthian scheme, undeniably, yet one that Beomgyu cannot see having any significant end.
“My mother and father are not long for this world,” he says pitifully. The skin of his forehead crinkles under the weight of his pain and his fear, and Beomgyu finds himself compelled to reach out to smooth his fingers along the affected area. “Their doctor has demanded payment for his diligent service, and we have nothing to give him. I assure you I am no thief by nature.”
Beomgyu cocks his head, hollow heart swollen with a commiserative grief. “From where do you hail, little deer?”
“Brenthe,” Taehyun tells him, and this time he does not hesitate in answering Beomgyu’s questions, well aware of the consequences. “Where the Gortynion gorge finds its waters stolen away by Alpheion currents.”
That alone is sufficient explanation as to his lack of knowledge on this temple. Beomgyu approaches him, heeding not to the way his weak mortal body trembles under Beomgyu’s steady gait, the way he curls in to protect the most fragile pieces of himself. He lifts his hand to the side of Taehyun’s neck and beyond, tilting his head upward so the jagged edges of the wound are parted well enough for Beomgyu to look properly upon them. The cut is deep, deeper than he’d meant it to be, and it dribbles anew when Taehyun swallows hard in his panic. The apple in his throat – and Beomgyu thinks it must have slipped the grasp of Ladon himself to be so perfect, so warm in its ministrations against the muscles of this boy’s throat, drawing the languid and melodious sounds of a harp wrought from sunlight – rises and falls against the pad of Beomgyu’s thumb.
“Your people worship that intolerable Naiad,” he mutters, turning Taehyun’s head to the side. He is not well-versed in caring for the ill or the wounded, but he has seen enough in his millennia to nurse a wound so trivial back to health.
“Come,” he demands upon finishing his inspection, “leave this awful place with me.” The temple trembles in rage around them. “I will care to that wound and see what’s to be done about your ailing mother and father.”
“You will?” Taehyun asks, that fiery disposition returned to him. He seems to take a moment to collect himself, to present himself as more of a man than an excitable child. “To what end?”
And that is one question among many for which Beomgyu has no answer. To what end, indeed, would he help a human so insignificant? Upon what path does he set himself in feeling the lazy wobbles of guilt in his stomach for the pain and fear he has inflicted in their brief time together? And why has his dear brother brought him here, commanded him to deal with this thief-who-is-not-a-thief?
“Pity,” he reasons, for it is all he can think to say. “Come.”
Taehyun builds a fire beyond the entryway to Kai’s venerated temple, so sturdy and cocksure in its construction that it seems fit to survive many more millennia to come, so starkly black in opposition to the flames that curl towards the sky that it seems itself a beast in the night. He allows Beomgyu to sit at his side and tend to the weeping wound on his neck, a golden basin of water in the space left vacant between their bodies and a cloth the colour of ivory dripping around Beomgyu’s fingers. Taehyun is tense, muscles wound taut, when Beomgyu first lays a hand against his breast to tug the copper-stained fabric of his robes aside.
“Apologies,” he says without sufficient consideration of his words, of admitting folly to a human. Alas, humans stand in the image of the divine, and Beomgyu has all but torn into this one as if he was an animal meant for slaughter, “I did not mean to cut so deeply.”
“You’ve no reason to apologize,” Taehyun assures him, though Beomgyu can hear the gratitude in his tone.
“I’ve caused you harm,” Beomgyu argues. Taehyun only shrugs, disrupting the movement of Beomgyu’s hands as he wipes Taehyun’s skin clean of the blood that has begun to dry on it. “I could have taken your life.”
“Just as any mortal might have had they stumbled upon me in your stead.”
“I would expect any human to treat you with such care, as well, were they to wrong you as I have.”
Those lips, blooming pink, dry from almost a day’s walk to this place, only a small bit of water Beomgyu had drawn forth for them, and so frighteningly enticing, curl upwards into a bare hint of a smile. It’s tinted with sadness, one that radiates outward from his core, colouring his very existence grey.
“Would that humans treated their own with such regard.”
“Perhaps it appears less laborious to treat those beneath us with sympathy than those who would share our station in this life,” he murmurs, and he considers the future King of Chios, the way Soobin’s eyes glimmer in a way Beomgyu has never known them to before, how he slips into a state of conscious dreaming when he looks upon the city from the peaks of a home he shares with so many like him. A home Beomgyu would never share even if his mother had not chosen to cast herself and her progeny out of such deserved abode, even if he were to sleep in its sprawling chambers and wander its endless halls for the rest of eternity. “We may see the weakest pieces of ourselves in such beings.”
