C2 - [ "The Untamed" ]

By dawn, Jungkook was cramped and hungry. He should have brought some food and a waterskin, although he wasn’t certain he’d be able to keep anything down.

He’d witnessed an endless parade of horrors during the war. He’d seen friends die terrible, shrieking deaths. And he’d been subjected to worse than what the Yakuza had done to Taehyung the previous night.

But now he kept envisioning the prince, pale and battered, spread out like a feast before ravening dogs. Jungkook’s skin felt clammy and too tight, and his palms had been bloodied by the press of fingernails in his clenched fists.

The Yakuza did not awaken early. There were no signs of life around the house until midmorning, when men began straggling forth to use the outhouse and to wash themselves at the pump.

They moved slowly, probably still groggy from the night’s drinking. None of them so much as glanced in Jungkook’s direction, but he gripped his sword so tightly that his hand cramped.

He’d seen seven men the night before, but that didn’t mean there weren’t more. Some of them might have been absent from the torture session. So now he watched carefully, taking note of each one’s features, trying to get an accurate count.

He also assessed their weaponry. Each had one of the thin, slightly curved swords beloved of the Yakuza, and Jungkook knew each man was well versed in the use of his blade.

They were called black bandits and trained ninjas for their master skills in fighting.  Jungkook used a straighter, heavier sword, one that would soon tire a soldier unless he was very strong.

But Jungkook was strong, and his weapon had the advantage of a longer reach. If Jungkook wielded it well, a Yakuza opponent would be dead before the curved blade struck Jungkook.

But that was the rub— an opponent, singular. He was badly outnumbered here, and even the best warrior held little chance against seven or more.

Nine, actually. He watched all day and concluded there were nine. And when the sky darkened again, he was no closer to rescuing the prince.

Well into night, Jungkook crept out of his hiding place. He stretched his muscles carefully and took a few handfuls of water from the pump, which leaked. Feeling as if he might be sick, he peeked into the cellar window.

Of course, the Yakuza were drinking again. They’d have little to entertain them here except ale and their prisoner. Oh gods, their prisoner. Taehyung’s upper body was tied to the table, this time face-up. His arms were stretched cruelly— even from afar, Jungkook could see the strained muscles and tendons.

The front of his torso was as badly injured as his back. Maybe worse.

Nothing was left of his left nipple but a blood-crusted wound. His legs were trussed in a complicated manner, spread, and held high by ropes attached to the ceiling beams. One of the Yakuza was slapping him ushering him to speak but Taehyung couldn’t even move. His body was limp as the man slapped him some more and then spitting on him he moved away drinking from the bottle .

After a few grunts, Taehyung’s neck fell back...but the worst part was Taehyung’s bruised face, because although his eyes were open, he stared expressionlessly upward. If it weren’t for the hitching of his chest, Jungkook would have thought he was dead.

Jungkook could break into the house and slaughter the men in the cellar. But he’d never kill all of them before they stopped him. And two of the men were missing, no doubt elsewhere in the house.

Gods, I know I don’t deserve your grace. But please, I beg you. Show me how I can save him.

The gods didn’t answer his silent prayer. But just when he’d decided he’d rush into the cellar, suicidal as that attack would be, his gaze was caught by the pile of empty bottles that littered one corner of the room. Perhaps it was divine inspiration. In any case, he formulated a plan.

He took off running for the village before the voice in his head could convince him how stupid the plan was.

!!~~~~!!

“You look as though you earned your dinner tonight. I hadn’t realized exploring a village was such strenuous work.”

Yoongi sat opposite Jungkook in the inn, watching him devour a huge plate of food. The door to the inn had been closed when Jungkook arrived, breathless.

But after a few heavy knocks Yoongi had opened it for him and hadn’t complained about stoking the fire and heating some food.

“I wasn’t exploring,” Jungkook said with his mouth full. He took a generous swig of water and let out a deep breath. “I lied to you. I’m not here on behalf of an eccentric employer.”

Yoongi raised an eyebrow but didn’t look angry. In fact, his eyes sparkled with excitement. “Why are you here then, my friend?”

Gods, if Yoongi couldn’t be trusted, all was lost. And he was a Joseon, dammit.

During the war, the Hangul soldiers said Joseon were lower than snakes— spiteful, malicious, demonic. And although Jungkook had known better— his father was a good man— he’d believed what he heard.

Yet Yoongi…had been nice.

Jungkook gave him a long look. “Are there other strangers staying in Yonsan now, Yoongi?”

