shakti (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
markohmark) wrote2020-11-13 04:49 pm
markohmark) wrote2020-11-13 04:49 pm
[abandoned wip] heart versus mind
heart versus mind
nct, lee donghyuck/mark lee, rated t, 8.7k
Author's Notes
This started out as a fic for NCT Write Write 2019, which I ended up dropping out of... The prompt was something like "markhyuck arranged marriage au to save their kingdoms," the typical royalty/arranged marriage au I guess.
I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I will never finish this fic. It honestly kind of kills me inside because I spent a lot of time on writing this, and it was definitely an experiment for me writing wise... Ultimately I confused myself by adding a weird murder plot to the fic ;;___;; I was planning to finish it up this summer but then didn't for mainly two reasons:
1) there are already several very popular markhyuck fics in the fandom that deal with arranged marriage
2) the fictional system of royalty described within the fic, while not deliberately trying to be westernized or euro-centric, definitely comes across that way. I reflected a lot on the importance of like... getting rid of that western-default viewpoint while writing fics during my hiatus, and it was one of the things that stopped me from coming back to fic at first, so yeah. Regardless I'm going to leave it up here because I'm pretty proud of the actual writing itself ;;___;; <3
Oh also I included some random notes to myself while writing that I never ended up writing out as actual scenes... aha this fic truly makes no sense
Part One
"Prince Mark, of the Eastern kingdom," the king—his father, though he seldom remembers this fact nowadays—states solemnly. Mark kneels at the foot of his throne, waiting for his orders. He can hear the shakiness of his mother's breathing while he tries his best to stay still.
It is the first of Spring, a most auspicious day. It is a moment that Mark has been waiting for with trepidation ever since his nineteenth birthday. For today, his future husband will be announced.
As the second son of the king of the Eastern kingdom, Mark is bound to tradition. It dictates that the king's first born son must marry within the kingdom, in order to preserve the harmony and unity of the nation. It also dictates that the younger sons must marry outside of the kingdom, in order to preserve the alliances between the Eastern Kingdom and other nations. The kingdoms form these marriages as a form of strategy, not as a form of preservation, and as such—Mark will be marrying a man.
"Your husband to be," the king continues, "is Prince Haechan of the Western kingdom!"
Mark cannot help himself—he glances up in shock for a split second, hoping to discern any expression on his mother's face. As a true queen would, she betrays no sign of outward emotion or weakness.
Mark looks back down. Prince Donghyuck? Haechan, as his ceremonial name dictates? He is the prince of the warring Western kingdom.
This is no marriage to preserve an alliance. This is bond that was forged to secure some modicum of peace. But Jaemin—
Mark pushes away that line of thought. He is to obey his duties, both as a prince and as a servant of the Eastern kingdom. He had expected to marry the Northern kingdom's prince, one of his closest confidantes, but—
"You may stand," the king orders.
Mark gets to his feet quickly, eyes still lowered towards the floor.
"Do you agree to this betrothal?" the king asks. It is more of a formality than anything else.
Mark swallows dryly before nodding. "Yes, I agree."
His mind is a storm as he trudges back to his palace quarters. Mark takes a seat at his desk, illuminated by candle-light, and does as he always would—he writes to Jaemin.
Jaemin,
I must confess that I do not yet fully comprehend the situation at hand. I am to be betrothed to Prince Haechan of the Western kingdom; I suppose such an alliance must be sutured together somehow, and this is... precarious.
What are your thoughts? I have not seen you since last midsummer, and for that, I apologize.
Best regards,
Mark
He pauses before placing the letter in an envelope, unfolding the paper once more so that he can read it again.
Mark is almost certain that the Northern kingdom will not be pleased once they hear news of the engagement between him and Prince Donghyuck. Perhaps, perhaps—
He crumples the letter up into a ball, crushing it between his palms, and tosses it into the nearby fireplace. As a prince, Mark's duty is to his nation, to his father—not to his own petty miseries.
👑👑👑
The months pass with a startling regularity. Mark, in preparations for Prince Donghyuck’s arrival, seldom finds a spare moment to himself. The Eastern kingdom has always concerned itself in matters of pride; to embarrass themselves in front of the Western kingdom’s prince—their former enemies, the two of kingdoms united by a weak thread of peace—is unthinkable.
Their wedding is planned for summer solstice, the most auspicious day of the year. Prince Donghyuck is to arrive mere weeks before, on the eve of his birthday.
Mark hears news of Donghyuck’s arrival to the court before he sees the prince. The hushed whispers and excitement, the way the servants seem to look around furtively before proceeding down the halls: all of it results in a combination that wreaks havoc on his nerves.
Mark stares at himself in the mirror. He is to enter the dining hall in five minutes. His mother has spent a month planning the perfect welcoming ball, regional dishes and music and ornate decorations to signify the opulence of the Eastern kingdom more so than to indicate the arrival of Prince Donghyuck.
Increasingly, it has become difficult to recognize himself. He looks overwrought, already worn out by the duties he has been holding for barely ten months.
Mark wonders if Donghyuck will care, if he would even notice. It is no secret that the Prince of the Western kingdom himself was named Haechan for a reason. Jungwoo, one of the court diplomats, said that Prince Donghyuck was like a fire—a force to be reckoned with, fierce and bright.
“Your highness?” It is Yukhei, lightly rapping his knuckles against Mark’s door. “It is time for you to go to dinner.”
“Of course,” Mark replies. His voice comes out steadier than he expects. He swallows once, twice; when his breath comes out, it fogs up the mirror slightly.
He can no longer see himself.
Feeling somewhat more calm, Mark turns to leave.
👑👑👑
Mark knows, as soon as he walks into the dining hall, which man is Prince Donghyuck. To him, it is not even a question—not when there is one person who is dressed in gold and orange, one person who seems to outshine the splendor of the Eastern kingdom’s decorations despite the simplicity of his garb, one person to which draws in Mark’s eyes immediately, like a magnet.
It is disarming, but he makes sure to not betray a trace of an expression as he takes his seat beside the king and his older brother, Jaehyun.
Donghyuck sits across from him, eyes looking down to his plate. His eyelashes flutter against his cheeks. It reminds Mark of a sparrow’s feathers, so delicate and pretty.
“We welcome Prince Mark’s betrothed, Prince Haechan of the Western kingdom, to our realm,” the king announces.
He leads a series of toasts to Donghyuck and his nineteenth birthday. Mark tunes out most of it in favor of taking in the subtleties of Donghyuck and the foreigner court he brought with him. They dress far more simply than the rest of the Eastern people; only Prince Donghyuck is dressed so ornately.
Dinner is the usual affair. Donghyuck’s eyes widen as he tastes some of their regional delicacies.
Mark chuckles. “Is it too spicy, Prince Haechan?”
“Donghyuck is just fine,” he replies, taking several sips from his wine. “And, yes, it is quite—unexpected.”
It is not long before the servants bring out desert, one of the crowning achievements of the Eastern kingdom. As per usual, one of the servants kneels before the food and takes a bite of the cake before it is distributed to the rest of the room.
Mark does not even bother to watch, instead focusing his attention on Donghyuck in front of him.
“Tell me about yourself,” Mark says. “I know little save for court legends and royal gossip.”
Donghyuck raises an eyebrow. “Royal gossip, hm? I wonder what they say.”
“Some speak of the sun contained within you,” Mark says. He knows little save from the few details Jaemin’s handed him over the years. “Others speak of more… worldly pursuits.”
“I suppose you and the Northern prince are close friends, my prince.”
Mark sighs. “This is well-known throughout the four kingdoms.”
“And it was also well-known,” Donghyuck continues, “that you two were to be betrothed, were you not?”
Donghyuck is truly a maze of messages. Mark looks down at the table, considering.
“There is nothing there,” Mark says, looking back up to Donghyuck. “There is nothing there, and you are my betrothed.”
Donghyuck’s lip curls up in disdain. “And nothing else matters?”
“Why should it—”
“Your highness!” the leader of the guard calls, voice tremulous. Mark turns to view the commotion, startled. Johnny never sounds nervous, so he knows that a grave incident has occurred.
“What happened?” Donghyuck asks, leaning over the table to get a better look.
Mark gets up from his seat, striding over towards where Johnny stands, his tall stature visible from a distance. He pushes through the crowd of onlookers; Donghyuck is close behind him.
“Oh,” Mark breathes, as soon as he can see properly. Already the king and queen have gathered, Jaehyun as well. Beside Johnny, lying prostrate on the ground, is one of the servants required to taste-test the dishes. She heaves on the floor with rough coughs that spray blood across the tiles.
“Don’t look,” he says to Donghyuck, not that he would ever listen. Donghyuck’s eyes widen with shock as he takes in the scene, and it isn’t long before he turns away from the sight and leaves.
Mark follows after him. “Prince Donghyuck,” he calls, as Donghyuck takes a seat back at the table, as if nothing had happened. “Are you feeling well?”
Donghyuck looks down. “This… poisoning,” he says, finally. “Is this so common of an occurrence?”
“No,” Mark says hesitantly. “No, it is not.”
But these new alliances dictate new times. He has no clue who could have possibly done such a thing, but he knows this: the poisoning is not an actual attempt to take someone’s life. Instead, it is a promise of future violence. A threat.
“Okay,” Donghyuck replies. He stands up, pushing his plate away from him. “I’m afraid that I feel… unwell. I will retire to my quarters early. Give the king and queen my apologies.”
Mark watches Donghyuck leave, and wonders what these new times will foretell.
👑👑👑
Mark raps his knuckles against the door to Donghyuck’s quarters, short and loud.
“Prince Donghyuck!” Mark calls, hoping that he will be able to hear. “I know that you are present. Please, open the door.”
The door swings open swiftly, and Mark is faced by the sight of Donghyuck in his lounge clothes. He is no longer the ornate creature who walked into court yesterday evening; now he seems both more plain yet more powerful, as well, all at once.
“What is it?” Donghyuck asks, tone erring on insubordinately sharp.
Mark opens his mouth, then closes it. He twists fingers together, almost nervous, then begins to speak again.
“We are to get to know each other,” he says.
“And so…?” Donghyuck begins, evidently perplexed.
“Before we get married,” Mark adds.
Something akin to understanding reaches Donghyuck’s eyes. The curve of his smile forms a bitter, bitter slant.
“If you must know, my prince,” Donghyuck says, “I have always wanted to marry for love.”
Mark gapes at him, astonished. Love? A prince desiring love? Mark has never heard anything more preposterous within his lifetime.
“Marriage is a duty,” Mark replies. “It is not—it is not—” He struggles for the words.
“It is not what?” Donghyuck challenges. “Have you deemed it too unseemly for your Eastern propriety?”
“You are—” There is something about Donghyuck, about his fiery eyes and biting words, that sparks a heat within Mark. Whether it is anger or something else, he does not. It rushes through his veins, renders him impulsive and reckless.
“You are,” Mark repeats, gritting his teeth, “far too naive for a prince of your stature.”
Donghyuck’s eyes narrow. “Naive?” he asks. “You must think me to be a child, still.”
“Is your idealism not childish?” Mark’s eyes widen as soon as he realizes what he has said.
Donghyuck’s face twists into something painful. He swiftly turns away from the conversation, slamming the door behind him.
Mark stares at the door blankly, thinking of how he had planned to show Donghyuck the palace gardens—to show him that beauty can exist in a cage, to show him that they were together in this situation, to show that, perhaps, they would be able to get along—
And for what result? For the Western prince to slam the door in his face. Mark walks away, and tries not to feel as if he has lost a battle without knowing it.
