Chapter 1: the sky bridge
Notes:
Hi everyone,
This is actually not my first ATEEZ fic, nor the first I have posted on my AO3. But after getting practically kicked off my atiny account on twt for writing a fanfic, I decided to delete it. The original fic, a Yungi soulmate AU, is still available on my account, although it has been repurposed into a marauders wolfstar fic (fuck JK Rowling). Feel free to go over and read it if you like — you may be able to pick up each of the characters and which member they were initially meant to be !
It's been 3 years since then and I decided I actually wanted to try my hand at writing an ATEEZ fic again. This has been in my mind for a few weeks, and the lore just kept building up until I finally decided to put pen to paper and write it down (metaphorically, of course. the fic is in my google docs).
So here it is — my magical ATEEZ AU. there's a fucktonne of lore shoved in here, especially within the first few chapters. This lore and concept is completely my own creation, though inspiration has obviously been taken from other fantastical and mythological worlds.
I am going to warn you though, this fic is still a wip. I have a vague idea of the plot points I want to hit, and where I want the story to end up, but the large bulk of it still evades me. I tend to let my fics write themselves, to see where the story leads itself. I haven't even fully decided on any other relationships aside from WooSan, though I'm pretty certain matz will get together somewhere along the way. Everything else is kinda TBD.
Because this fic is still a wip, I have no update schedule planned. Chapters will come out almost immediately after writing them, or at some random point in time if I know I've taken too long to write one (I like to have at least one chapter on the back burner to avoid months of inactivity). I've also made the idiotic decision to write this fic right before my thesis is due in October, so please don't expect much from me before then. After my thesis is due, however, I'll have all the time in the world to write.
With all that being said, please enjoy ! Special shout-out to my lovely friend Nero, who had the privilege of reading these chapters before posting on here, and all the lovely and kind things they've told me about my writing. Seriously, I appreciate you so much. Thank you for making me feel confident enough to post on here again. You can find them on twt :)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The beautiful, ivory-and-gold walls of Jozelja greeted Wooyoung as he climbed the mountain through the sludge of melting snow. The bottoms of his robes were caked in mud, tainting the cheap, burgundy material a deep brown. It didn’t matter anyway, in a few hours time he’d be dressed in weaver green, traversing the halls of the school he’d known for the past five years.
Jozelja was a beauty to behold, and even after being there for so long, Wooyoung still marveled at the sight. Large ivory pillars stood firm against the altitude, wrapped in a hued palette of green vines, holding the swooping, golden roofs in place and pushing them high into the sky. Jozelja was made of three ivy-coated towers, each connected by a cobblestone path fenced by wisteria trees. The tallest tower amongst them reached over 50 feet above the mountain peak, holding 5 floors of classrooms and a dining hall. Two wings of dormitories sprouted from either side of the main tower, only 2-stories high, opening the space in front of the school into the Great Square.
Groups of first year students stood around the centre, heads turned up in awe at the school they’ll know for the next seven years. Wooyoung remembered what it was like — 16 years old, out of breath from the hike up the mountain, the cool winter breeze tickling his cheeks. His hand was clutched tightly in Yeosang’s, looking up at the towering school he’d been wishing to attend for the past 10 years of his life. He remembered how his jaw fell open, star-struck at the sight, before lifting his gaze from the veined pillars of ivory, stretching his head around to see the sprawling black, jagged stone halls of Changjohwan in the distance.
Changjohwan was the brother school to Jozelja’s own. The two were founded centuries ago, rumoured to be the passion projects of two forbidden lovers: one weaver, one summoner. The two schools were built side-by-side, resting on two peaks of the same mountain, in hopes of mending the rift between summoners and weavers. A sprawling maze of corridors, which had since been concealed, built into the natural caves of the mountain had once connected the two schools. Concealed, yet not destroyed, Wooyoung had become more than acquainted with them in his first few years at Jozelja – he knew which paths took him to the classrooms, and which to the dormitories. A pang stabbed his heart at the thought, and Wooyoung tried to press it away. It had been 2 years , and yet the heartache never seemed to cease, even as it ebbed and flowed from anger to sadness to anger again.