“Not in Yonsan. Nearby, I think. They come into the village now and then.” He narrowed his eyes. “Are you...one of them?”

“No. Gods, no. Do you know who they are?”

Yoongi shook his head. “No. But they’re nothing good, I think. There are rumors. Some think they’re spies, although I can’t imagine what they’d be spying on. Some think they’ve plans to seize property from the villagers. Do you know who they are?”

Jungkook nodded slowly. “Yakuza.”

Yoongi’s lips pressed together into a hard white line and he stared fiercely for a moment at the wall. “Yakuza...Why are they here?” he finally asked.

“It’s…it’s a long story. I’m not at liberty to tell it all. But they’re holding—” His voice broke. He swallowed and tried again. “They’re holding a prisoner. They’re hurting him. Eventually— maybe soon— they’ll kill him.”

“And you’re here to free him?”

“Yes.”

“By yourself?”

Jungkook sighed. “Yes.”

“Is he your lover?”

Jungkook laughed bitterly. “No. He despises me.”

“Then why risk your life for him?”

A simple question with complicated answers. Jungkook settled for one of them. “It’s my duty,” he said quietly.

Yoongi might have been an innkeeper in a gods-forsaken village, but he was no fool. His gaze felt sharp enough to strip away all of Jungkook’s secrets. But he nodded slightly.

“Some of the villagers used to be soldiers. I suppose they still remember how to handle a weapon. I’ll gather them and—”

“No.” Despite the grim circumstances, Jungkook smiled at Yoongi’s generosity. “It’s a delicate situation. It’s…if things aren’t handled well, there could be another war. I have to do this alone. But…maybe you could help.”

“How?”

“Do the Yakuza buy their ale from you?”

“There’s nowhere else in Yonsan to buy it.”

Thank the gods.

“And will they buy more soon, do you think?”

Chewing his lip thoughtfully, Yoongi seemed to calculate. “Yes. In fact, if they keep to their usual schedule, they’ll come in tomorrow.”

Although the battle was far from over, Jungkook felt a trickle of relief. “Good. You mentioned yesterday that your mother is good with herbs. Do you think you could slip something into their ale? Something they wouldn’t notice?”

“Poison?”

Jungkook had considered that idea and rejected it. Many poisons left telltale signs on their victims— vomit, skin discoloration, swelling. If anyone investigated, it was important that Yoongi’s role not be apparent.

And other poisons took far too long to work, or were unpredictable in their effects.

“I was thinking more of something to slow them down and make them…woozy. Something that they might mistake as simply being the effects of strong ale.”

“So you could kill them all yourself.”

“Yes.”

After another long pause, Yoongi stood.

“Wait here,” he said and then disappeared behind a door at the back of the room. As far as Jungkook knew, Yoongi could be summoning the villagers to seize him. He could be sending someone to warn the Yakuza.

But Jungkook waited.

When Yoongi reappeared, perhaps fifteen minutes later, he was grinning widely. “Mother says yes,” he announced.

“And you— you and your mother— are willing to do this?”

“Of course.”

“Why?”

“Because…” Yoongi ran his fingers through his clumps of hair. “We don’t get much excitement here. We don’t get any excitement, actually. And we certainly don’t get handsome, mysterious heroes. Maybe you’re a story I can tell my grandchildren someday.”

Jungkook snorted, then drank the last of his water. He pushed his chair back with a noisy scrape and stood. Gods, he was so tired. He felt old. “I’m going to try to prepare for the fight.”

“Sounds wise.” Yoongi walked him to the door but stopped him at the threshold with a hand on a shoulder. “Who are you really, Jungkook?”

“Just what I told you. I was once a soldier. Now…now I’m a bodyguard.” He gave Yoongi a tired smile and exited into the night.

!!~~~~!!

He tried to sleep. He couldn’t do it. He tried, and the bed was certainly more comfortable than the outbuilding had been, but every time he closed his eyes, he saw Taehyung.

Suffering.

Dying.

Gods, what if the Yakuza had grown tired of their games and were murdering him this very moment?

Even when Jungkook did manage to slumber, he was plagued by nightmares of cold cells, cramped cupboards, ropes and chains and whips and blades.

When he awoke in the morning and went downstairs, he discovered a basket just inside the front door. It contained bread still warm from the oven, a pot of berry jam, several cold sausages, a boiled egg, and a glass jar of milk. Jungkook took his breakfast upstairs and watched out the window while he ate.

Nothing interesting happened all morning. Villagers passed by, dogs barked, a bit of rain fell for a while.

A small girl slipped on the cobblestones and fell, and her father soothed her crying with a funny little song Jungkook remembered from his childhood.