👑👑👑
Mark attempts to converse with Donghyuck for a week. For seven days, one after another, he makes his way over to Donghyuck’s quarters and knocks against his door. Sometimes, he can hear Donghyuck moving around behind the door. Regardless of whether Donghyuck is within his quarters, the result is the same: Mark walks away alone.
He admits defeat after the seventh day, and resumes his old routine. His days feel the same, and it is easy to forget that he is betrothed in the first place. The preparations for the wedding will not become serious until the four weeks before the ceremony, and as a result there is a momentary lull in his life. The eye of a hurricane, so to speak.
On the eighth day, he recieves a letter from Jaemin.
Dearest Mark,
How do you fare? I have heard news of your betrothal to the Western kingdom’s prince. He burns as bright as the sun, does he not? I have many wishes for your matrimony with Prince Haechan. May your kingdoms forever be aligned both on Earth and in the stars.
I hope you enjoy your engagement period while you can. If you can, please do reply.
Best regards,
Jaemin
By all usual respects, this is a standard, normal letter from Jaemin. Mark does not know whether it is because of the recent poisoning or something else, but the words I hope you enjoy your engagement period while you can send a shiver down his spine. It does not take him long to draft a response, impersonal and blunt. As is the case with the rest of Jaemin’s letters, Mark places it in the fireplace once he is finished reading.
He watches the flames engulf it, the noise loud and greedy, and hopes that he is navigating this new world with enough finesse to match the enigmas that surround him.
👑👑👑
Jungwoo visits him a few days later. He does so without informing Mark beforehand, yet he suspected such a visit would occur anyway given the circumstances. Mark supposes that these happenings are just part and parcel of being a prince.
“Your highness,” Jungwoo says, bowing after he enters Mark’s quarters.
“Please sit,” Mark replies, gesturing towards the chair beside the fireplace. Jungwoo, when standing, surpasses his own height by nearly seven centimeters; it is not something that he enjoys.
“Of course.” Jungwoo sits in the chair, clasping his hands in his lap.
“For what reason did you visit me?” Mark asks. He leans forward, interested to hear what the court diplomat has to say.
“I come on orders from Crown Prince Jaehyun.” Jungwoo keeps his gaze focused on Mark’s face, but he carefully avoids making direct eye-contact. He’s a clever one.
“Not the king?” Mark replies. Normally, Jungwoo did not defer to Jaehyun for orders.
“No, not the king, your highness.” Jungwoo makes an attempt at a smile. It comes across as a grimace, in a way—pained and strained.
“Is Jaehyun too busy to visit me himself?” Mark counters, frowning.
“He consumes himself with the peace treaty between the Western and Eastern kingdoms,” Jungwoo replies. “There is still much debate over… some of the clauses within.”
“Debate? Surely…” Mark trails off, shaking his head. “Was the poisoning incident a threat?”
“There is still much yet to ponder over,” Jungwoo says, every word careful and precise. “No one is certain of anything.”
He frowns in thought, but just as quickly that expression morphs into one of practice neutrality. No wonder Jungwoo garners such high praise as a diplomat.
“But, your highness,” he adds. “We suggest that you keep your wits about yourself.”
“When have I not?”
“Your highness, please do not take offense,” Jungwoo replies quickly. “The crown prince merely wishes to look after you, as your older brother.”
“I will not… take offense,” Mark says. He forces eye-contact onto Jungwoo, though Jungwoo’s eyes quickly dart away. “And I will continue to be cautious.”
“Very well, your highness.” Apparently satisfied, Jungwoo rises from his seat. “Then I will take my leave.”
“Very well,” Mark echoes.
Jungwoo pauses before he exits, hand poised on the doorknob. “But, your highness—the people closest to you have the highest chance of harming you. And we have yet to close the treaty with the Western kingdom.”
“I am aware,” Mark says, biting down on his lower lip.
“Then I wish you a good rest of your day, your highness,” Jungwoo says. With that, he leaves the room, the door closing silently shut behind him.
Jungwoo had clearly wanted to warn Mark of malicious intent from the Western kingdom. Immediately, his mind goes to Donghyuck—is there a possibility that he orchestrated the poisoning? Donghyuck had fled the scene, presumably out of fear, but…
Keep your wits about yourself, Jungwoo had said. That much, Mark thinks he can execute.
👑👑👑
Soon enough, Donghyuck must have tired of their self-imposed isolation, for he is the one to break their silence.
He comes across Mark during late morning, close to noontime, when Mark spends his time practicing to fight before the sun's gaze beats down too hard upon his pale neck. Mostly he trains with members of his own guard, though the majority of them fight with caution, too afraid to give him much harm.
Yukhei, his bodyguard for the past five years, is perhaps the only exception; he knows Mark well, can discern easily when to push and how to pull back in intensity.
It is only once Mark finally—finally—disarms Yukhei for the first time today that he notices Donghyuck's presence.
"Good morning, my lord," Yukhei greets, bowing quickly before stepping aside to give them some space.
Donghyuck stands in front of Mark for several moments, not saying anything but merely just taking in the training grounds. Mark practices several yards away from the guards-in-training, but he can still hear their shouts and yells from a distance.
"You train? To fight?" Donghyuck asks, finally. "Your highness," he adds belatedly, bowing his head quickly in apology. It doesn't sound apologetic at all; such is the power that Donghyuck has, to twist phrases into their double meanings until everything is mixed up in Mark's head.
Donghyuck drives him to distraction. It would be aggravating, if Mark didn't enjoy it so much.
"I need to be able to protect myself," Mark replies. "Of course, I have my guard, but—“
"But paranoia," Donghyuck supplies. "Ah, my family was the same." He eyes Mark's sword with something akin to longing. It makes something twist, deep within Mark’s chest.
He watches Donghyuck carefully, noticing the hesitation in his fluttering eyelashes. He is certain that Donghyuck will make the first move, just as he is sure that he is merely a black pawn in the entire game of chess.
"Care to spar?" Donghyuck asks finally. He tears his gaze away from the faraway sight of the guards practicing, regarding Mark with an unfathomable expression.
Mark raises his eyebrows. "Is this... appropriate, Donghyuck?" he wonders.
Donghyuck takes a step forward, the toe of his boot resting against Mark's ankle.
He's far away; he's too close. It makes Mark's head spin with the possibilities.
"I do not care for propriety," Donghyuck whispers. "Not during such savage things as sparring."
Mark closes his eyes. He can hear the soft exhales of Donghyuck breathing.
"Fine," he bites out. Already, he is used to acquiescing to Donghyuck's wishes.
Yukhei finds Donghyuck a weapon, one of the best swords taken from the training grounds, and they spar while the guard watches from a distance.
Donghyuck fights with a verve that is unexpected, with a style that leaves Mark breathless.
"I have never—" Mark says between blocks and jabs, "seen anyone—" he takes another breath— "who fights like this."
Donghyuck smirks. "It is the style of the Western kingdom," he says, once he's knocked the blade out of Mark's hands. "Quite unique and irreplaceable."
Mark disarms Donghyuck twice; Donghyuck bests him another three times before they pause in their sparring.
“It is amusing, is it not,” Mark says, out of breath with sweat shining on his face, “that they dressed you up as a fragile, delicate flower, but—”
“But even roses have their thorns, my prince,” Donghyuck replies. In a sleek, single movement, he disarms Mark and presses the blunt side of his blade up against Mark’s clavicle.
"Your highness!" Yukhei calls from where he's watching, striding towards them in quick steps. "Is everything alright—"
"Yes, of course it is," Mark replies. He never takes his eyes off of Donghyuck, off of the way he seems to shake with every shuddery breath.
If the two of them had met on a battlefield, even a year before, Donghyuck would not have hesitated to turn the blade around and slice into Mark's chest. They pledge allegiance to two separate enemy countries, more dissimilar than not, and a constant squabble between the two blurs into indifference in the minds of the commoners.
Mark isn't afraid. Slowly, carefully, he backs away from Donghyuck's cornering crouch.
"You truly are a wonder," Mark says.
Donghyuck shrugs, a smile dancing on the edge of his lips. "You are not too bad yourself, my prince."
It must be midday already, for the sun shines in the center of the sky with an unabashed brightness. It illuminates everything, from the tips of grass to the sides of the stables, giving Donghyuck an effervescent glow.
You truly are a wonder, Mark thinks. He understands, now, why Donghyuck's royal name is Haechan. He's the full sun, brighter than anything else Mark has touched.
👑👑👑
Mark soon shifts his routine to accommodate sparring with Donghyuck. It is a way of learning a person that Mark did not anticipate. For every block, for every clash of sword against sword, he gains a new insight into Donghyuck and his character. And, of course, Donghyuck learns quite enough about him as well.
They do not talk after sparring; instead, Mark sheds his equipment in silence while Donghyuck flees to his quarters to change. In some ways they are closer than the fellow guards that train together, yet in other ways, they are as chaste as any betrothed couple.
Soon it is time for his marriage ceremony, on the summer solstice. Mark is prepared for this, has been prepared for this ever since he turned nineteen, but the real event is more nerve-wracking than he could ever anticipate.
The weight of his ceremonial dress feels as if he is carrying a small child within his arms. He has never been so ornately dressed, not since Jaehyun’s coronation as the crown prince three years ago.
Donghyuck, as per tradition, already waits for him. Between them stands High Priest Taeyong, the officiate for any royal ceremony that invokes the stars and some sort of auspicious matching. His beauty is said to be blessed by the gods.
“We shall start the marriage ceremony of Prince Mark of the Eastern kingdom and Prince Haechan of the Western kingdom!” Taeyong announces. He turns to Mark, touching the middle of his forehead with ochre pigment. As the first dye that the Eastern kingdom had produced, nearly centuries ago, it is their national trademark.
Taeyong does the same to Donghyuck, then joins Mark and Donghyuck’s hands together with a gentle touch. From afar, Mark can spot Jaehyun and the king in the audience; Yukhei and the other guards stand alert at every entrance. The silence rings through the room.
“Prince Mark,” Taeyong says. “Do you promise to take care of your husband, to be true to your marital bond, to be honest and virtuous in every aspect?”
“I do,” Mark replies. Donghyuck’s eyes focus on the ground. From this close, Mark can see the golden pigment smeared across his eyelids and cheekbones. He glints like ornate jewelry.
“Prince Haechan,” Taeyong continues, turning to face Donghyuck. “Do you swear to take care of your husband, to be true to your marital bond, to be virtuous and honest in every aspect?”
“Of course,” Donghyuck says. He looks up, holding Mark’s gaze steadily with unreadable eyes. “I do.”
“By the virtue of the sun and the stars, I pronounce the completion of this union,” Taeyong says. The silence seems almost pregnant with anticipation. Everyone, now, focuses their attention to the center of the room, where the king sits flanked by Mark’s mother and brother.
The king stands up, and the rest of the room follows, clambering to their feet.
“Do you approve this marriage, your majesty?” Taeyong asks.
“Yes.” The king nods solemnly, and just like that, the silence breaks open like a shattered chalice. The audience begins to chatter, growing louder and louder with their excitement.
Donghyuck exhales, and it sounds like a sigh of relief. “Now, what are we to do?” he asks.
👑👑👑
The door slams shut behind them, and it echoes in the cold silence of their new quarters. Mark stares at the marriage bed in the center of the room, hands clenched into fists. He has never felt more awkward in his life.
“We should wash up,” Mark says finally, eyeing the golden sheen of Donghyuck’s face, gleaming with makeup and sweat in the candlelight.
Donghyuck nods, a furtive, nervous motion.
Mark rubs the back of his neck, unsure. Is Donghyuck that uncomfortable by the idea of sharing a bed with him?