Aside from the network of corridors, there had once been Sky Bridge — a beautiful stone bridge, built with a mix of the smooth, ivory stone of Jozelja and the harsh, glittering-black stone of Changjohwan. It sprung from the side of the third floor of Jozelja, and spanned across the gap between the mountain peaks to Changjohwan. It had been destroyed in the war — just as the underground passages had been concealed. The only remnant of the bridge was the pressing of an archway against the back wall on the third floor of Jozelja’s main tower, and a patch of ivory stone that seemed much too white and much too new against the stone of the rest of the ancient building.
But as Wooyoung tilted his head now, he could see it — the winding bridge connecting the two schools, erected as if from the dead. The new builders had made an effort to replicate the old bridge, but instead of intertwining the two stone colours together in a show of harmony, ivory and black stretched out from their respective schools, clashing in the centre as if in battle. A battle – and war – that was surely to arise from the joining of the schools, if weavers and summoners couldn’t get over their differences.
It was announced at the end of the last school year that the two schools would merge. Tensions were high with the number of rifts increasing over the land – ward weavers were pulled in every direction to close them, weakening the defences built around Wooyoung’s home city, Yeonjapeul. Fear was seeping into every crack in stone, every stolen gap in the trees, and it seemed the two groups of magic users had finally decided to confront one another. They'd landed in wavering agreement — this was a mutual threat, and they needed to join forces in hopes of defeating it.
That had resulted in the resurrection of Sky Bridge — the students here, at Jozelja and Changjohwan, were to attend classes together, to learn to fight together. Wooyoung knew they were the guinea pigs in this oncoming war, the lab rats. Yeonjapeul and Wibahim were smart enough not to send their battle-hardened soldiers together to make friends, with years of tensions and hatred brewed between them. No, they’d start with the youth, the ones with more capacity to evolve and change. If there was progress in the youth, they could hope to create temporary peace between their rivalling cities, and join against the common enemy.
“It's ugly.” Yeosang commented, appearing at his side, far more out of breath than Wooyoung in his hike up the mountain. His eyes were trained on the parts of Sky Bridge they could see — the clashing of the two colours plain as day from this distance.
Wooyoung nodded. “Apparently, it used to be beautiful. A mesh of both colours singing in harmony. This looks like two opposing forces, not two harmonious groups. It's as if—”
“They're expecting this shaky alliance to fail.” Yeosang finished for him, eyes following the expanse of the bridge until it met with the walls of Changjohwan. “Majahwan,” he whispered.
Majahwan was the original name of the schools, when they were once one. Though they’d always been mostly separate — due to the difference in teaching styles and magic — the schools had once fallen under one name. None of the officials on the school boards had said anything about the name change yet, but there were already whispers among the students. Majahwan, a school founded on the shaky peace between two magical groups, hoping to reunite those same groups after years of resentment.
“Do you think we’ll see him ?” Wooyoung asked quietly. It had been the first thought as soon as the announcement came. He felt bad almost instantly for thinking of it, rather than the relief that the two sides had finally realised they were after a common enemy and not each other. But his thoughts had strayed to him — the boy who had been the light of his life for his first three years at Jozelja, the boy who had taught him to let go of years of resentment against summoners and instead find love there. The boy who had shattered his heart into a million pieces and left Wooyoung scrambling on the ground after the remnants, trying dearly to piece them back together.
His name pushed against his lips, though he didn’t let it go. Choi San.
Yeosang whipped around to face him, a hard look in his eyes. “Don’t go looking for him. He's not worth your time.”