At lunchtime, Yoongi crossed the street with another basket. He glanced at the shuttered upstairs window and gave a small smile but didn’t otherwise acknowledge Jungkook. He left the food just inside the door.

Late in the afternoon, when Jungkook had grown nearly mad with impatience and felt as if the floorboards would soon give way beneath his restless pacing, three of the Yakuza appeared.

One of them pushed a small handcart. Jungkook watched with narrowed eyes, his hand on his sword, as they entered the inn. They came back out onto the street a few minutes later and loaded armfuls of bottles into the cart. With the glass clanking and wheels rattling, they went back the way they’d come.

Yoongi brought more food soon afterward, but Jungkook couldn’t eat it. His stomach was clenched as tight as a fist.

Instead, he sharpened his blades— which didn’t actually need it— and tightened and retightened the scabbard around his hips. He’d never felt this keyed up before battles, not even when he’d been certain he wouldn’t survive. The sun took a thousand years to set that night.

A few villagers still passed through the streets when Jungkook went outside, so he walked instead of ran and hoped they didn’t notice the sword beneath his cloak.

As soon as he passed the edge of town, he quickened his pace to a lope. The muddy road sucked at his boots, slowing him down.

When he arrived at the farmhouse, he snuck around the back. The hour was still quite early, and he wasn’t sure Yoongi’s ale had been able to do its job yet.

He waited near one of the outbuildings and was thankful for his caution when a man appeared around the corner of the house.

He held a candle, which lighted his way but didn’t illuminate Jungkook’s hiding spot. Jungkook waited for the man to enter the outhouse, then crept closer. He was waiting, knife in hand, when the man emerged.

Yakuza were good fighters. Very good, most of them.

But this one was taken completely by surprise when Jungkook grabbed him from behind, muffling his mouth with one hand. Jungkook dragged the man backward against his own body and slit his throat.

The candle tumbled to the mud and guttered out. A moment later, the Yakuz fell. He landed facedown and didn’t move.

Jungkook felt nothing over the man’s death aside from slight relief that the odds had now shifted a bit more in his favor.

The remaining Yakuza were gathered in the cellar, but tonight they were considerably more subdued. Some of them sat on the floor, cradling bottles in their hands, while the others slumped against the walls.

None of them were fucking Taehyung, who was again bound facedown on the table, but fresh blood glistened on his back and ass and trickled down his sides. He wasn’t dead, though.

Thank the gods, he still wasn’t dead.

The house’s side door stood ajar. When Jungkook went inside, he found himself in a kitchen lit only by a bit of moonlight that fell through the windows.

He wished for once that he was a smaller man because the floorboards creaked under his weight as he walked. But the Yakuza downstairs were talking; he hoped they wouldn’t notice his footsteps.

He opened two doors, but one led to another room and the other revealed a stairway rising to the second floor.

The third door, however, rewarded him with the stairs to the cellar.

Jungkook considered waiting a while.

But he wasn’t sure how strong the drugged ale was or whether the Yakuza would notice their missing comrade. Besides, he couldn’t abide the thought of Taehyung tied to that damned table for another minute.

So he descended.

From a tactical standpoint, his best place to make a stand would have been a few steps up from the bottom.

In addition to the advantage of height, he’d be able to attack any Yakuza who tried to escape the cellar, and the tight quarters meant they wouldn’t fall on him all at once.

But if he fought there, Taehyung would be undefended. The Yakuza weren’t stupid. While Jungkook stuck to the stairway, a few of them would kill the prince.

Jungkook paused on the bottom stair. From this angle, he saw Taehyung’s battered face. And Taehyung saw him, because his dazed eyes cleared and widened.

He didn’t move or make a sound, however.

Jungkook shrugged off his cloak, drew his sword, and with a roar that seemed to shake the rafters, he threw himself into the cellar, rushing to Taehyung’s side.

The Yakuza were slow to react. In fact, the nearest one was dead already, his head nearly hacked off his shoulders, before the others seemed to realize Jungkook was not an apparition. Shouting with alarm, they scrambled for their weapons.

Two of them closed in on Jungkook at once, but he was ready. He was in that strange state that used to settle on him during battles, when time seemed elastic and space seemed to bend.

He stopped thinking and let his body do what it did best, what he had spent nearly his entire life training to do.

He fought.

Nearly effortlessly, he lopped off the sword arm of one man, then slashed the other deeply in the belly.

He was dimly aware that one of their blades had pierced his skin, but he didn’t yet feel pain and, since he was still moving, the wound didn’t matter.