Taehyun begins to turn his head, then thinks better of it. He allows Beomgyu to continue working, eyes intent upon the long and firm lines of his body, the brown of his skin, the miniscule hairs that shine almost white upon his flesh under a light sheen of sweat, sprung forth from the heat of his impressive fire. It crackles and hisses like a wicked serpent concealed by bushes at their feet.
“Do you and your kin really think us that far beneath you?” he asks. “Even when we are fashioned in your image?”
Beomgyu laughs softly. It brushes the ends of Taehyun’s hair. “I have lived among the gods; do not mistake my acknowledgement of your subordination for an insult. The gods are a prideful group, envious and uncouth even in the many kindnesses they afford humans.”
Taehyun hums. His skin vibrates against Beomgyu’s fingers, still pressed to the column of his throat as he works to cover the wound with a clean, dry strip of cloth. Four times over, he winds the cloth around Taehyun’s neck, giving his thanks to his siblings scattered across the Olympian peaks for the disruptive white alongside the gold. Beomgyu fears that any moment longer spent with his eyes upon such a sight would push him to delirium, towards a carnal edge that might forever taint the purity, the sanctity, of his godliness. Soobin has fallen victim to such a thing already, and it has driven him mad in many ways, weakened him beyond repair. Were one to take the King of Chios’ throat between his hands, not so unlike the way Beomgyu had tenderly held Taehyun’s neck only a moment ago, with intent to extinguish the flame of life, Soobin would find himself shattered. Shards of terracotta across the immaculate floors of their home.
Beomgyu does not know if he would feel sympathy for his brother, but he knows he would feel great pain for the boy killed to fell a god.
“Your lives – your bodies and minds – are fragile. You sicken, you bleed, you age, and you die. We place you below ourselves only so that we may guide you properly through the brambles alongside such a path as they reach for your flesh to tear it. After all,” he continues, pressing the tip of his finger to the tip of Taehyun’s strong nose when Taehyun glances at him once again. His eyes converge upon the offending digit, reminding Beomgyu much of a child in a great theatre at Eretria, who had been attempting to raise the spirits of their sick young friend by contorting their face wildly, “it is you humans who turned fire into gentle hearth, stone into exalted temple. Our world is at your feet, and you have made wonders with it.”
“By way of the gods’ will,” Taehyun argues. Beomgyu feels warm at his centre, the sensation thrumming in his fingertips, at each unabashed display of this boy’s wit.
“Yes, but we will only those who are capable, little deer. We would not give such monumental tasks to any creature that could not see them realized, understand?”
“I suppose. You would prefer to impose your will on those who are deserving.”
“You are quickly proving yourself very deserving of the gods’ attention,” Beomgyu tells him, and no sooner than the words leave his mouth does he feel himself flushed with embarrassment. He should not be saying such things to a lowly human, clever and handsome as he may be, and the ease with which the words pass his lips frightens him.
Taehyun flushes in turn, cheeks darkening in the dim glow of the setting sun. Beomgyu is sure he has never seen a creature so captivating, a body so delicately lithe and strong, a heart so set on its filial purpose that it should risk being eternally haunted by impiety for the sake of its forebears. Taehyun is an intriguing soul, colourful and captivating to his core, balanced and kind. Beomgyu can feel the warmth that flows through him, something like lightning crackling in his – his, his own, and Taehyun’s – gut. He feels Taehyun as a part of himself, somehow, their likeness and their contrast and a shared, cloying desire moving in tandem within his golden veins.
Taehyun swallows, languid beneath the cloth that hides his wound from the world, and glances at the ground.
“Forgive me,” Beomgyu implores, “I’ve spoken out of turn.”
“Not at all,” assures Taehyun. “It is simply high praise, higher still when spoken by a god himself. I fear I do not know how to appropriately respond.”
“Ah, yes, you humans and your decorum. How miserable a coda by which to live one’s life.”
“Well, how would a god respond?” he asks, his eyes wide with amusement and intrigue. Beomgyu has seen the morning sun as it shines through the clouds that surround his heavenly would-be home, has dined with stars under the stark white glow of a full moon. His father carries lightning upon his belt.
And yet has never seen light as it exists in the darkness of Taehyun’s starlit eyes.
Beomgyu nods toward the temple laid out before them, a large, looming thing in the darkness. The sun has gone down at its back, casting the earth in the structure’s long shadows. “With the same brazenness required to steal from a god among gods.”