Yeosang had been the only one at his bedside when Wooyoung had woken up from his “accident” two years ago. Wooyoung didn’t remember all the details, but he and San had spent the night under the moon together, whispering forbidden words in the soft, silvery light. They'd been so wrapped in each other that Wooyoung hadn’t felt the tell-tale sign of a rift opening, and San hadn’t paid attention to his own protective barrier.
The creature had come at them, clawing a hand out and striking Wooyoung's chest, leaving him bleeding out on the soft leaves of the forest floor. San had acted fast, slicing his onyx blade through the creature at a terrifying speed, killing it instantly. He'd knelt down at Wooyoung’s side, pressing his hands into the open wound, trying to stitch it back together with his will.
Wooyoung remembered telling him he loved him, remembered the way it felt to have the magic drain slowly from his body, remembered thinking “ This is how I die. In San’s arms.”
And then he remembered waking up, Yeosang's head resting on his lap as he slept. He remembered tapping him, Yeosang shooting up and immediately berating him for worrying him while tears slipped from his eyes, before finally saying he’s glad he was okay. He remembered asking about San, remembered the way Yeosang's face fell, remembered the way he pulled out that unassuming letter, written in San’s pretty handwriting.
The letter that had broken Wooyoung down into a wailing heap, diamond turned porcelain, tungsten turned brittle.
Yeosang tugged on his sleeve then, bringing Wooyoung out of his memories. “Come on,” he told him softly, smile breaking through his gorgeous features. “We’re in the senior dorms this year. Let’s go check them out.”
Yeosang hooked his elbow in Wooyoung’s, pulling him toward the building. And, as always, Wooyoung followed.
Wooyoung, adorned his favourite shade of pine green robes, spread out on his new, large double bed he’d been granted for simply making it to his 6th year at the academy. Yeosang was fluttering about the room in silk, sage-green, setting up his little succulents and pulling the sheer curtains back from the window. The two had been roommates since their first year, friends even longer than that, so Wooyoung was well accustomed to the way Yeosang liked the space to be.
“Rosemary, where’s the rosemary?” Yeosang mumbled, picking through the boxes laid out by the door, containing all their belongings moved from their old dormitory.
Wooyoung picked at a loose, golden thread on his robes, further unravelling some of the intricate embroidery at his sleeves. “Didn’t it dry out at the end of last year?”
Yeosang cursed, pushing the empty boxes away and gazing over the room. “We have the mistletoe, I suppose, but rosemary’s better at keeping Mares away and sleeping soundly. I can’t believe I forgot the rosemary.” He flicked the mistletoe hung by the window, then went to make sure the other plants and protective charms were all set up properly, though Wooyoung knew it was only an anxious response – Yeosang was always perfect and precise.
He sat up from the bed, letting his hands wander the soft, silk sheets. They’d only been given cotton the past 5 years – he supposed there were more benefits to being a senior than just the larger dorm with only one other roommate. “We can ask Seonghwa for some if we see him later.”
Yeosang sighed, running a hand through his dark hair, the sharp tips of his pointed ears catching the sunlight. “I suppose you’re right.”
Wooyoung grinned, finally hopping off the soft, large bed and pulling up beside Yeosang. “Come on then, we don’t want to be late to the hall on our first day as seniors.”
The dining hall spanned the first and second floors of the main tower, and took up most of the space on either floor. Large windows encompassed the three of the four walls, lined with cherrywood to match the flooring. Tall, golden pillars held up the rounded ceiling covered in green, gold and brown mosaic tiles. Lanterns hovered just below the ceiling, casting gorgeous patterns and shapes of light on the tiles. On most days, the room was filled with long tables covered in an abundance of food from the surrounding area. But on the first and last days of the school term, and the few special occasions between, the tables and benches were removed from the hall, leaving room for the entire student body to gather in the centre.
Students milled about the hall in a jumble of green chaos, bowing slightly to each other absentmindedly whilst they searched for their friends. The first years looked particularly out of place, all wide-eyed and antsy, looking for the few people they at least recognised amongst the sea of green. Older students greeted each other with whoops and hugs, grins breaking through the flush of searching eyes.