Four, said a dry voice deep in his brain. The emotionless little accountant who kept track of lives instead of coins— lives taken, lives yet to take.

Four more remain.

Ah, but only three, because Jungkook’s sword slashed a tall man’s face. The man shrieked inhumanly as his eye burst, and he fell back, pressing his hands to the gushing wound.

He tripped over the Yakuz with the belly wound and tumbled to the floor. Maybe not dead, but no longer of consequence.

The remaining three were more cautious. One of them kicked his fallen companions to the side, and then all three advanced on Jungkook at once, tips of their blades held forward.

Jungkook backed up until he was pressed against the table. He wished he could take a moment to free Taehyung, but any attempt to do so would mean death for them both.

He wanted to say something to Taehyung, but words failed him. He settled for a single grunted Hangul word: “Soon.”

“Who are you?” demanded one of the Yakuza, a muscular man with a deep scar on his face. He spoke in heavily accented Hangul.

Jungkook answered in Joseon. “I am wangja’s bodyguard.” And before the final syllable had quite left his lips, he lunged forward.

Some of Jungkook’s fellow soldiers were known for their style and grace with a sword, the speed with which they could make metal sing.

Not Jungkook.

He was all about power. Raw strength. In the heat of battle, when enemies had pressed against him, striking his body innumerable times, he had forged ahead.

Among the Joseon, Jungkook meant tiger, and more than one person had commented on the aptness of the name.

Jungkook roared like a tiger as he fought. He kept his body between the Yakuza and Taehyung, using the advantage of his long blade and long reach as much as he could.

He felt the sting of his opponents’ blades and smelled his own blood. But none of the Yakuza could get close enough to inflict a mortal wound; from a distance, their sword thrusts lacked the force to kill him.

Deep in his head, Jungkook was thankful for his sparring partner Yana, who had taught him how to counter quickness. When one of the Yakuza swept his sword at Jungkook, Jungkook stepped forward rather than away, using the man’s own momentum to help impale him on the tip of Jungkook’s weapon.

That left Jungkook momentarily undefended as he tried to yank his sword free, and the two remaining Yakuza were on him at once, slashing fiercely.

One blade bit into his side and the other hit his shoulder. But Jungkook spun, ducked, and hacked at the nearest legs. His hands slick with blood, he lost his grip on the hilt and dropped the sword.

One of the men managed to kick it out of reach. But Jungkook still had his knife, which he drew from the sheath belted to his chest. He collapsed to his knees and hamstrung one of the Yakuza, then stabbed him in the throat when he fell.

The last man’s sword cut deeply into Jungkook’s back. But Jungkook simply rolled, grabbed him around the legs, and pulled him down to the floor. After that, it was a simple thing to thrust the knife into his heart.

Nobody was attacking Jungkook any longer— but some of his enemies still lived. With a cry more beastlike than human, he killed them all. One of them was a man he dimly recognized as one of Taehyung’s r/apists, and even as the man gasped his last breaths, Jungkook stabbed the point of the Yakuz’s spear into the man’s groin.

It took some time for Jungkook to come back to himself. When his sensibility returned, he found himself on his knees, surrounded by corpses.

He had to use a table leg to pull himself upright, and it took nearly all his remaining strength to cut Taehyung’s ropes. Taehyung collapsed to the floor, and Jungkook fell next to him.

No. It was stupid to have accomplished this much and yet die anyway on this bloody stone floor.

“Can you walk?” Jungkook asked.

But Taehyung had curled into a tight ball and didn’t answer him.

If anyone had asked Jungkook to carry Taehyung up the stairs, he would have said it was impossible. Jungkook could barely stand upright on his own.

And yet somehow he hoisted the prince over his shoulder and got them both up to the ground floor, out the door, and into the muddy side yard. Where, by some small mercy of the gods, the Yakuza’s handcart was waiting.

Jungkook dropped Taehyung into the cart with a thud and didn’t have enough breath to apologize. He realized blearily that the prince was naked and brutalized and that he was a fucking mess himself.

His sword and knife were still in the cellar. His cloak was at the bottom of the stairs. And no way he was going to be able to retrieve them.

There comes a point when a man’s body is stretched to its absolute limits, when he has done all that the restrictions of muscle, bone, and sinew permit, when he hasn’t the strength left to work his heart and lungs.

And then there is the point slightly past that, when he discovers he can do more than he dreamed. When all that’s left of himself is desperation and tenacity.

That was Jungkook’s reality as he stood outside the farmhouse.

He pushed the goddamn cart all the way back to the village.