“To attempt to steal,” corrects Taehyun.
Beomgyu cannot help the short burst of laughter he releases at the indignant tone of Taehyun’s voice. “Yes, attempt. My sincerest apologies.”
“Tell me, then,” Taehyun says, tracing the tips of his fingers along the ashen strands of Beomgyu’s hair as if he means to tuck them away for the time being, “is it that godly brazenness that finds your eyes so often drawn from mine own when we speak? Or is it merely a childish lack of restraint?”
That word. Childish. Beomgyu detests it, detests it even more coming from lips so plush and full, detests the wicked curl of a tongue so pink and damp beyond those lips so ardently that he aches through to his core to press down upon that tongue, to part those lips in cries of pain, of passion, of pleasure. Perhaps he might immobilize them through the violence so characteristic of his kind, so uncaring to the beauty and the delicate nature of a human being embracing a godlike boldness.
“I am often described in both terms,” Beomgyu tells him, and he keeps his eyes on those lips as they stretch into a smile, revealing in earnest the straight edges of bright, white teeth so similar in places to those of a wolf poised to tear out the throat of its prey. How odd, how exhilarating, that Beomgyu finds himself in the grips of fear as Taehyun had only moments ago.
The hum Taehyun releases is resolute, his eyes unwavering as he holds Beomgyu’s gaze like he means to break him apart. To see his stalwart apathy towards humans – towards all humans but this one – shatter into pieces in the halls of his mind, of a home that is not a home. A home here on earth, a planet shared by a being such as this one. Beomgyu feels exalted, feels less than human, under his gaze.
“Perhaps unfairly,” Taehyun mutters. They’ve drifted so close, the tips of their knees sharing in the warmth of proximity. He allows his eyes to slip shut once he can feel Taehyun’s breath across his lips. A hand rests on his cheek. “There is no childlike naivety in you. You know very well the path you tread.”
“And which path is that?”
When he dares to open his eyes once more, he finds Taehyun’s eyes impossibly wider, impossibly more beautiful. Beomgyu can see the webbing, the tangled limbs of universes stretched backward into his body for an eternity in the brown of his irises. He could slip comfortably into that net, could fall forever into his warmth. His mind, in its weight and its lightness, has confused itself, has been stolen away by the fingers that trace his jaw, his lips, the slightly angular rise and fall of his cheek bone.
“A path which would see you farther into the unknown than you’ve ever dared to venture,” Taehyun murmurs. Beomgyu’s breath – unnecessary for his being, his stature in this infinitely miniscule universe, but integral to his form here on earth. Here, with Taehyun at his side – stutters as if he has choked on the air around him. “Does that thought frighten you?”
Nothing should frighten a god. Nothing should tear one from their place above the world. Nothing should have ever filled him with the same envy and fear as Soobin’s confession to having fallen in love with the future King of Chios, so many moons ago.
Yet, as he gazes into Taehyun’s eyes and feels the rapid beating of a hollow heart within his chest, he is frightened. He is so, so very frightened.
“Yes.”
“Then perhaps you’ve more humanity in you than you think.”
Perhaps he does. When Taehyun leans forward to press those lips to Beomgyu’s own, he certainly feels human. He feels that fallibility, that fear, the thrum of something fleeting in his veins. When he pitches forward to curl his fingers in the fabric of Taehyun’s robe and pull him closer, he feels an excitement so characteristic of the human mind that he loses track of himself entirely.
Taehyun settles with his knees on either side of Beomgyu’s thighs in the dirt, that warm, broad hand against his cheek joined by its equally gentle counterpart. Beomgyu allows himself to indulge in that excitement, feels his mind slipping from its stoicism, its divine poise. He grips at Taehyun’s thighs to keep him close, as if either of them might find any reason to pull away. He is gripped by ecstasy, chest rumbling against a moan when Taehyun presses his tongue into Beomgyu’s mouth. Beomgyu has taken many a lover in his life – how could he not? How was he ever to look upon someone beautiful, beautiful almost like the man in his lap now but not quite, and not be overcome with desire? – but he has never had one quite as demanding, as ferocious, as Taehyun.
He feels intoxicated. He wants to intoxicate, empty Taehyun’s clever little mind and replace every sharp-tongued response with thoughts of Beomgyu’s hands and mouth upon him. He wants Taehyun writhing below him, his body lost to a passion and a pleasure unattainable with any other lover, if either of them chooses to allow him such a thing.