Wooyoung scanned the crowd. He’d become quite acquainted with most of the student body in his time here, and was able to pick familiar faces from the mess of green. He spotted one such face at the side of the hall, away from the chaos, wearing his signature olive green and looking sourly at the sea of students while two energetic students hugged in greeting beside him.
“Mingi-yah!” Wooyoung called, dragging Yeosang away from the crowd. Mingi perked up at the sound, saying something softly to the boys beside him before bounding his way over to the two, sour look broken by a dazzling smile.
He reached Wooyoung first, who threw himself into Mingi’s arms, wrapping his legs around his tall friend. “Had a good winter?” He asked, once set back on his feet.
Mingi turned to give Yeosang a hug, much more soft than his one with Wooyoung, and answered, “it was alright. How’s the new dorm?”
“Great! It’s so big, and the sheets are so soft !” It was a far cry from their first few years – relegated to sharing a dorm with all the other boys in his year, resting on the top bunk with sheets made of itchy cotton. The senior perks were already incredible . Large rooms, big beds, less sharing. Yes, Wooyoung could get used to this.
“You guys get paired up?” Mingi asked, eyes flickering between the two as they nodded.
“Who’d you get?” Yeosang inquired, looking around Mingi as if his mystery roommate would appear at his shoulder.
Mingi’s face soured, though Wooyoung didn’t sense any actual malice from the boy. “Serim-ssi.”
“Oi!” Wooyoung said, hitting Mingi’s arm playfully. “Serim’s my friend. Be nice!”
Mingi shook his head, holding his hands up to stop Wooyoung from attacking him any further. “I didn’t say he wasn’t! But he’s a shadow weaver, Wooyoung! And it seems he’s taken it all into his entire being. The room looks like a Vampire lair! I wouldn’t be surprised if I wake up tomorrow and he’s replaced his bed with a coffin!”
Wooyoung giggled into his sleeve, while Yeosang looked inquisitively over at the pair, who he now recognised one of the boys to be Serim. “What if he is a vampire?”
Mingi’s face turned horrified. “Do you think so?”
Wooyoung and Yeosang shared a look before bursting into laughter, Wooyoung’s own laugh bouncing off the walls. Mingi rolled his eyes at the pair, huffing, but Wooyoung could feel his amusement.
A few minutes later they’re ushered into line with the other sixth-years, staring up at the large platform erected from the back of the hall. Silence fell over the student body as Principal Shin stepped up to the centre of the stage. She began with the usual speech of welcome, followed by a history lesson on the founding of the school for the benefit of the first years. Wooyoung didn’t tend to pay much attention to the history speech, especially when he knew half of it to be filled with anti-summoner propaganda, but was surprised to hear that the speech had strayed away from any out-right hatred of summoners. Times of change and peace, he supposed.
Principal Shin cleared her throat, eyes darting around the hall of hazy-eyed students. “Now, I’m sure you’ve heard about the uptick in rifts throughout the continent.” Many of the students seemed to perk up, suddenly interested in what the principal had to say. They’d all heard about the increase in rifts, obviously, as it was the main reason behind the joining of the two schools. But as they were only students, they weren’t privy to much more information beyond that. At least, from official sources, that was.
Principal Shin continued on. “What you may not know, and what we ourselves have only learnt recently, is that these rifts are gateways for fearsome creatures to enter our world. The summoners call these creatures “Dark Creatures”.”
Murmurs broke amongst the student body. Wooyoung turned to Yeosang, who raised his brow. Wooyoung had known about the creatures since his first year at Jozelja, but it was summoner intel. He knew they’d learn of it sometime soon, especially if they were expected to co-exist with summoners, but he was surprised to hear weavers acknowledging this intelligence was not their own, and that they honoured the name the summoners had claimed.