“Do you wish to go first?” Mark asks.
Donghyuck shakes his head. “You—you can go, your highness.”
Mark tilts his head, considering Donghyuck with a frown. Donghyuck has never addressed him in so formal a manner, at least not seriously. It comes off as oddly stilted, in the moment.
“As you wish,” Mark says finally. After he finishes washing a long day’s worth of dust and sweat off of his body, he takes a seat on the left side of the bed. He can faintly hear Donghyuck in the washroom next door. The sound of water running would normally soothe him, but now it only serves as a reminder for what will come.
Mark, throughout his life as a prince, has spent many hours pouring over military texts and historical accounts, holy texts and old wives’ tales about marriage, but none of the information he acquired has prepared him for sharing a bed with Prince Donghyuck.
When Donghyuck steps out of the washroom, he pauses, for a moment, regarding Mark atop of their marriage bed.
“What are we—to do?” Donghyuck asks. His fingers twist together anxiously. A stray droplet of water drips from his chin, and Mark follows its path down the slope of Donghyuck’s neck idly.
“What do you mean?” Mark asks, confused. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“Ah,” Donghyuck replies, looking down at the ground. His hands separate from each other, balling into knuckle-white fists. “Yes, of course.”
“Come here,” Mark says, trying his best to sound welcoming. “It is late. Might as well make use of the bed, right?”
Mark looks over at the expanse of bedding beside him. They can easily sleep without fear of touching each other, with added space to manage another person or two.
Donghyuck nods again, slowly making his way over to the marriage bed. He sits down gingerly on the side opposite to Mark. Then, gaze still fixed on the ground, he begins to unbutton the top of his nightshirt. His hands are shaking.
“What are you doing?” Mark asks. Donghyuck refuses to look up, hands still moving to unbutton the rest of his shirt.
“Donghyuck, what are you doing?” Mark repeats, bewildered.
“Surely you do not wish to have… sex with your garments still on?” Donghyuck replies, eyebrows raised. He bites out the word sex as if it is a curse he must bear. His gaze fixes on some point in the distance far left of Mark.
There lies a tremor in Donghyuck’s voice, shaky, and realization dawns upon Mark.
“I do not—I will not—” Mark shakes his head, mind working overtime to comprehend what Donghyuck had intended. Surely, he did not think—
“I meant that we should simply sleep,” Mark explains, feeling sheepish.
“But will they not check?” Relief and skepticism war across Donghyuck’s features.
“Check?” Mark asks, raising his eyebrows.
“Check that we—” Donghyuck flushes, pink spreading across his cheeks. “That—“
“It does not matter,” Mark cuts in, sparing Donghyuck from the embarrassment, “Especially given that we will not produce children.”
“Oh.” The tension seems to bleed out of Donghyuck’s figure like the current of a flowing river. Mark recognizes that feeling, the sweet taste of relief.
Donghyuck remains silent for a moment, considering. “In the Western kingdom, courtiers surround the newlyweds behind a silk screen to ensure that—that—“ He breaks off, eyeing Mark curiously.
“Ah, I see,” Mark says. In his studies of the Western kingdom, he never came across marriage traditions. “That seems… unnecessarily awkward.”
“Perhaps,” Donghyuck allows, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He relaxes, bit by bit with every passing moment, until Mark finds it hard to believe that he was ever afraid in the first place.
“You do not need to worry about me,” Mark says. “I will never—“ he hesitates as with how to word it, “do anything that you do not want, in this aspect of our marriage.”
“You refuse me so easily,” Donghyuck notes. He turns towards so that their bodies face each other, like opposite sides of the moon. Something about looking at Donghyuck reminds Mark of the depth of the universe.
“Is that not what you had wanted?” Mark asks.
“Truth be told, my prince,” Donghyuck replies, eyes glittering, “I do not know what I want.”
“Truth be told…” Mark repeats, closing his eyes with a sigh. “I am the same.”
“You seemed so certain,” Donghyuck says. Mark opens his eyes to see Donghyuck frowning in thought. “Back when you knocked upon my door for a week.”
“I had wished to know you better,” Mark says, softly. “Is that such a terrible thing?”
“It was not bad, my prince,” Donghyuck replies earnestly. “It was… unexpected. And I was angry at several other things, at the time.” He pauses for a moment. “We should sleep, should we not?”
“Perhaps we should,” Mark admits. He runs his fingers over the surface of the bed absentmindedly. “But… I enjoy talking to you, just like this.”
“Do you?” Donghyuck looks at him with a grin. It is a lightning bolt to the heart. “Then who am I to go against your wishes?”
👑👑👑
“You seem quite… exhausted, your highness.” Yukhei, waiting by the door as Mark washes his face, tries his hardest to hide his smirk. Mark manages to catch a glimpse of it through the mirror, and he rolls his eyes in reply.
“Get your mind out of the gutter, Yukhei,” Mark replies. He cannot help it—he meets Yukhei’s eyes in the mirror, and then bursts into a bout of laughter.
“Of course,” Yukhei replies smoothly.
Sometimes, on days as stressful as this one, he feels as if Yukhei is his only friend. The day after the royal wedding marks the day of the public celebration. He and Donghyuck will have to ride through a procession, will have to face the public for the first time as a united front.
“I spent the entire night talking to him,” Mark admits. He splashes his face with water again, not that it helps. His eyes are still red and tired from the lack of sleep he received.
“You seem to be bonding with him,” Yukhei comments. “Is that not desirable, your highness?”
Mark turns away from the sink, facing Yukhei in all of his unadulterated earnestness. Yukhei is loyal, passionate. The type of person believe in true love and to defend his prince above all. Mark does not indulge in that same romanticism, but he can admit that every minute spent with Donghyuck makes him lean, more and more, into his inner idealist.
“We’ll see,” Mark sighs, grim. “We’ll see.”
👑👑👑
“Are you ready?” Mark asks, looking over at Donghyuck. They sit within the royal platform, hidden from the public eye by a mere curtain. In minutes, they will have to step outside and expose themselves to the judgment of the Eastern kingdom’s people.
Donghyuck’s eyes focus on his feet, which are clad in ornate sandals. Again, everything about him is detailed and opulent, strength in excess. Mark finds it hard to believe, at times, that this is the same boy who challenged him at sword fight, who cowered away from his touch.
“I will be ready,” Donghyuck replies, finally, barely audible over the cheers of the public.
The bell rings once. From outside the curtain, the High Priest Taeyong announces Mark’s arrival. Mark reaches over to squeeze Donghyuck’s shoulder, hoping to impress some modicum of support.
“See you outside,” Mark says simply, before stepping out onto the platform.
The crowd cheers instantaneously, and Mark’s heart soars as he waves back at them, his people. Mark has always been the favorite, ever since he and Jaehyun were young. Jaehyun may be the Crown Prince of the Eastern kingdom, but Mark is the nation’s prince, the people’s prince.
“Now, please welcome Prince Haechan!” Taeyong announces.
Donghyuck steps out, quickly standing beside Mark. The applause is muted, though still loud. Johnny, Yukhei, and the rest of the royal guard cheer the most, a chorus of exuberant yelling.
Mark turns to look at Donghyuck. You can do this, he mouths. Then, he takes Donghyuck’s hand—
The people roar in excitement—
And Mark raises their palms into the air. The applause is exhilarating. It erupts in his veins like dynamite.
“Wow,” Donghyuck says, so quiet that only Mark can hear it.
Mark nods. Seeing Donghyuck’s awe, basking in the love of his people—it makes him feel warm, transcendent. He looks over at Donghyuck, shining, and thinks: maybe I want to love this boy, this prince.
It’s when he’s looking out at the crowd that he first notices something off. Johnny’s missing. Most of the others he’d recognize from the guard — Yukhei, where’s Yukhei — are gone, now, too. The tension shifts.
Mark senses the movement before he sees it, anticipation more than anything else, and shoves Donghyuck to the ground, throwing his body in the way—
The last thing he sees is the blood, blooming across his ceremonial robes like a poisoned flower.
Part Two
1.Letter from Jaemin
2. Scene with Donghyuck — he says, you shouldn’t have done this, this serious look on his face. If someone attacks me do not take the fall for it. Is it not the nature of a husband to protect his spouse? We are married by name only, are we not? A sham marriage?
3. Later, Jaehyun visits. Donghyuck was at your side for the two days where you were resting. Mark asks if they know what’s behind it. Jaehyun says no, says Lucas is with him, they say that they’re working on it ??
4. When Mark is walking to visit Donghyuck, late at night, he overhears the conversation between him and Jeno. Cryptic. It makes Mark worry, suspect— is Donghyuck behind this? Are they plotting against them? No, he couldn’t be, Mark decides.
5. He meets with Jungwoo, and Jungwoo is suspicious as heck. Warns Mark. Again, cryptic.
👑👑👑
Later that night, Mark stops by Donghyuck’s quarters. He almosts knocks on the door before remembering—ah, yes, the two of them share a room now. There is plenty of space for Donghyuck in Mark’s vast, luxurious rooms. He is beginning to wonder whether he can say the same of his heart.
“Prince Donghyuck?” Mark calls out softly, stepping into his bedroom.
Donghyuck already lies underneath their covers, blankets pulled so far up that only the top of his head is showing. The sight of it, of him, makes Mark smile.
“Are you asleep?” Mark whispers, walking over to Donghyuck’s side of the bed. He reaches out, pausing before his fingertips can make contact with Donghyuck’s hair.
Donghyuck rolls over within the sheets so that his face is further pressed into the mattress. “I was sleeping, before you arrived,” he grumbles, half of the syllables muffled by his pillow.
“Donghyuck,” Mark begins. “Are you still opposed, to, ah, getting to know me better?”
There is no response from Donghyuck. Mark sighs, fingers finally making contact with the softness of Donghyuck’s hair.
“Truthfully, sometimes I feel as if—” Mark breaks off, unable to word the feeling. He tries to remember what Donghyuck had said to him: I wish to marry for love. Somehow, in the quiet, dark intimacy of this bedroom, his wishes do not seem as preposterous. “I still think that marriage is a duty,” he continues. “But, perhaps, with you—it does not seem to be that much of a burden.”
Donghyuck finally pushes the covers off of his face, sitting up quickly. “Your change of heart—”
“I changed my mind,” Mark corrects.
“Your change of heart,” Donghyuck repeats emphatically, “warms my own.” He reaches out to grasp Mark’s hand. “I hope to lessen your burdens, not add to them, my prince.”
Mark swallows. Donghyuck’s eyes shimmer with some sort of suppressed hope. It hurts. It sings out to him, a siren’s song of spring and new beginnings.
“And so do I, to you,” Mark replies.
👑👑👑
“Where are you taking me, my prince?” Donghyuck wonders aloud, as they traverse the brick paths through perfectly-shaped hedges and bushes.
“To the gardens, of course,” Mark replies. It is the peak of summer, and everything is ripe, in bloom, vivid before his eyes. He reaches out to grasp a couple of blueberries, handing some of the fruit over to Donghyuck. They quietly marvel in the sweet, juicy tartness.
Donghyuck wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. “Are we not already in the gardens?” he asks, gesturing out at the vibrant flowers beside him. He stops to sniff at one of the plants, wrinkling his nose at the smell. “A lovely rose, this is not, but I know a garden when I see one.”
Mark shakes his head. “To me, this is no garden,” he says. They are surrounded by manufactured perfection, pleasing to the eye and artificial. It reminds him of his father, of the absolute strictness with which he wields his power. Yes, there is nature in these plants, but it is nature subdued, caged.