“Beomgyu,” Taehyun pants when he pulls away, his lungs burning with a need for air. Beomgyu feels no such inclination, and he feels himself whimper at the loss of Taehyun’s mouth on his. He feels pathetic, undone, as insignificant here upon this hill as every drop of rain into the Aegean Sea since its conception. Taehyun must have retained his name after Kai’s use of it, and it sounds like the blood-pound of the universe within his ears.
“What would you have of me, Taehyun?”
The name feels odd as it rolls languidly from his tongue, strangely human, strangely simple. He is not, in the arms of such an eager and beautiful creature, a god amongst men. He is Beomgyu, a giver of pleasure, given over to pleasure. He is debauched, debauches, he has no place among the heavens. He would not have them even if he did.
“Fuck me,” he requests, the words sounding far too filthy to drip like honey from the ends of Taehyun’s lips. Beomgyu is returned to the first thought that had invaded his mind at the moment Taehyun’s head rose from the cache chamber: he is beautiful. Truly, in a manner Beomgyu has never known another human to be able to achieve. He has seen them try, hoping to seduce the object of their affections or, at times, him. They arch their backs, they flutter their eyelashes, they lift the hem of a skirt or drop the arm of a robe to reveal larger swathes of unblemished skin. They entice, they invite, they demand attention, and yet they are not Taehyun. Beomgyu has never found himself as entranced by their advances as he is by the flush high on Taehyun’s round cheeks. His lips part around a broken moan when Beomgyu presses his mouth to the corner of his jaw, mindful still of his healing wound. Perhaps he should have requested Kai’s aid, though of course he did not know he would ache to press his mouth to the unblemished skin there.
Perhaps he could fashion something less restrictive, or perhaps only a few minutes of pressure on the wound has been sufficient to stop the bleeding. Perhaps, if he were to draw the blood to the surface on the other side of his throat, he could give pause to the bleeding he’s caused on the injured side.
A huff leaves his lips. The thought is childish, as so many of them are.
“Not here. On your feet.”
Taehyun obeys, so eager to please. He may, Beomgyu thinks, be seeking to remedy his prior sacrilege, but Beomgyu pays no mind to such an infraction now. Now, his mind is set to one purpose and one purpose only, and he has never been one to stray from such an obsession. It may be ill-fitting to call Taehyun an obsession after so short a time together, but that is also of little importance. He wants, deep into the core of his being, into that which cannot be fully touched nor seen nor described. He wants in the same way he breathes, in the same way the universe bends to the will of his and his siblings’ meddling hands. He wants in the way one claims to want but actually means to say they need.
“The sanctum,” he says, dragging Taehyun by his hand towards the temple once more, and he reasons to himself that they’ll be better protected from the elements and from the animals to which Soobin lays such undeserved claim. He heeds not the possibility of Kai’s knowledge of further sacrilege within the walls of his temple. Given that the temple does not react to his presence when he sets foot upon its steps, he would assume that Kai has turned his attention elsewhere. Likely to the nymph he has spent centuries attempting to woo to no avail, which Beomgyu feels is a much better use of his time than the constant surveillance of a temple hidden high in the Arcadian mountains.
Taehyun, above all else, has the nerve to laugh. “Did you and your brother not chide me for my disrespect toward a god among gods? Now you seek to profane his sacred altar even further?”
Beomgyu blinks owlishly. “The altar would provide much more comfort than the floor.”
He tugs Taehyun up the steps of the temple and into the sanctum, turning their bodies to push him backward, deeper into the structure. His lips find no more energy for protest once Beomgyu seeks them out with his own again, tongue pressing eagerly into Taehyun’s mouth. It feels wet, hot, perfect as Taehyun sucks on Beomgyu’s tongue, whimpers against the muscle. He allows Beomgyu to crowd him against the cool stone of the altar, hands finding purchase around his strong thighs to lift him until his legs wrap tightly around Beomgyu’s trim waist. Taehyun gasps, the truth of Beomgyu’s inhuman existence seemingly lost on his limited mind.
“Undress me,” he says, the cadence of his voice slow and deliberate, pressed to Beomgyu by his forehead, nose, and hardening cock at the lowest part of Beomgyu’s stomach. He seems to be clinging to coherency against the desires of his body, legs curling and uncurling around Beomgyu’s waist as he fights for control over a natural submission to something so far beyond him. “Make me yours. Your- your loyal follower.”