Principal Shin cleared her throat again, breaking through the murmuring that was growing louder by the second. “With the knowledge of these creatures and the increased rise of rifts, weavers and summoners have come to an agreement – this is a mutual threat. To deflate tensions and promote camaraderie, we have come to the executive decision to merge the two schools into one, as you already know.
“Some classes will still be held separately, but only for the differences in your magic. Any class where there is no reason why they should be separated, will be held together. There are two additions to each of your schedules, and, for the older students, history will no longer be an elective following second year. Your Heads of Year will now pass around your updated schedules.”
Noise erupted amongst the hall as soon as Principal Shin moved away from the front of the stage, allowing for professors to hand out each new schedule. A mixture of emotions slammed into Wooyoung, but he could feel the most intense ones – confusion, disgust, fear, anger, distrust. He wobbled on his legs, trying to get the oncoming waves of emotions, which only began building the more students shared their opinions amongst themselves, under control. Mingi seemed to be in a similar state of distress, though more for the noise than the emotions.
Wooyoung knew this merge wasn’t going to work. Emotions between the two groups of magic users were so tense, it was hard to unravel years and years of resentment just for a shaky alliance neither side was fully on board with. Because even though they had accepted they had a mutual enemy, weavers still thought summoners were to blame – that their stolen magic was affecting the natural world, allowing for these unnatural creatures to seep through. That this was the summoner's mess, and they were the ones left picking up the pieces.
And he knew the summoners thought the same of weavers.
Yeosang nudged him when their Head of Year, Professor Choi, reached them and handed out their own schedules. He tried to look down at the sheet, but felt even more unsteady under the thick pummel of emotions. He instead opted for listening to Yeosang as he read through the sheet.
“We have four classes at the Changjohwan campus. History, magical combat, and the two new classes – non-magical combat and battle brief,” he told him, eyes scanning his own schedule before reading over Wooyoung’s shoulder. “Oh, you have five. Your potions class was moved to Changjohwan.”
Wooyoung shook his head, still reeling at the waves of emotions slamming into him. They’d only seemed to get worse when the schedules were read. Great. Just great. Not only would he have to deal with the constant spikes of anger and distrust amongst the entire student body, but he’d also be attending five classes on the Changjohwan campus. Five – if not more, if Changjohwan students were to share some of their classes on Jozelja’s campus as well – classes Wooyoung may possibly share with him.
Principal Shin stepped to the front of the stage again, clearing her throat twice to capture the students attention, but the students were no longer listening. The chatter in the hall was so loud Wooyoung thought it may break through the windows. He looked over at Mingi, who was now covering his ears to block the noise, though Wooyoung knew it would do little help given Mingi’s weaving ability.
“QUIET!” Principal Shin yelled, voice easily carrying over the body. Some students flinched, eyes training back up to the platform in embarrassment. Wooyoung let out a sigh, feeling the thick air of emotions simmer down to something fainter, now that students were no longer spiking them up.
“We hope that the merging of the two schools, and your classes, will help promote peace amongst our societies. I expect each and every one of you to attempt to get along with your classmates. Any harmful language or physical violence outside of combat classes is not tolerated, and students will be punished accordingly.”
The student body stayed silent, watching as Principal Shin straightened up, brushing the sleeves of her own white robes before giving the students a warm grin. “Now, with that said. Enjoy the rest of your evenings. Classes begin tomorrow morning, but you have the rest of the night to yourselves. Welcome to another, wonderful year at Jozelja .”
Of course, as fate would have it, Wooyoung’s first class – and usually his favourite – was scheduled on the Changjohwan campus.
“I heard it’s not one of the shared courses,” Seonghwa said, balancing four beers in his hands as he approached the table that Wooyoung, Yeosang and Mingi had claimed once the assembly had dispersed and the dining hall tables were re-instated. “It’s just held over there because we’re learning from a summoner professor.”