“What is a garden, then?” Donghyuck counters, easily falling back into step with Mark.
“We are but a few minutes away,” Mark replies. Already, the brick path has given away to dirt. Soon there will be nothing beneath their shoes besides past footprints and stray twigs. “Just wait and see.”
It is easy to pinpoint the exact moment in which Donghyuck realizes what Mark had meant, for he says “Oh.” It is hushed, almost reverent, and filled with wonder for what he sees.
“Do you understand, now?” Mark asks, keenly taking in Donghyuck’s reaction. He is used to this garden, to the sort of wild beauty that flourishes here.
Donghyuck does not reply. He does not need to, really, when his actions dictate so clearly what he thinks: he stops to run his fingers across the tops of leaves, eyes roving across the expanse of green, and he sighs with contentment.
“Why does this garden exist?” Donghyuck wonders, several minutes later. He sounds disbelieving, as if it is impossible for anything beautiful to survive under the withering effects of royal power. He crouches to run his fingers through the blades of grass underneath his feet.
“My mother,” Mark replies. “I—she brought me here, often. This was her escape from the palace.”
“This is beautiful.” Donghyuck turns to look at him for the first time, bright-eyed and golden-skinned from the sun, cheeks red with excitement.
In that moment, Mark restrains the urge to reply with You are beautiful. He settles for smiling back at him, nodding in agreement.
👑👑👑
Mark winces as the seamstress's assistant pricks his side with a pin.
“Your highness!” the servant’s voice is soft, her eyes wide with the fear of being punished. “I apologize, are you—”
“It’s--fine,” Mark replies. Donghyuck, standing as still as he possibly can while the seamstress measures his waist, catches his eye with a subtle look. Somehow Donghyuck can make a single glance convey depths of concern and abject boredom, all at once.
As soon as the seamstress releases him, Donghyuck strides over to Mark. “Are you quite alright, my prince?” he murmurs.
“Of course,” Mark replies, mouth dry as he surveys Donghyuck’s body from head to toe. He wears a finely weaved tunic, cloth embossed with golden thread so that it shimmers under the light. “This… It is beautiful.”
Donghyuck presses his lips together, as if trying to hide a smile. His cheeks redden slightly, betraying what he refuses to reveal. “You flatter me too much—”
“Were you not the one who wished that we be honest with each other?” Mark interrupts, smoothing a hand over Donghyuck’s shoulder. He quite likes the sight of Donghyuck blushing. He revels in the novelty of it.
Donghyuck seems to startle at his words, and he tenses momentarily before relaxing, again, under Mark’s touch. “Of course,” he replies, swallowing. “We are husbands, are we not?”
👑👑👑
At night, they continue to talk. Mark has never been good at expressing anything aloud, prefers writing long confessionals by pen, but conversing with Donghyuck is another category of communication entirely. Donghyuck has elegance and eloquence, an acerbic wit that leaves Mark gasping for laughter late at night.
“Am I really that amusing?” Donghyuck wonders, raising an eyebrow as he smirks over at Mark. The room is lit solely by an oil lamp in the corner, and Donghyuck’s face is shrouded in strange orange shadows. He reaches over to rub Mark’s shoulder, presumably to calm him down. “I’m afraid the guards may become gravely concerned at the sound of your laugh, my prince.”
Mark finally calms down, wiping a stray tear of joy from his eyes. “My laugh is not that wretched,” he protests.
At that, Donghyuck begins to imitate the breathy sound of it, grin wide on his face. Mark shoves at his shoulder gently.
“Fine, fine,” Donghyuck says, relenting. “Tell me, then. Do you enjoy reading?”
A random change in topic, to say the least. But over the past couple of weeks, Mark has learned to adapt to Donghyuck’s abrupt conversational shifts. It is almost refreshing, in a way, like stepping outside in the gardens after a long day cooped up inside palace walls.
“When I was younger, actually,” Mark begins, “I loved writing.” Part of that is a lie: there is no past tense. Even now, he loves writing, the same kind of guilty passion with which most princes regard their concubines.
“Loved?” Donghyuck asks, a lilt on the end of the word. He lies on the bed, entire body facing Mark, his face open, almost soft. As gentle as one could seem while still being a prince.
“I was idealistic,” Mark continues, closing his eyes and resting his head back upon the mattress. Now, he is not lying. “I thought that I would be able to pursue whatever I want, but my duty is to my nation.”
Donghyuck is silent for a while, considering. Mark opens his eyes, watching carefully as Donghyuck cracks a smile. “So you are human,” he notes, reaching out to poke Mark’s cheek. “I still remember what you said to me--one of the first things you said, I think—”
Mark covers his face with his hands and groans into his palms. “Please do not remind me—”
“Marriage is a duty,” Donghyuck mimics, voice high-pitched. “I thought your heart was made of stone, back then.”
“What do you think now?” Mark replies, peering through the cracks of his closed fingers.
Donghyuck shrugs. “That is for you to find out, I suppose.”
“Donghyuck—“ Mark protests.
“We should sleep,” Donghyuck replies quickly, turning so that his back faces Mark. “Good night.”
—
Meanwhile, Jaemin continues to write to him, the letters becoming increasingly shorter and more frantic with each passing week.
Dear Mark,
I hope that your marriage with Donghyuck has been progressing splendidly. It must be so bright in your kingdom with Prince Haechan’s presence. Please take care.
Stay safe,
Jaemin.
Jaehyun and Jungwoo corner him after a week or two, holding the most recent envelope in the air.
“Why,” Jaehyun says evenly, “are you corresponding with the Prince of Northern kingdom?” He spits out the words prince and northern like they are the harshest swears, as if Jaehyun, too, had not spent his childhood frolicking in the meadows of the Northern kingdom’s palace alongside Jaemin and Mark.
Mark returns his stare, defiant. “I am not corresponding with him,” he says. “I have yet to reply to any of his letters.”
Jungwoo sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose in between two fingers. “As if that helps. Now he knows that we suspect him—”
“Do we suspect the Northern kingdom?” Mark asks, interrupting Jungwoo in sheer shock. “Completely?”
“Yes,” Jaehyun cuts in. “We do.” He sets the letter down on Mark’s desk, then turns to leave. “Continue to ignore his letters, I would say. Better than deigning to reply.”
The envelope has already been hastily opened, most likely Jaehyun’s doing. Mark cannot even find it within himself to feel entirely angry, at this point. He knows that there will be nothing worthwhile to read:
Mark,
Have you received these letters? Please, I beg of you, respond.
--Jaemin
Mark shuts his eyes and tries to not feel as if he’s cutting off a part of himself as he throws the letter into the fire, yet again.
—
Mark keeps wondering about what Donghyuck thinks of him now. What would be a good way to ask Donghyuck, he wonders. Eventually, he decides on picking a flower from the gardens, something simple and beautiful to sway Donghyuck’s heart.
Oh, how the times have changed, Mark thinks as he traverses the winding path. The full moon casts light upon his steps, everything lit in a silvery glow. It is hard to make out colors in such a light; everything looks as if it has been dipped in titanium, like the finest jewelry.
He stoops down, taking in a rosebush. It reminds him of Donghyuck and the day that they had first sparred together. He will need to be careful in order to remove a rose without getting pricked.
That’s when he first hears the sound of other voices, still quite far away in the distance.
“Where are you taking me, Donghyuck?” a voice asks. Mark fails to recognize it, but he frowns at the casual use of Donghyuck. There are not that many people in the palace who can address Donghyuck with such irreverence.
“Somewhere where we cannot be heard, Jeno,” Donghyuck replies. Jeno? Mark almost cannot believe it, at first. Jeno is Donghyuck’s manservant, the one person sent along from the Western kingdom to accompany him to another country. Mark knew that they were close, but not--not this close. It makes him uncomfortable.
“What is it?” Jeno says, worried. “Donghyuck, is the prince treating you well?”
Mark tenses as he waits for Donghyuck’s reply. He reaches out to twist off a rosebud from the bush, and scrapes the side of his finger against a thorn. He presses the cut to his mouth quickly, hoping to stem the bleeding.
“Of course he is,” Donghyuck responds. “But Jeno, I am afraid--that not everything will go to plan.”
“We will try our best,” Jeno replies. “There is no more we can do.”
After that, the two of them move so far away that Mark can no longer hear their conversation. Instead he is left crouching in front of the rosebush, his face bathed in moonlight, his mouth ringing with the taste of blood.
—
On the day before Mark’s birthday, he receives the most terse letter yet:
I hope this reaches you in time. Happy birthday, Mark. I am sorry I could not do more for you.
—
Mark gets letter from Jaemin
Mark overhears conversation with Nohyuck
Mark talks to Donghyuck — feels as if the war has just begun
Jungwoo talks to him, tells him to stay careful
“Sorry,” Donghyuck bites out, like a mouth full of knives. His eyes shine with unshed tears, everything pent up and refused to be shown. How foolish of Mark to think that Donghyuck was a naive prince. No, Donghyuck is the most cunning of them all--smart enough to wear his heart on his sleeve, to win over people, and sly enough to never show what lies underneath.
“Okay,” Mark says. He clasps his hands together, then releases them, nervous.
“What else do you want me to say?” Donghyuck asks, hopeless, empty. As if nothing he could say would ever sway Mark’s heart. As if he does not already has his cold-blooded hands around the warm, pulsing thing inside of Mark’s chest.
Mark sighs. “I think…” he hesitates. “I think I need some time.”
Mark spends weeks by himself. At night, he takes to sleeping on the sumptuous couch in their quarters, while Donghyuck takes the bed. The one time that Donghyuck tries to switch places, resolutely stretching across the length of the sofa, eyes so defiantly closed shut that Mark knows he is awake, Mark carries him over to the bed anyway and tucks the covers around him.
By day, he meets with Jaehyun and other advisors behind closed doors. At this point, war seems inevitable. Now he understands the frantic nature of Jaemin’s letters, the tight line he had to walk between loyalty to his own country and loyalty to Mark. It will be difficult, to go against such a friend like this, but Jaehyun warns him that that is his greatest weakness.
“You must never forget where your duties lie,” Jaehyun says. “To your country, first, and then to your husband, second.” He sighs. “As soon as you become an adult, friendships are out of the question.”
Mark’s head spins. His duty is to his husband. How could he forget? Sure, he had wanted love, but more important than that is trust, is duty.
Suddenly, waiting seems like a foolish idea. That night, he approaches Donghyuck in their quarters. Donghyuck is fresh from the baths, his hair wet and plastered against the back of his neck.
“We need to talk,” Mark says. “I have--I am done waiting.”
Donghyuck raises an eyebrow, surprised. “And what have you decided, my prince?” he asks, seemingly as confident as ever. The only tell to his nervousness is his hands, tapping an anxious pattern against the thigh of his linen pants.
“You were right,” Mark confesses. “This--this is only the beginning of a greater war.”
Donghyuck nods slowly. “You may think me foolish,” he says. “But, in truth, I am more knowledgeable than you expect.”
Mark shakes his head ruefully. “I will never underestimate you again,” he replies. “You would think I learned after the first time.”
“But—” Donghyuck swallows, now. “You love me, do you not?” When Mark merely gapes at him in reply, shocked, Donghyuck continues: “When you put your blade up against my neck, it was on the blunt side. Even--even when you suspected the worst of me, you did not want to cause me harm.”
Mark swallows, dry. “I trust you,” he says, as honest as he possibly can be. “As for love--for you, it is perhaps the closest thing I have ever felt to such an unnamable, sacred thing. Between husbands, is that not enough?”