Beomgyu has neither the reason nor the clarity of mind to disagree, to ask if Taehyun is experienced in such a thing, if he has reason to treat him with extra caution. Taehyun seems to have no patience for such feeble considerations, settling himself on his elbows when Beomgyu places him upon the altar, bare and vulnerable as if he, himself, is an offering. Perhaps he is. Perhaps Kai has found himself a new obsession and Beomgyu is merely the divine deliverer.
Beomgyu grasps at the altar until he finds a cracked amphora, elegantly designed and small enough to fit into his palm. He holds it under his nose to discern its contents and finds himself pleased to be met with the rich, thick smell of olive oil. Perhaps Kai really had arranged such a meeting, or perhaps a temple to the god of poetry is unfortunately predisposed to young lovers finding sentiment and pleasure within its walls.
Taehyun is the sun against the dreary grey of the clouds overhead, the break of day after a long and frigid night. His skin is golden brown against the altar, fingers curling in the cracks they find along the edges. He sinks his teeth into his bottom lip when Beomgyu drags his hands down the length of his body, from the bandage encircling his neck to the lines of muscle distinguishing the very tops of his thighs from his slanted hips.
“I’ve never laid eyes on anyone quite like you,” he admires, leaning down to press his lips to the centre of Taehyun’s chest. He drags his tongue along the subtle pink of the flesh there, until he can enclose his mouth around Taehyun’s nipple, hardening either from the latent chill of an old stone building in the night or from Beomgyu’s hands and mouth upon him. His back arches, mouth dropping open as he moans, fingers curling into the tresses of Beomgyu’s hair. Anyone could happen across them like this, giving themselves over to base pleasures like animals in heat. Anyone could see Taehyun so debauched, his breathing a series of short, ragged puffs as Beomgyu mouths at his chest. He drags his thumb over Taehyun’s other nipple, allowing the fingernail to catch on the very tip. Taehyun’s stomach flutters against his chest, a pathetic mewl ripping itself free from his throat.
“Tell me how you prefer to be fucked, little deer. Should I take you as I would some blushing virgin, or the whore you’ve proven yourself to be?”
Taehyun does not answer, opting instead to swallow thickly. He remains with his head thrown back when Beomgyu shifts to his opposite nipple, laving his tongue across it as he had the first. In a fit of impatience, he clasps his teeth gently around the skin and tugs until Taehyun cries out loud enough that his voice echoes off the sacred walls around them.
“The whore,” he answers, panting. “Take me like a whore. Please.”
Beomgyu can’t help but grin against the skin of Taehyun’s chest, now reddened and damp not only from the sweat on his skin and the arousal running hot through his veins, but as well from Beomgyu’s mouth against him. He looks unearthly, something beyond even Beomgyu’s – even Kai’s – station like this. His skin matches the hue of his lips, abdomen shining with sweat, cock standing proud against his stomach where Beomgyu has him bent backwards over the altar. The angle of his back seems painful, the purple-red flush to his cock even more so, and yet he takes what Beomgyu gives him as if he was born to feel such pain right alongside his pleasure.
“As you wish.” He kisses the centre of Taehyun’s abdomen, where his ribs give way to the soft flesh of his stomach and the spongy slickness of organs beneath. He makes himself so vulnerable in this position – his back bent over the stone, his lower half hanging off to cling to Beomgyu’s waist. He leans into Taehyun’s neck when Taehyun rises back up onto his elbows, nipping at his earlobe. It presses his cock closer to Taehyun’s, slightly smaller in length and girth than Beomgyu’s own, and bends him more deeply in half. “I had not thought you a virgin, anyway.”
Taehyun keens, head thrown back to hide the heat of his shame. Beomgyu dips his fingers into the narrow mouth of the amphora next to Taehyun’s arm, and wastes no more time on establishing Taehyun’s desire. It’s laid out before him in so many ways that he would be a fool to think Taehyun anything but an overeager plaything. When he hooks one of Taehyun’s knees over his shoulder and presses the other out to the side as far as it can reasonably go, he finds the fluttering of Taehyun’s empty hole as much an invitation as any.