He made it as far as the inn. He even managed to pound once or twice on the closed door.

And then he fell on the cobbles in a senseless heap.

!!~~~~!!

“Well. This is more excitement than I thought I’d ever see.”

Jungkook opened heavy eyelids to find Yoongi kneeling beside him, hair in more disarray than ever, eyes sparkling. It took a moment for Jungkook to recognize where they were: on the ground floor of Yoongi’s grandparents’ house. Jungkook lay on a pallet on the floor while Yoongi smeared a stinging medicinal onto his wounds.

“Taehyung!” cried Jungkook and tried to sit up.

It was a testament to Jungkook’s weakness that Yoongi held him in place with a single hand to his chest.

“Worry not my friend. He’s here,” Yoongi said softly, jerking his head to the side.

A few paces away, Yoongi’s mother attended a figure who lay sprawled on his back. A lantern lit the two of them oddly, putting Jungkook in mind of a witch preparing a sacrifice. But when she glanced at Jungkook, her expression was grave but kind.

“He’s very weak but he’ll live,” she said.

A little of the tension in Jungkook’s chest loosened.

“Jungkook?” Yoongi said. “The men who did this to you…”

“Dead.”

Yoongi nodded. “Good.” He smeared more of the acrid green bandage on Jungkook’s shoulder. It hurt, but Jungkook remained still. “You have a lot of scars,” observed Yoongi.

“I told you. I was a warrior.”

“This man you came to rescue…he has a Hangul name.”

“That’s because he’s from South Han.”

Yoongi moved back a bit and looked solemnly into Jungkook’s face. “He’s a Hangul who was captured by the Yakuza. Does…does he mean us harm, Jungkook? Do you...mean us harm?”

Gods, Jungkook was so tired, and he hurt, and although he should have been rejoicing over Taehyung’s freedom, he only wanted to sleep. “No. You have my word. He came here in search of peace.”

“And you?”

Jungkook couldn’t exactly say the same, not when the blood of nine slain men still stained his skin. “I came here to save him. That’s all.”

After a pause, Yoongi nodded. “Well, you have. Although it looks as though you nearly got yourself killed in the process.” He scrunched up his mouth and then patted Jungkook’s uninjured shoulder. “Roll on your side, please. Your back needs tending to.”

Jungkook did as he was told.

That left him facing Yoongi’s mother and Taehyung. With her lips pressed together in a grim line, she was smearing some sort of ointment in the crack of Taehyung’s a/ss.

Perhaps mercifully, the prince appeared to be unconscious. Jungkook didn’t want to look, yet couldn’t seem to avert his gaze. The wounds on his own back burned fiercely, and a part of him was glad for it—penance for not being faster, stronger, more clever.

Penance for killing.

Penance for living when others died.

Sometime later, Yoongi covered Jungkook with a light blanket. “I’m sorry we had to put you here. Ammu and I couldn’t carry either of you up the stairs to the bed.”

“This is fine. This is…Thank you. For caring for us. If you hadn’t…”

Yoongi smiled at him. “You should sleep. Your Hangul friend will need help soon, and Ammu and I need to get to the inn.”

“Gods, Yoongi, I’m sorry. You must be exhausted.”

“It’s no matter. Rest. I’ll bring you food and drink soon.”

Yoongi rose to his feet and gathered up the remains of the supplies he’d used to doctor Jungkook. His mother did the same after laying a blanket over Taehyung. She was unusually silent for a Joseon, but Jungkook detected no hatred in her expression. Just a sort of weariness that suggested she’d done this sort of thing before.

“How long until he’s able to travel, do you think?” Jungkook asked.

She glanced at her patient. “A few days, if you go slowly.”

“You don’t have to go,” Yoongi said. “Stay here awhile.”

Oddly, Jungkook wished he could do just that—spend a few weeks in the sleepy village, pretending he was a man with no cares. But he shook his head. “He has to get to P’yongyang.”

“The capital!” Yoongi exclaimed.

“Yes.” Jungkook didn’t explain. “Besides, if more Yakuza come…”

Yoongi exchanged quick glances with his mother before turning to Jungkook. “Where did…where was he being held?”

“A big farmhouse near the woods. One with lots of outbuildings.”

“I know the place. Few people pass that way and the house has been empty for years. Since the war. I think your secrets will stay safe for a while.”

Jungkook nodded gratefully. Yoongi and his mother left, but they kept a lantern burning on the floor not far from Taehyung. Jungkook lay and watched the prince slumber until sleep came washing over him as well.

!!~~~~!!