Donghyuck nods, a little shaky, and in that moment Mark knows that there is a future ahead for the two of them. They just need to win a war first.
nct, lee donghyuck/mark lee, rated t, 8.7k
“It is amusing, is it not,” Mark says, out of breath with sweat shining on his face, “that they dressed you up as a fragile, delicate flower, but—”
“But even roses have their thorns, my prince,” Donghyuck replies. In a sleek, single movement, he disarms Mark and presses the blunt side of his blade up against Mark’s clavicle.
Author's Notes
This started out as a fic for NCT Write Write 2019, which I ended up dropping out of... The prompt was something like "markhyuck arranged marriage au to save their kingdoms," the typical royalty/arranged marriage au I guess.
I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I will never finish this fic. It honestly kind of kills me inside because I spent a lot of time on writing this, and it was definitely an experiment for me writing wise... Ultimately I confused myself by adding a weird murder plot to the fic ;;___;; I was planning to finish it up this summer but then didn't for mainly two reasons:
1) there are already several very popular markhyuck fics in the fandom that deal with arranged marriage
2) the fictional system of royalty described within the fic, while not deliberately trying to be westernized or euro-centric, definitely comes across that way. I reflected a lot on the importance of like... getting rid of that western-default viewpoint while writing fics during my hiatus, and it was one of the things that stopped me from coming back to fic at first, so yeah. Regardless I'm going to leave it up here because I'm pretty proud of the actual writing itself ;;___;; <3
Oh also I included some random notes to myself while writing that I never ended up writing out as actual scenes... aha this fic truly makes no sense
Part One
"Prince Mark, of the Eastern kingdom," the king—his father, though he seldom remembers this fact nowadays—states solemnly. Mark kneels at the foot of his throne, waiting for his orders. He can hear the shakiness of his mother's breathing while he tries his best to stay still.
It is the first of Spring, a most auspicious day. It is a moment that Mark has been waiting for with trepidation ever since his nineteenth birthday. For today, his future husband will be announced.
As the second son of the king of the Eastern kingdom, Mark is bound to tradition. It dictates that the king's first born son must marry within the kingdom, in order to preserve the harmony and unity of the nation. It also dictates that the younger sons must marry outside of the kingdom, in order to preserve the alliances between the Eastern Kingdom and other nations. The kingdoms form these marriages as a form of strategy, not as a form of preservation, and as such—Mark will be marrying a man.
"Your husband to be," the king continues, "is Prince Haechan of the Western kingdom!"
Mark cannot help himself—he glances up in shock for a split second, hoping to discern any expression on his mother's face. As a true queen would, she betrays no sign of outward emotion or weakness.
Mark looks back down. Prince Donghyuck? Haechan, as his ceremonial name dictates? He is the prince of the warring Western kingdom.
This is no marriage to preserve an alliance. This is bond that was forged to secure some modicum of peace. But Jaemin—
Mark pushes away that line of thought. He is to obey his duties, both as a prince and as a servant of the Eastern kingdom. He had expected to marry the Northern kingdom's prince, one of his closest confidantes, but—
"You may stand," the king orders.
Mark gets to his feet quickly, eyes still lowered towards the floor.
"Do you agree to this betrothal?" the king asks. It is more of a formality than anything else.
Mark swallows dryly before nodding. "Yes, I agree."
His mind is a storm as he trudges back to his palace quarters. Mark takes a seat at his desk, illuminated by candle-light, and does as he always would—he writes to Jaemin.
Jaemin,
I must confess that I do not yet fully comprehend the situation at hand. I am to be betrothed to Prince Haechan of the Western kingdom; I suppose such an alliance must be sutured together somehow, and this is... precarious.
What are your thoughts? I have not seen you since last midsummer, and for that, I apologize.
Best regards,
Mark
He pauses before placing the letter in an envelope, unfolding the paper once more so that he can read it again.
Mark is almost certain that the Northern kingdom will not be pleased once they hear news of the engagement between him and Prince Donghyuck. Perhaps, perhaps—
He crumples the letter up into a ball, crushing it between his palms, and tosses it into the nearby fireplace. As a prince, Mark's duty is to his nation, to his father—not to his own petty miseries.
The months pass with a startling regularity. Mark, in preparations for Prince Donghyuck’s arrival, seldom finds a spare moment to himself. The Eastern kingdom has always concerned itself in matters of pride; to embarrass themselves in front of the Western kingdom’s prince—their former enemies, the two of kingdoms united by a weak thread of peace—is unthinkable.
Their wedding is planned for summer solstice, the most auspicious day of the year. Prince Donghyuck is to arrive mere weeks before, on the eve of his birthday.
Mark hears news of Donghyuck’s arrival to the court before he sees the prince. The hushed whispers and excitement, the way the servants seem to look around furtively before proceeding down the halls: all of it results in a combination that wreaks havoc on his nerves.
Mark stares at himself in the mirror. He is to enter the dining hall in five minutes. His mother has spent a month planning the perfect welcoming ball, regional dishes and music and ornate decorations to signify the opulence of the Eastern kingdom more so than to indicate the arrival of Prince Donghyuck.
Increasingly, it has become difficult to recognize himself. He looks overwrought, already worn out by the duties he has been holding for barely ten months.
Mark wonders if Donghyuck will care, if he would even notice. It is no secret that the Prince of the Western kingdom himself was named Haechan for a reason. Jungwoo, one of the court diplomats, said that Prince Donghyuck was like a fire—a force to be reckoned with, fierce and bright.
“Your highness?” It is Yukhei, lightly rapping his knuckles against Mark’s door. “It is time for you to go to dinner.”
“Of course,” Mark replies. His voice comes out steadier than he expects. He swallows once, twice; when his breath comes out, it fogs up the mirror slightly.
He can no longer see himself.
Feeling somewhat more calm, Mark turns to leave.
Mark knows, as soon as he walks into the dining hall, which man is Prince Donghyuck. To him, it is not even a question—not when there is one person who is dressed in gold and orange, one person who seems to outshine the splendor of the Eastern kingdom’s decorations despite the simplicity of his garb, one person to which draws in Mark’s eyes immediately, like a magnet.
It is disarming, but he makes sure to not betray a trace of an expression as he takes his seat beside the king and his older brother, Jaehyun.
Donghyuck sits across from him, eyes looking down to his plate. His eyelashes flutter against his cheeks. It reminds Mark of a sparrow’s feathers, so delicate and pretty.
“We welcome Prince Mark’s betrothed, Prince Haechan of the Western kingdom, to our realm,” the king announces.
He leads a series of toasts to Donghyuck and his nineteenth birthday. Mark tunes out most of it in favor of taking in the subtleties of Donghyuck and the foreigner court he brought with him. They dress far more simply than the rest of the Eastern people; only Prince Donghyuck is dressed so ornately.
Dinner is the usual affair. Donghyuck’s eyes widen as he tastes some of their regional delicacies.
Mark chuckles. “Is it too spicy, Prince Haechan?”
“Donghyuck is just fine,” he replies, taking several sips from his wine. “And, yes, it is quite—unexpected.”
It is not long before the servants bring out desert, one of the crowning achievements of the Eastern kingdom. As per usual, one of the servants kneels before the food and takes a bite of the cake before it is distributed to the rest of the room.
Mark does not even bother to watch, instead focusing his attention on Donghyuck in front of him.
“Tell me about yourself,” Mark says. “I know little save for court legends and royal gossip.”
Donghyuck raises an eyebrow. “Royal gossip, hm? I wonder what they say.”
“Some speak of the sun contained within you,” Mark says. He knows little save from the few details Jaemin’s handed him over the years. “Others speak of more… worldly pursuits.”
“I suppose you and the Northern prince are close friends, my prince.”
Mark sighs. “This is well-known throughout the four kingdoms.”
“And it was also well-known,” Donghyuck continues, “that you two were to be betrothed, were you not?”
Donghyuck is truly a maze of messages. Mark looks down at the table, considering.
“There is nothing there,” Mark says, looking back up to Donghyuck. “There is nothing there, and you are my betrothed.”
Donghyuck’s lip curls up in disdain. “And nothing else matters?”
“Why should it—”
“Your highness!” the leader of the guard calls, voice tremulous. Mark turns to view the commotion, startled. Johnny never sounds nervous, so he knows that a grave incident has occurred.
“What happened?” Donghyuck asks, leaning over the table to get a better look.
Mark gets up from his seat, striding over towards where Johnny stands, his tall stature visible from a distance. He pushes through the crowd of onlookers; Donghyuck is close behind him.
“Oh,” Mark breathes, as soon as he can see properly. Already the king and queen have gathered, Jaehyun as well. Beside Johnny, lying prostrate on the ground, is one of the servants required to taste-test the dishes. She heaves on the floor with rough coughs that spray blood across the tiles.
“Don’t look,” he says to Donghyuck, not that he would ever listen. Donghyuck’s eyes widen with shock as he takes in the scene, and it isn’t long before he turns away from the sight and leaves.
Mark follows after him. “Prince Donghyuck,” he calls, as Donghyuck takes a seat back at the table, as if nothing had happened. “Are you feeling well?”
Donghyuck looks down. “This… poisoning,” he says, finally. “Is this so common of an occurrence?”
“No,” Mark says hesitantly. “No, it is not.”
But these new alliances dictate new times. He has no clue who could have possibly done such a thing, but he knows this: the poisoning is not an actual attempt to take someone’s life. Instead, it is a promise of future violence. A threat.
“Okay,” Donghyuck replies. He stands up, pushing his plate away from him. “I’m afraid that I feel… unwell. I will retire to my quarters early. Give the king and queen my apologies.”
Mark watches Donghyuck leave, and wonders what these new times will foretell.
Mark raps his knuckles against the door to Donghyuck’s quarters, short and loud.
“Prince Donghyuck!” Mark calls, hoping that he will be able to hear. “I know that you are present. Please, open the door.”
The door swings open swiftly, and Mark is faced by the sight of Donghyuck in his lounge clothes. He is no longer the ornate creature who walked into court yesterday evening; now he seems both more plain yet more powerful, as well, all at once.
“What is it?” Donghyuck asks, tone erring on insubordinately sharp.
Mark opens his mouth, then closes it. He twists fingers together, almost nervous, then begins to speak again.
“We are to get to know each other,” he says.
“And so…?” Donghyuck begins, evidently perplexed.
“Before we get married,” Mark adds.
Something akin to understanding reaches Donghyuck’s eyes. The curve of his smile forms a bitter, bitter slant.
“If you must know, my prince,” Donghyuck says, “I have always wanted to marry for love.”
Mark gapes at him, astonished. Love? A prince desiring love? Mark has never heard anything more preposterous within his lifetime.
“Marriage is a duty,” Mark replies. “It is not—it is not—” He struggles for the words.
“It is not what?” Donghyuck challenges. “Have you deemed it too unseemly for your Eastern propriety?”
“You are—” There is something about Donghyuck, about his fiery eyes and biting words, that sparks a heat within Mark. Whether it is anger or something else, he does not. It rushes through his veins, renders him impulsive and reckless.
“You are,” Mark repeats, gritting his teeth, “far too naive for a prince of your stature.”
Donghyuck’s eyes narrow. “Naive?” he asks. “You must think me to be a child, still.”
“Is your idealism not childish?” Mark’s eyes widen as soon as he realizes what he has said.
Donghyuck’s face twists into something painful. He swiftly turns away from the conversation, slamming the door behind him.
Mark stares at the door blankly, thinking of how he had planned to show Donghyuck the palace gardens—to show him that beauty can exist in a cage, to show him that they were together in this situation, to show that, perhaps, they would be able to get along—
And for what result? For the Western prince to slam the door in his face. Mark walks away, and tries not to feel as if he has lost a battle without knowing it.