That mouth, those lips, so delicate, so innocent, so lewd in their innocence, so demanding in their timidity, open around harsh pants as Beomgyu works him open from one finger to four, the tight wet heat of his entrance drawing Beomgyu back in each time he attempts to remove himself. Taehyun whimpers his name, calls upon the gods as if to deliver him from the pleasure and the pain (and oh, Beomgyu thinks, they certainly will) of being so debauched, treated so harshly by a being built for reverence. Beomgyu hopes, as he pumps his fingers in and out of Taehyun’s greedy hole, when he leans over to swallow those shrewd moans down into his own chest to keep them close to his hollow heart, that Taehyun will revere him once they’ve had their fill of one another’s bodies. He would not take issue with finding Taehyun on his knees in Beomgyu’s own temple, in finding those lips upon his skin at the coming of dawn. He would take Taehyun as a lover, as a dedicated follower, as a whore pedalling his wares to any in the agora who would look his way. He would take him now, in a day’s and a fortnight’s and a decade’s time, and entangle himself in something more divine than the simple and lonely fact of his own existence.
“Gods, will you just fuck me?” Taehyun huffs, impatient with the great care Beomgyu pays him.
Beomgyu feels it too, in the pit of his stomach, in the tightness between his legs. He’s wound taut, fabric pulled close to snapping. Yet in retaliation for Taehyun’s words, he crooks his fingers upwards in search of that sweet spot within him. It takes him only a moment to find it, and Taehyun unravels.
The pinch of displeasure that had settled across his brow smooths into bliss, his mouth hanging wide open, skin aglow in the low orange of the fires in the lit sconces along the walls. His eyes slip shut while Beomgyu fucks him on his fingers, half inclined to watch him struggle through his release with only that much to satisfy.
Yet he is not the cruel, nor does he possess such self-restraint. So, when Taehyun kicks angrily at his shoulder to press him into further action, he slips his fingers free of Taehyun’s hole, and coats his hand once more from the amphora to slick the length of his cock up.
“By the gods, finally,” he purrs, sated, when Beomgyu lines the head of his cock up against Taehyun’s entrance. He would be brutal, would not wait for Taehyun to acclimate and would take him as he damn well pleases – as a whore should be – but he does not have such a cruel heart when he looks upon Taehyun’s face.
“You’ve quite the mouth for something so weak,” Beomgyu hisses. Taehyun cries out again, voice thrashed, when Beomgyu presses the head of his cock inside. He feels the tight ring of muscle part for him, feels Taehyun’s walls squeeze him as if ensuring the reality of this newfound presence. His eyes flutter shut, a delicate, kittenish moan slipping from his lips at the larger intrusion. “Have you forgotten that I still hold your pathetic little life in my hands?”
He slides a hand up Taehyun’s stomach, to his chest, to his neck, beyond the bandages that conceal his first taste of fear at Beomgyu’s hands, and he grips Taehyun’s jaw between his fingers. With one hand, he drags him forward, holding him so tightly that the roundness of his cheeks gives entirely under Beomgyu’s hands. Taehyun grips the offending wrist with both slender hands. “You do not give me orders, little deer. You would do best not to forget your place in this world. Understand?”
Slowly, he presses in, ensuring that Taehyun feels every ridge, every vein, until he’s seated fully inside of him. He keeps his fingers wrapped tightly around the upper sliver of Taehyun’s neck not covered by his bandage, squeezing when Taehyun does not respond.
“Do you fucking understand me, Taehyun?”
Panting, Taehyun’s glazed eyes manage to find Beomgyu’s in the darkness. He nods weakly against the grip by which he is held captive. “Yes! Yes, I understand. My apologies, I did not mean to- oh-”
Beomgyu draws his hips back and fucks up into Taehyun harshly, the movement sending pleasure in sparks of heat down his back. He wants more, needs more, but he will not take more until Taehyun regains some semblance of coherence. Against the will of his body, he releases Taehyun’s neck and smooths his hand back down his lithe body, placing it back around his hip.
“Taehyun,” he says sternly, though he hopes his concern is audible alongside the firmness of his tone, “tell me if I hurt you; if you need to stop.”
Taehyun meets his eyes, hazy but grasping onto this, onto the reality of this moment. His eyes widen briefly as if he’s startled by the tenderness of the request, and then he nods.
“Take me, Beomgyu,” he whispers, and in so many millennia, Beomgyu has never heard his name more perfectly uttered. “Please, take me.”
Beomgyu could not refuse. He is not a strong man, he has never spent much of his time fighting against the baser pleasures of what would be a human life. He does not refuse himself good things, and this, he thinks, this is perfection. This is divinity, wrapped in a white bow dyed crimson, lost in the mountains of Arcadia with stars in its eyes and deep pink petals in bloom around the sweetest voice Beomgyu has ever heard. This is the beauty of eternity, of the freedom given to him and his siblings by their birthright.
This, Beomgyu thinks, is a reason to be. This boy in his arms, the tight wet heat around his cock, the moans that spill unbidden from a wounded throat that pays no heed to its injury. He grips the meat of Taehyun’s ass as he fucks him, nails biting into the flesh to combat the way he slides against the sweat pooling between their bodies. Taehyun is lust, is innocence, is golden as the ichor in Beomgyu’s veins. Coveted, unseen, unearthly.
“Please,” he whimpers, head thrown back, cock bouncing against his stomach while Beomgyu thrusts up into him. His impressive size and the sharp angle at which Taehyun keeps his body allows Beomgyu a glimpse of his cock moving deep inside of Taehyun’s body. “Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease-”
Beomgyu focuses his attention on that bundle of nerves inside of him, staying close to massage it with his cock before pulling back out and abusing it as he sees fit. Taehyun is tempestuous in his lust, gripping the altar wherever he can dig his fingers into the cracks, arms knocking votive offerings this way and that as they kick up dust into the air. Beomgyu leans forward to kiss his jaw, to bring his mind back to the world around them, and when Taehyun leans his head down to meet Beomgyu’s lips with his own, he knows he’s found him.
“There you are, little deer,” he purrs against Taehyun’s lips. Tears streak his face, Beomgyu’s cock working languidly against his prostate. The noises he makes when he grips Beomgyu tight and buries his face into the safety of his neck are hardly human anymore. He sounds like an animal lost in its heat, mewling and whining and sobbing for something to fuck it, to take the edge off, to fill it with seed. “Stay close to me.”
And Taehyun does. His arms curled around Beomgyu’s shoulders, his tears wetting Beomgyu’s cheeks where they fall in fat droplets, his cock trapped between their bellies and given so little friction, he stays close. His walls flutter around Beomgyu’s cock, nails clawing at the flesh of his back enough that even through a veil of godliness does it sting to the heavens, his airways blocked with the force of his emotion. It is not uncommon, in Beomgyu’s experience, for a human to experience the weight of the universe upon their feeble body while fucked by a god, to be brought to tears by responsibility and the shirking of it.
“Let me come,” he whimpers into Beomgyu’s mouth. Beomgyu’s body is scorching, mind a tangled web of pleasure and pain. It aches low in the pit of his stomach and in the way his balls draw up tight in anticipation to pump Taehyun full of his seed as if he might carry his progeny. “Please, Beomgyu. My beloved-”
A growl tears itself from Beomgyu’s chest, though he is unsure whether it is a result of pleasure or annoyance with that term of endearment. He braces a hand against Taehyun’s chest and shoves him so harshly against the stone that the string of saliva that extends between their lips when they part snaps in two. Taehyun cries out in pain. Beomgyu has not meant to, but neither of them heed the severity of such an action all that deeply. Beomgyu burns with a need to empty himself into the body beneath him, the human weakness – their need for continuance, for stability – that he has drawn so close to that edge.
Taehyun’s release paints his chest, sudden and jarring. He shudders with the force of his orgasm, shattered voice echoing off the chamber as if the muses themselves have blessed such a union. He’s debauched, destroyed, the tattered edges of his mind so far apart that he could not hope to even hold them together in his palms as Beomgyu fucks him for the sake of his own pleasure.
“So good, little deer,” he pants. He finds Taehyun’s hand upon the wrecked altar and slots his fingers into the spaces between Taehyun’s own. “You’ve done so well; you’ve been so perfect for me. You take me so well.”
It takes only a few brutal more thrusts, his hand on Taehyun’s hips to move him up and down on his cock. Taehyun has gone completely limp, spent and sated, and Beomgyu is unsure if he’s conscious. It isn’t until he comes, thrusting so deeply inside of Taehyun’s tight little body that he’s sure he’s painted his inside with remnants with himself, that he sees Taehyun’s eyelids flutter, eyes searching but unseeing. Beomgyu kisses from his collarbone to his shoulder, up over the bandage and the hand-shaped bruise along his jaw, to meet his lips. The plush flesh is damp and raw from the ministrations of his teeth and tongue, salted with sweat and tears.
They slump to the floor, Beomgyu softening inside of Taehyun’s hole, Taehyun kissing him through the sobs that wrack his body. Gorgeous, timid, bold, and so, so weak, Beomgyu holds him in his arms, atop his lap, until the shivering stops and his sense returns more fully to him.