Mark attempts to converse with Donghyuck for a week. For seven days, one after another, he makes his way over to Donghyuck’s quarters and knocks against his door. Sometimes, he can hear Donghyuck moving around behind the door. Regardless of whether Donghyuck is within his quarters, the result is the same: Mark walks away alone.
He admits defeat after the seventh day, and resumes his old routine. His days feel the same, and it is easy to forget that he is betrothed in the first place. The preparations for the wedding will not become serious until the four weeks before the ceremony, and as a result there is a momentary lull in his life. The eye of a hurricane, so to speak.
On the eighth day, he recieves a letter from Jaemin.
Dearest Mark,
How do you fare? I have heard news of your betrothal to the Western kingdom’s prince. He burns as bright as the sun, does he not? I have many wishes for your matrimony with Prince Haechan. May your kingdoms forever be aligned both on Earth and in the stars.
I hope you enjoy your engagement period while you can. If you can, please do reply.
Best regards,
Jaemin
By all usual respects, this is a standard, normal letter from Jaemin. Mark does not know whether it is because of the recent poisoning or something else, but the words I hope you enjoy your engagement period while you can send a shiver down his spine. It does not take him long to draft a response, impersonal and blunt. As is the case with the rest of Jaemin’s letters, Mark places it in the fireplace once he is finished reading.
He watches the flames engulf it, the noise loud and greedy, and hopes that he is navigating this new world with enough finesse to match the enigmas that surround him.
Jungwoo visits him a few days later. He does so without informing Mark beforehand, yet he suspected such a visit would occur anyway given the circumstances. Mark supposes that these happenings are just part and parcel of being a prince.
“Your highness,” Jungwoo says, bowing after he enters Mark’s quarters.
“Please sit,” Mark replies, gesturing towards the chair beside the fireplace. Jungwoo, when standing, surpasses his own height by nearly seven centimeters; it is not something that he enjoys.
“Of course.” Jungwoo sits in the chair, clasping his hands in his lap.
“For what reason did you visit me?” Mark asks. He leans forward, interested to hear what the court diplomat has to say.
“I come on orders from Crown Prince Jaehyun.” Jungwoo keeps his gaze focused on Mark’s face, but he carefully avoids making direct eye-contact. He’s a clever one.
“Not the king?” Mark replies. Normally, Jungwoo did not defer to Jaehyun for orders.
“No, not the king, your highness.” Jungwoo makes an attempt at a smile. It comes across as a grimace, in a way—pained and strained.
“Is Jaehyun too busy to visit me himself?” Mark counters, frowning.
“He consumes himself with the peace treaty between the Western and Eastern kingdoms,” Jungwoo replies. “There is still much debate over… some of the clauses within.”
“Debate? Surely…” Mark trails off, shaking his head. “Was the poisoning incident a threat?”
“There is still much yet to ponder over,” Jungwoo says, every word careful and precise. “No one is certain of anything.”
He frowns in thought, but just as quickly that expression morphs into one of practice neutrality. No wonder Jungwoo garners such high praise as a diplomat.
“But, your highness,” he adds. “We suggest that you keep your wits about yourself.”
“When have I not?”
“Your highness, please do not take offense,” Jungwoo replies quickly. “The crown prince merely wishes to look after you, as your older brother.”
“I will not… take offense,” Mark says. He forces eye-contact onto Jungwoo, though Jungwoo’s eyes quickly dart away. “And I will continue to be cautious.”
“Very well, your highness.” Apparently satisfied, Jungwoo rises from his seat. “Then I will take my leave.”
“Very well,” Mark echoes.
Jungwoo pauses before he exits, hand poised on the doorknob. “But, your highness—the people closest to you have the highest chance of harming you. And we have yet to close the treaty with the Western kingdom.”
“I am aware,” Mark says, biting down on his lower lip.
“Then I wish you a good rest of your day, your highness,” Jungwoo says. With that, he leaves the room, the door closing silently shut behind him.
Jungwoo had clearly wanted to warn Mark of malicious intent from the Western kingdom. Immediately, his mind goes to Donghyuck—is there a possibility that he orchestrated the poisoning? Donghyuck had fled the scene, presumably out of fear, but…
Keep your wits about yourself, Jungwoo had said. That much, Mark thinks he can execute.
Soon enough, Donghyuck must have tired of their self-imposed isolation, for he is the one to break their silence.
He comes across Mark during late morning, close to noontime, when Mark spends his time practicing to fight before the sun's gaze beats down too hard upon his pale neck. Mostly he trains with members of his own guard, though the majority of them fight with caution, too afraid to give him much harm.
Yukhei, his bodyguard for the past five years, is perhaps the only exception; he knows Mark well, can discern easily when to push and how to pull back in intensity.
It is only once Mark finally—finally—disarms Yukhei for the first time today that he notices Donghyuck's presence.
"Good morning, my lord," Yukhei greets, bowing quickly before stepping aside to give them some space.
Donghyuck stands in front of Mark for several moments, not saying anything but merely just taking in the training grounds. Mark practices several yards away from the guards-in-training, but he can still hear their shouts and yells from a distance.
"You train? To fight?" Donghyuck asks, finally. "Your highness," he adds belatedly, bowing his head quickly in apology. It doesn't sound apologetic at all; such is the power that Donghyuck has, to twist phrases into their double meanings until everything is mixed up in Mark's head.
Donghyuck drives him to distraction. It would be aggravating, if Mark didn't enjoy it so much.
"I need to be able to protect myself," Mark replies. "Of course, I have my guard, but—“
"But paranoia," Donghyuck supplies. "Ah, my family was the same." He eyes Mark's sword with something akin to longing. It makes something twist, deep within Mark’s chest.
He watches Donghyuck carefully, noticing the hesitation in his fluttering eyelashes. He is certain that Donghyuck will make the first move, just as he is sure that he is merely a black pawn in the entire game of chess.
"Care to spar?" Donghyuck asks finally. He tears his gaze away from the faraway sight of the guards practicing, regarding Mark with an unfathomable expression.
Mark raises his eyebrows. "Is this... appropriate, Donghyuck?" he wonders.
Donghyuck takes a step forward, the toe of his boot resting against Mark's ankle.
He's far away; he's too close. It makes Mark's head spin with the possibilities.
"I do not care for propriety," Donghyuck whispers. "Not during such savage things as sparring."
Mark closes his eyes. He can hear the soft exhales of Donghyuck breathing.
"Fine," he bites out. Already, he is used to acquiescing to Donghyuck's wishes.
Yukhei finds Donghyuck a weapon, one of the best swords taken from the training grounds, and they spar while the guard watches from a distance.
Donghyuck fights with a verve that is unexpected, with a style that leaves Mark breathless.
"I have never—" Mark says between blocks and jabs, "seen anyone—" he takes another breath— "who fights like this."
Donghyuck smirks. "It is the style of the Western kingdom," he says, once he's knocked the blade out of Mark's hands. "Quite unique and irreplaceable."
Mark disarms Donghyuck twice; Donghyuck bests him another three times before they pause in their sparring.
“It is amusing, is it not,” Mark says, out of breath with sweat shining on his face, “that they dressed you up as a fragile, delicate flower, but—”
“But even roses have their thorns, my prince,” Donghyuck replies. In a sleek, single movement, he disarms Mark and presses the blunt side of his blade up against Mark’s clavicle.
"Your highness!" Yukhei calls from where he's watching, striding towards them in quick steps. "Is everything alright—"
"Yes, of course it is," Mark replies. He never takes his eyes off of Donghyuck, off of the way he seems to shake with every shuddery breath.
If the two of them had met on a battlefield, even a year before, Donghyuck would not have hesitated to turn the blade around and slice into Mark's chest. They pledge allegiance to two separate enemy countries, more dissimilar than not, and a constant squabble between the two blurs into indifference in the minds of the commoners.
Mark isn't afraid. Slowly, carefully, he backs away from Donghyuck's cornering crouch.
"You truly are a wonder," Mark says.
Donghyuck shrugs, a smile dancing on the edge of his lips. "You are not too bad yourself, my prince."
It must be midday already, for the sun shines in the center of the sky with an unabashed brightness. It illuminates everything, from the tips of grass to the sides of the stables, giving Donghyuck an effervescent glow.
You truly are a wonder, Mark thinks. He understands, now, why Donghyuck's royal name is Haechan. He's the full sun, brighter than anything else Mark has touched.
Mark soon shifts his routine to accommodate sparring with Donghyuck. It is a way of learning a person that Mark did not anticipate. For every block, for every clash of sword against sword, he gains a new insight into Donghyuck and his character. And, of course, Donghyuck learns quite enough about him as well.
They do not talk after sparring; instead, Mark sheds his equipment in silence while Donghyuck flees to his quarters to change. In some ways they are closer than the fellow guards that train together, yet in other ways, they are as chaste as any betrothed couple.
Soon it is time for his marriage ceremony, on the summer solstice. Mark is prepared for this, has been prepared for this ever since he turned nineteen, but the real event is more nerve-wracking than he could ever anticipate.
The weight of his ceremonial dress feels as if he is carrying a small child within his arms. He has never been so ornately dressed, not since Jaehyun’s coronation as the crown prince three years ago.
Donghyuck, as per tradition, already waits for him. Between them stands High Priest Taeyong, the officiate for any royal ceremony that invokes the stars and some sort of auspicious matching. His beauty is said to be blessed by the gods.
“We shall start the marriage ceremony of Prince Mark of the Eastern kingdom and Prince Haechan of the Western kingdom!” Taeyong announces. He turns to Mark, touching the middle of his forehead with ochre pigment. As the first dye that the Eastern kingdom had produced, nearly centuries ago, it is their national trademark.
Taeyong does the same to Donghyuck, then joins Mark and Donghyuck’s hands together with a gentle touch. From afar, Mark can spot Jaehyun and the king in the audience; Yukhei and the other guards stand alert at every entrance. The silence rings through the room.
“Prince Mark,” Taeyong says. “Do you promise to take care of your husband, to be true to your marital bond, to be honest and virtuous in every aspect?”
“I do,” Mark replies. Donghyuck’s eyes focus on the ground. From this close, Mark can see the golden pigment smeared across his eyelids and cheekbones. He glints like ornate jewelry.
“Prince Haechan,” Taeyong continues, turning to face Donghyuck. “Do you swear to take care of your husband, to be true to your marital bond, to be virtuous and honest in every aspect?”
“Of course,” Donghyuck says. He looks up, holding Mark’s gaze steadily with unreadable eyes. “I do.”
“By the virtue of the sun and the stars, I pronounce the completion of this union,” Taeyong says. The silence seems almost pregnant with anticipation. Everyone, now, focuses their attention to the center of the room, where the king sits flanked by Mark’s mother and brother.
The king stands up, and the rest of the room follows, clambering to their feet.
“Do you approve this marriage, your majesty?” Taeyong asks.
“Yes.” The king nods solemnly, and just like that, the silence breaks open like a shattered chalice. The audience begins to chatter, growing louder and louder with their excitement.
Donghyuck exhales, and it sounds like a sigh of relief. “Now, what are we to do?” he asks.
The door slams shut behind them, and it echoes in the cold silence of their new quarters. Mark stares at the marriage bed in the center of the room, hands clenched into fists. He has never felt more awkward in his life.
“We should wash up,” Mark says finally, eyeing the golden sheen of Donghyuck’s face, gleaming with makeup and sweat in the candlelight.
Donghyuck nods, a furtive, nervous motion.
Mark rubs the back of his neck, unsure. Is Donghyuck that uncomfortable by the idea of sharing a bed with him?
“Do you wish to go first?” Mark asks.
Donghyuck shakes his head. “You—you can go, your highness.”
Mark tilts his head, considering Donghyuck with a frown. Donghyuck has never addressed him in so formal a manner, at least not seriously. It comes off as oddly stilted, in the moment.
“As you wish,” Mark says finally. After he finishes washing a long day’s worth of dust and sweat off of his body, he takes a seat on the left side of the bed. He can faintly hear Donghyuck in the washroom next door. The sound of water running would normally soothe him, but now it only serves as a reminder for what will come.
Mark, throughout his life as a prince, has spent many hours pouring over military texts and historical accounts, holy texts and old wives’ tales about marriage, but none of the information he acquired has prepared him for sharing a bed with Prince Donghyuck.
When Donghyuck steps out of the washroom, he pauses, for a moment, regarding Mark atop of their marriage bed.
“What are we—to do?” Donghyuck asks. His fingers twist together anxiously. A stray droplet of water drips from his chin, and Mark follows its path down the slope of Donghyuck’s neck idly.
“What do you mean?” Mark asks, confused. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“Ah,” Donghyuck replies, looking down at the ground. His hands separate from each other, balling into knuckle-white fists. “Yes, of course.”
“Come here,” Mark says, trying his best to sound welcoming. “It is late. Might as well make use of the bed, right?”
Mark looks over at the expanse of bedding beside him. They can easily sleep without fear of touching each other, with added space to manage another person or two.
Donghyuck nods again, slowly making his way over to the marriage bed. He sits down gingerly on the side opposite to Mark. Then, gaze still fixed on the ground, he begins to unbutton the top of his nightshirt. His hands are shaking.
“What are you doing?” Mark asks. Donghyuck refuses to look up, hands still moving to unbutton the rest of his shirt.
“Donghyuck, what are you doing?” Mark repeats, bewildered.
“Surely you do not wish to have… sex with your garments still on?” Donghyuck replies, eyebrows raised. He bites out the word sex as if it is a curse he must bear. His gaze fixes on some point in the distance far left of Mark.
There lies a tremor in Donghyuck’s voice, shaky, and realization dawns upon Mark.
“I do not—I will not—” Mark shakes his head, mind working overtime to comprehend what Donghyuck had intended. Surely, he did not think—
“I meant that we should simply sleep,” Mark explains, feeling sheepish.
“But will they not check?” Relief and skepticism war across Donghyuck’s features.
“Check?” Mark asks, raising his eyebrows.
“Check that we—” Donghyuck flushes, pink spreading across his cheeks. “That—“
“It does not matter,” Mark cuts in, sparing Donghyuck from the embarrassment, “Especially given that we will not produce children.”
“Oh.” The tension seems to bleed out of Donghyuck’s figure like the current of a flowing river. Mark recognizes that feeling, the sweet taste of relief.
Donghyuck remains silent for a moment, considering. “In the Western kingdom, courtiers surround the newlyweds behind a silk screen to ensure that—that—“ He breaks off, eyeing Mark curiously.
“Ah, I see,” Mark says. In his studies of the Western kingdom, he never came across marriage traditions. “That seems… unnecessarily awkward.”
“Perhaps,” Donghyuck allows, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He relaxes, bit by bit with every passing moment, until Mark finds it hard to believe that he was ever afraid in the first place.
“You do not need to worry about me,” Mark says. “I will never—“ he hesitates as with how to word it, “do anything that you do not want, in this aspect of our marriage.”
“You refuse me so easily,” Donghyuck notes. He turns towards so that their bodies face each other, like opposite sides of the moon. Something about looking at Donghyuck reminds Mark of the depth of the universe.
“Is that not what you had wanted?” Mark asks.
“Truth be told, my prince,” Donghyuck replies, eyes glittering, “I do not know what I want.”
“Truth be told…” Mark repeats, closing his eyes with a sigh. “I am the same.”
“You seemed so certain,” Donghyuck says. Mark opens his eyes to see Donghyuck frowning in thought. “Back when you knocked upon my door for a week.”
“I had wished to know you better,” Mark says, softly. “Is that such a terrible thing?”
“It was not bad, my prince,” Donghyuck replies earnestly. “It was… unexpected. And I was angry at several other things, at the time.” He pauses for a moment. “We should sleep, should we not?”
“Perhaps we should,” Mark admits. He runs his fingers over the surface of the bed absentmindedly. “But… I enjoy talking to you, just like this.”
“Do you?” Donghyuck looks at him with a grin. It is a lightning bolt to the heart. “Then who am I to go against your wishes?”
“You seem quite… exhausted, your highness.” Yukhei, waiting by the door as Mark washes his face, tries his hardest to hide his smirk. Mark manages to catch a glimpse of it through the mirror, and he rolls his eyes in reply.
“Get your mind out of the gutter, Yukhei,” Mark replies. He cannot help it—he meets Yukhei’s eyes in the mirror, and then bursts into a bout of laughter.
“Of course,” Yukhei replies smoothly.
Sometimes, on days as stressful as this one, he feels as if Yukhei is his only friend. The day after the royal wedding marks the day of the public celebration. He and Donghyuck will have to ride through a procession, will have to face the public for the first time as a united front.
“I spent the entire night talking to him,” Mark admits. He splashes his face with water again, not that it helps. His eyes are still red and tired from the lack of sleep he received.
“You seem to be bonding with him,” Yukhei comments. “Is that not desirable, your highness?”
Mark turns away from the sink, facing Yukhei in all of his unadulterated earnestness. Yukhei is loyal, passionate. The type of person believe in true love and to defend his prince above all. Mark does not indulge in that same romanticism, but he can admit that every minute spent with Donghyuck makes him lean, more and more, into his inner idealist.
“We’ll see,” Mark sighs, grim. “We’ll see.”
“Are you ready?” Mark asks, looking over at Donghyuck. They sit within the royal platform, hidden from the public eye by a mere curtain. In minutes, they will have to step outside and expose themselves to the judgment of the Eastern kingdom’s people.
Donghyuck’s eyes focus on his feet, which are clad in ornate sandals. Again, everything about him is detailed and opulent, strength in excess. Mark finds it hard to believe, at times, that this is the same boy who challenged him at sword fight, who cowered away from his touch.
“I will be ready,” Donghyuck replies, finally, barely audible over the cheers of the public.
The bell rings once. From outside the curtain, the High Priest Taeyong announces Mark’s arrival. Mark reaches over to squeeze Donghyuck’s shoulder, hoping to impress some modicum of support.
“See you outside,” Mark says simply, before stepping out onto the platform.
The crowd cheers instantaneously, and Mark’s heart soars as he waves back at them, his people. Mark has always been the favorite, ever since he and Jaehyun were young. Jaehyun may be the Crown Prince of the Eastern kingdom, but Mark is the nation’s prince, the people’s prince.
“Now, please welcome Prince Haechan!” Taeyong announces.
Donghyuck steps out, quickly standing beside Mark. The applause is muted, though still loud. Johnny, Yukhei, and the rest of the royal guard cheer the most, a chorus of exuberant yelling.
Mark turns to look at Donghyuck. You can do this, he mouths. Then, he takes Donghyuck’s hand—
The people roar in excitement—
And Mark raises their palms into the air. The applause is exhilarating. It erupts in his veins like dynamite.
“Wow,” Donghyuck says, so quiet that only Mark can hear it.
Mark nods. Seeing Donghyuck’s awe, basking in the love of his people—it makes him feel warm, transcendent. He looks over at Donghyuck, shining, and thinks: maybe I want to love this boy, this prince.
It’s when he’s looking out at the crowd that he first notices something off. Johnny’s missing. Most of the others he’d recognize from the guard — Yukhei, where’s Yukhei — are gone, now, too. The tension shifts.
Mark senses the movement before he sees it, anticipation more than anything else, and shoves Donghyuck to the ground, throwing his body in the way—
The last thing he sees is the blood, blooming across his ceremonial robes like a poisoned flower.
Part Two
1.Letter from Jaemin
2. Scene with Donghyuck — he says, you shouldn’t have done this, this serious look on his face. If someone attacks me do not take the fall for it. Is it not the nature of a husband to protect his spouse? We are married by name only, are we not? A sham marriage?
3. Later, Jaehyun visits. Donghyuck was at your side for the two days where you were resting. Mark asks if they know what’s behind it. Jaehyun says no, says Lucas is with him, they say that they’re working on it ??
4. When Mark is walking to visit Donghyuck, late at night, he overhears the conversation between him and Jeno. Cryptic. It makes Mark worry, suspect— is Donghyuck behind this? Are they plotting against them? No, he couldn’t be, Mark decides.
5. He meets with Jungwoo, and Jungwoo is suspicious as heck. Warns Mark. Again, cryptic.
Later that night, Mark stops by Donghyuck’s quarters. He almosts knocks on the door before remembering—ah, yes, the two of them share a room now. There is plenty of space for Donghyuck in Mark’s vast, luxurious rooms. He is beginning to wonder whether he can say the same of his heart.
“Prince Donghyuck?” Mark calls out softly, stepping into his bedroom.
Donghyuck already lies underneath their covers, blankets pulled so far up that only the top of his head is showing. The sight of it, of him, makes Mark smile.
“Are you asleep?” Mark whispers, walking over to Donghyuck’s side of the bed. He reaches out, pausing before his fingertips can make contact with Donghyuck’s hair.
Donghyuck rolls over within the sheets so that his face is further pressed into the mattress. “I was sleeping, before you arrived,” he grumbles, half of the syllables muffled by his pillow.
“Donghyuck,” Mark begins. “Are you still opposed, to, ah, getting to know me better?”
There is no response from Donghyuck. Mark sighs, fingers finally making contact with the softness of Donghyuck’s hair.
“Truthfully, sometimes I feel as if—” Mark breaks off, unable to word the feeling. He tries to remember what Donghyuck had said to him: I wish to marry for love. Somehow, in the quiet, dark intimacy of this bedroom, his wishes do not seem as preposterous. “I still think that marriage is a duty,” he continues. “But, perhaps, with you—it does not seem to be that much of a burden.”
Donghyuck finally pushes the covers off of his face, sitting up quickly. “Your change of heart—”
“I changed my mind,” Mark corrects.
“Your change of heart,” Donghyuck repeats emphatically, “warms my own.” He reaches out to grasp Mark’s hand. “I hope to lessen your burdens, not add to them, my prince.”
Mark swallows. Donghyuck’s eyes shimmer with some sort of suppressed hope. It hurts. It sings out to him, a siren’s song of spring and new beginnings.
“And so do I, to you,” Mark replies.
“Where are you taking me, my prince?” Donghyuck wonders aloud, as they traverse the brick paths through perfectly-shaped hedges and bushes.
“To the gardens, of course,” Mark replies. It is the peak of summer, and everything is ripe, in bloom, vivid before his eyes. He reaches out to grasp a couple of blueberries, handing some of the fruit over to Donghyuck. They quietly marvel in the sweet, juicy tartness.
Donghyuck wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. “Are we not already in the gardens?” he asks, gesturing out at the vibrant flowers beside him. He stops to sniff at one of the plants, wrinkling his nose at the smell. “A lovely rose, this is not, but I know a garden when I see one.”
Mark shakes his head. “To me, this is no garden,” he says. They are surrounded by manufactured perfection, pleasing to the eye and artificial. It reminds him of his father, of the absolute strictness with which he wields his power. Yes, there is nature in these plants, but it is nature subdued, caged.