“Forgive me,” he laughs softly, and his voice would be unrecognizable had Beomgyu not been the one to ruin it so thoroughly. “I did not know that sleeping with a god would be so…”
“Heavenly?”
“Quite the understatement,” Taehyun tells him. He nestles himself against Beomgyu’s chest, whimpering when Beomgyu lifts his hips to slip his cock free. Come spills from his hole to the ground at the foot of the altar, and Taehyun shifts his hips forward and away from the pool beneath his body. He rests his head along Beomgyu’s broad shoulder, face turned outward, hair tickling the length of Beomgyu’s neck. His chest heaves with realization and he sits up sharply. His eyes are vacant, partially unfocused as he digests the reality of their surroundings.
“By the gods, that’s right,” he gasps, “this is a temple. We’ve defiled your brother’s temple.”
Beomgyu snorts and, oddly overcome with a gentleness that is ill-fitting of his character, he brushes the hair from Taehyun’s eyes, then runs his knuckles along the soft skin of his cheek.
“I assure you; he was likely the first to do so. You have nothing to fear.”
“Will I be punished by the gods for such a violation of this place?” he asks, ignoring Beomgyu’s words entirely. Perhaps, had he slightly more energy, Beomgyu would be offended, but he simply cannot be. Not when he feels so perfectly drained or when the fear on Taehyun’s face is so obvious. Beomgyu furrows his brow in concern, both for the fact of Taehyun’s fear and against the thought of someone causing him harm.
“I would not allow that to happen,” Beomgyu tells him, and his sincerity frightens even him. “I would tear the heavens asunder before I would let you come to harm for my transgressions. You have nothing to fear, Taehyun.”
Taehyun nods, the panic in his wide eyes disappearing as quickly as it had arisen. He is as beautiful now as he was before, the redness in his cheeks receding, the sharpness of his character returning to his eyes. Beomgyu thinks he should not be able to see such a thing, and yet he can. He takes Taehyun’s face in his hands, swipes the pads of his thumbs underneath his eyes.
“You, little deer, have proven yourself very deserving of at least one god’s attention.”
Beomgyu lies awake throughout the night, cradling Taehyun close to his chest. They’ve gathered enough cushions and blankets to construct themselves a small sleeping couch, which Taehyun had insisted Beomgyu share despite his insistence that his bones did not ache against the hardness of stone the way humans’ do, and that he does not need sleep the way humans do. Regardless, Taehyun had forced him to build the small, padded area wide enough to accommodate the pair of them rather than just Taehyun.
It is not unpleasant, and he has not found himself growing annoyed with Taehyun’s infrequent turning throughout the night so far. Rather, he’s found it quite pleasant to lie at the side of someone so warm, so strong and solid yet so fragile under a much stronger hand.
Kai appears as if gripped within the palm of rosy-fingered dawn, his arms crossed over his chest and one corner of his lips pulled upward in distaste. He stands in the entryway to his sanctum, eyes burning in a way Beomgyu has never seen them burn before. And yet, somewhere within the flame of anger is the flame of compassion. Beomgyu can see it, or perhaps he can feel it radiating in waves off his brother, who never was so adept at concealing his emotions.
“I had not meant for you to defile my sanctuary with such… such depravity,” he says, waving his arms wildly. Beomgyu notes, however, that he keeps his voice to a low hiss so as to not wake their sleeping guest. “Could you not have taken the poor boy elsewhere?”
“I fear the moment held not enough time for such considerations,” Beomgyu tells him. His lips fight to curl up in a self-satisfied grin, and he only narrowly manages to suppress such a thing. Kai seems unimpressed with his apathy towards the sanctity of his temple henceforth.
“I hand you a foot and you take a stadion,” he laments, shaking his head. What else could he have expected, delivering him so purposefully to a boy so irresistible? Beomgyu can tell now that this was no mistake, that Kai had heard his lamenting of loneliness, of standing so distant from those he would call his kin, and sought to remedy such pain himself. “Truly, what are we to do with you?”
“Inform me once you find an answer to that, will you? Until then, fret not, brother,” he says, grinning openly now, and gestures back towards the defiled altar. Taehyun remains in the grips of sleep atop his chest. “I’ve left you an offering. To entreat forgiveness from a god among gods, of course.”
Resting atop the altar, where Taehyun found himself so debauched, where the stone lies still stained with the imprints of their bodies through the heat and the sweat, sits Beomgyu’s prized lyre.