“What is a garden, then?” Donghyuck counters, easily falling back into step with Mark.
“We are but a few minutes away,” Mark replies. Already, the brick path has given away to dirt. Soon there will be nothing beneath their shoes besides past footprints and stray twigs. “Just wait and see.”
It is easy to pinpoint the exact moment in which Donghyuck realizes what Mark had meant, for he says “Oh.” It is hushed, almost reverent, and filled with wonder for what he sees.
“Do you understand, now?” Mark asks, keenly taking in Donghyuck’s reaction. He is used to this garden, to the sort of wild beauty that flourishes here.
Donghyuck does not reply. He does not need to, really, when his actions dictate so clearly what he thinks: he stops to run his fingers across the tops of leaves, eyes roving across the expanse of green, and he sighs with contentment.
“Why does this garden exist?” Donghyuck wonders, several minutes later. He sounds disbelieving, as if it is impossible for anything beautiful to survive under the withering effects of royal power. He crouches to run his fingers through the blades of grass underneath his feet.
“My mother,” Mark replies. “I—she brought me here, often. This was her escape from the palace.”
“This is beautiful.” Donghyuck turns to look at him for the first time, bright-eyed and golden-skinned from the sun, cheeks red with excitement.
In that moment, Mark restrains the urge to reply with You are beautiful. He settles for smiling back at him, nodding in agreement.
Mark winces as the seamstress's assistant pricks his side with a pin.
“Your highness!” the servant’s voice is soft, her eyes wide with the fear of being punished. “I apologize, are you—”
“It’s--fine,” Mark replies. Donghyuck, standing as still as he possibly can while the seamstress measures his waist, catches his eye with a subtle look. Somehow Donghyuck can make a single glance convey depths of concern and abject boredom, all at once.
As soon as the seamstress releases him, Donghyuck strides over to Mark. “Are you quite alright, my prince?” he murmurs.
“Of course,” Mark replies, mouth dry as he surveys Donghyuck’s body from head to toe. He wears a finely weaved tunic, cloth embossed with golden thread so that it shimmers under the light. “This… It is beautiful.”
Donghyuck presses his lips together, as if trying to hide a smile. His cheeks redden slightly, betraying what he refuses to reveal. “You flatter me too much—”
“Were you not the one who wished that we be honest with each other?” Mark interrupts, smoothing a hand over Donghyuck’s shoulder. He quite likes the sight of Donghyuck blushing. He revels in the novelty of it.
Donghyuck seems to startle at his words, and he tenses momentarily before relaxing, again, under Mark’s touch. “Of course,” he replies, swallowing. “We are husbands, are we not?”
At night, they continue to talk. Mark has never been good at expressing anything aloud, prefers writing long confessionals by pen, but conversing with Donghyuck is another category of communication entirely. Donghyuck has elegance and eloquence, an acerbic wit that leaves Mark gasping for laughter late at night.
“Am I really that amusing?” Donghyuck wonders, raising an eyebrow as he smirks over at Mark. The room is lit solely by an oil lamp in the corner, and Donghyuck’s face is shrouded in strange orange shadows. He reaches over to rub Mark’s shoulder, presumably to calm him down. “I’m afraid the guards may become gravely concerned at the sound of your laugh, my prince.”
Mark finally calms down, wiping a stray tear of joy from his eyes. “My laugh is not that wretched,” he protests.
At that, Donghyuck begins to imitate the breathy sound of it, grin wide on his face. Mark shoves at his shoulder gently.
“Fine, fine,” Donghyuck says, relenting. “Tell me, then. Do you enjoy reading?”
A random change in topic, to say the least. But over the past couple of weeks, Mark has learned to adapt to Donghyuck’s abrupt conversational shifts. It is almost refreshing, in a way, like stepping outside in the gardens after a long day cooped up inside palace walls.
“When I was younger, actually,” Mark begins, “I loved writing.” Part of that is a lie: there is no past tense. Even now, he loves writing, the same kind of guilty passion with which most princes regard their concubines.
“Loved?” Donghyuck asks, a lilt on the end of the word. He lies on the bed, entire body facing Mark, his face open, almost soft. As gentle as one could seem while still being a prince.
“I was idealistic,” Mark continues, closing his eyes and resting his head back upon the mattress. Now, he is not lying. “I thought that I would be able to pursue whatever I want, but my duty is to my nation.”
Donghyuck is silent for a while, considering. Mark opens his eyes, watching carefully as Donghyuck cracks a smile. “So you are human,” he notes, reaching out to poke Mark’s cheek. “I still remember what you said to me--one of the first things you said, I think—”
Mark covers his face with his hands and groans into his palms. “Please do not remind me—”
“Marriage is a duty,” Donghyuck mimics, voice high-pitched. “I thought your heart was made of stone, back then.”
“What do you think now?” Mark replies, peering through the cracks of his closed fingers.
Donghyuck shrugs. “That is for you to find out, I suppose.”
“Donghyuck—“ Mark protests.
“We should sleep,” Donghyuck replies quickly, turning so that his back faces Mark. “Good night.”
—
Meanwhile, Jaemin continues to write to him, the letters becoming increasingly shorter and more frantic with each passing week.
Dear Mark,
I hope that your marriage with Donghyuck has been progressing splendidly. It must be so bright in your kingdom with Prince Haechan’s presence. Please take care.
Stay safe,
Jaemin.
Jaehyun and Jungwoo corner him after a week or two, holding the most recent envelope in the air.
“Why,” Jaehyun says evenly, “are you corresponding with the Prince of Northern kingdom?” He spits out the words prince and northern like they are the harshest swears, as if Jaehyun, too, had not spent his childhood frolicking in the meadows of the Northern kingdom’s palace alongside Jaemin and Mark.
Mark returns his stare, defiant. “I am not corresponding with him,” he says. “I have yet to reply to any of his letters.”
Jungwoo sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose in between two fingers. “As if that helps. Now he knows that we suspect him—”
“Do we suspect the Northern kingdom?” Mark asks, interrupting Jungwoo in sheer shock. “Completely?”
“Yes,” Jaehyun cuts in. “We do.” He sets the letter down on Mark’s desk, then turns to leave. “Continue to ignore his letters, I would say. Better than deigning to reply.”
The envelope has already been hastily opened, most likely Jaehyun’s doing. Mark cannot even find it within himself to feel entirely angry, at this point. He knows that there will be nothing worthwhile to read:
Mark,
Have you received these letters? Please, I beg of you, respond.
--Jaemin
Mark shuts his eyes and tries to not feel as if he’s cutting off a part of himself as he throws the letter into the fire, yet again.
—
Mark keeps wondering about what Donghyuck thinks of him now. What would be a good way to ask Donghyuck, he wonders. Eventually, he decides on picking a flower from the gardens, something simple and beautiful to sway Donghyuck’s heart.
Oh, how the times have changed, Mark thinks as he traverses the winding path. The full moon casts light upon his steps, everything lit in a silvery glow. It is hard to make out colors in such a light; everything looks as if it has been dipped in titanium, like the finest jewelry.
He stoops down, taking in a rosebush. It reminds him of Donghyuck and the day that they had first sparred together. He will need to be careful in order to remove a rose without getting pricked.
That’s when he first hears the sound of other voices, still quite far away in the distance.
“Where are you taking me, Donghyuck?” a voice asks. Mark fails to recognize it, but he frowns at the casual use of Donghyuck. There are not that many people in the palace who can address Donghyuck with such irreverence.
“Somewhere where we cannot be heard, Jeno,” Donghyuck replies. Jeno? Mark almost cannot believe it, at first. Jeno is Donghyuck’s manservant, the one person sent along from the Western kingdom to accompany him to another country. Mark knew that they were close, but not--not this close. It makes him uncomfortable.
“What is it?” Jeno says, worried. “Donghyuck, is the prince treating you well?”
Mark tenses as he waits for Donghyuck’s reply. He reaches out to twist off a rosebud from the bush, and scrapes the side of his finger against a thorn. He presses the cut to his mouth quickly, hoping to stem the bleeding.
“Of course he is,” Donghyuck responds. “But Jeno, I am afraid--that not everything will go to plan.”
“We will try our best,” Jeno replies. “There is no more we can do.”
After that, the two of them move so far away that Mark can no longer hear their conversation. Instead he is left crouching in front of the rosebush, his face bathed in moonlight, his mouth ringing with the taste of blood.
—
On the day before Mark’s birthday, he receives the most terse letter yet:
I hope this reaches you in time. Happy birthday, Mark. I am sorry I could not do more for you.
—
Mark gets letter from Jaemin
Mark overhears conversation with Nohyuck
Mark talks to Donghyuck — feels as if the war has just begun
Jungwoo talks to him, tells him to stay careful
“Sorry,” Donghyuck bites out, like a mouth full of knives. His eyes shine with unshed tears, everything pent up and refused to be shown. How foolish of Mark to think that Donghyuck was a naive prince. No, Donghyuck is the most cunning of them all--smart enough to wear his heart on his sleeve, to win over people, and sly enough to never show what lies underneath.
“Okay,” Mark says. He clasps his hands together, then releases them, nervous.
“What else do you want me to say?” Donghyuck asks, hopeless, empty. As if nothing he could say would ever sway Mark’s heart. As if he does not already has his cold-blooded hands around the warm, pulsing thing inside of Mark’s chest.
Mark sighs. “I think…” he hesitates. “I think I need some time.”
Mark spends weeks by himself. At night, he takes to sleeping on the sumptuous couch in their quarters, while Donghyuck takes the bed. The one time that Donghyuck tries to switch places, resolutely stretching across the length of the sofa, eyes so defiantly closed shut that Mark knows he is awake, Mark carries him over to the bed anyway and tucks the covers around him.
By day, he meets with Jaehyun and other advisors behind closed doors. At this point, war seems inevitable. Now he understands the frantic nature of Jaemin’s letters, the tight line he had to walk between loyalty to his own country and loyalty to Mark. It will be difficult, to go against such a friend like this, but Jaehyun warns him that that is his greatest weakness.
“You must never forget where your duties lie,” Jaehyun says. “To your country, first, and then to your husband, second.” He sighs. “As soon as you become an adult, friendships are out of the question.”
Mark’s head spins. His duty is to his husband. How could he forget? Sure, he had wanted love, but more important than that is trust, is duty.
Suddenly, waiting seems like a foolish idea. That night, he approaches Donghyuck in their quarters. Donghyuck is fresh from the baths, his hair wet and plastered against the back of his neck.
“We need to talk,” Mark says. “I have--I am done waiting.”
Donghyuck raises an eyebrow, surprised. “And what have you decided, my prince?” he asks, seemingly as confident as ever. The only tell to his nervousness is his hands, tapping an anxious pattern against the thigh of his linen pants.
“You were right,” Mark confesses. “This--this is only the beginning of a greater war.”
Donghyuck nods slowly. “You may think me foolish,” he says. “But, in truth, I am more knowledgeable than you expect.”
Mark shakes his head ruefully. “I will never underestimate you again,” he replies. “You would think I learned after the first time.”
“But—” Donghyuck swallows, now. “You love me, do you not?” When Mark merely gapes at him in reply, shocked, Donghyuck continues: “When you put your blade up against my neck, it was on the blunt side. Even--even when you suspected the worst of me, you did not want to cause me harm.”
Mark swallows, dry. “I trust you,” he says, as honest as he possibly can be. “As for love--for you, it is perhaps the closest thing I have ever felt to such an unnamable, sacred thing. Between husbands, is that not enough?”
Donghyuck nods, a little shaky, and in that moment Mark knows that there is a future ahead for the two of them. They just need to win a war first.