Yeosang, who had been busy making dog-shaped spots of light chase each other on the mosaic tiles above them, raised his eyebrows. “A summoner professor?”
Seonghwa nodded, taking a sip from one of the beers, frowning in disgust when he was met with a mouthful of foam. “We only learn our history. To promote peace and trust between our nations, we need to learn the history of summoners, too.” Seonghwa lectures, “at least, that’s what I heard the student heads say.”
Wooyoung rubbed his temple, still feeling the emotions swirling around him. While he was able to get them under control after the students began to leave the hall, there were still many intense emotions running through the students who had stayed back in the dining hall. Seonghwa noticed the motion and nudged the beer closer to Wooyoung.
“You okay?” he asked, voice soft and caring, as Seonghwa always was. Wooyoung nodded, taking an appreciative sip of the beer.
“First and last days are always hard,” Wooyoung said between sips, “but today was worse. It’s been bad ever since the announcement came. I thought I’d be able to reign them in now but…”
Mingi lifted a hand to rub at Wooyoung’s back. “It’s alright, you’ll get there.”
Wooyoung grumbled into his glass, taking another swig of beer to avoid saying anything else. Wooyoung, despite all his talent and abilities, still struggled with blocking out the emotions of others. He could do it in small bouts, or when exposed to them for a long period of time. He usually sought them out anyway, trying to assess a situation before stumbling into it. But in large crowds like the student assembly, or the city square, where many different emotions fluttered through the air, he struggled on blocking them out.
His specialties tutor hypothesised it was because his own emotions were ‘out of wack’, that he needed to address his troubles before hoping to block the troubles of others. The emotions he wouldn’t be able to block were the ones surrounding whatever troubled him.
And that was the worst part. Because he couldn’t address what troubled him, as the centre of all his troubles had made it abundantly clear he never wanted to see Wooyoung ever again. And San had made him feel everything . Happiness, love, hope, sadness, anger, confusion. Which left Wooyoung without the ability to block a single one .
Wooyoung tuned in and out of the conversation before him, not in the mood to engage much. His friends spoke about anything and everything between: from what they did over the winter, to the increasing rise of rifts and dark creatures, to the state of politics in the country of Yeonjapeul. The topic swung back to school, in the end though. They pondered what the two new classes would entail, and which classes would be shared with the summoner students. Seonghwa only knew that the two new classes and nature studies would be combined, but that’s as far as his knowledge went.
They finished the night with another beer, one of the last groups of students under the dimming, dining hall light. They spilled out into the corridor, flushed from the alcohol and laughter. Seonghwa split from them then with a promise of rosemary slurred on his tongue, heading down the opposite wing to his own dormitories, while Mingi, Yeosang and Wooyoung stumbled their way back to their own.
When they reached their own doors, Mingi had practically begged to sleep with them, suddenly afraid Serim would bite him in his sleep. But his words fell on deaf ears, and he eventually bid them a disgruntled goodnight. Wooyoung made his way to his bed, ready to slip under the silken sheets, finally shed the weight of the day off his shoulders, and fall into soundless, dreamless sleep.
And when his head hit the pillow, he did just that.
Wooyoung woke up to the harsh light of the morning sun. Too bright. He groaned, twisting around in his sheets, shoving his face down into the silk pillowcase to block the light. So soft…
Yeosang, who had never suffered a hangover in his life, clambered about the room, uncaring for the noise he was making. Wooyoung groaned again when Yeosang pulled back his sheets, exposing his upper body to the cold, winter morning air. With his face still shoved into the pillow, Wooyoung attempted grabbing at the edge of the blanket to pull it over himself again and enter that blissful, dreamless wonderland, but Yeosang held it out of reach.
“No, Wooyoung. It’s time to get up,” he ordered, removing the blanket in its entirety from the bed. Wooyoung hissed as his legs, too, were exposed to the cold.
“Don’ wanna.” He moaned, shoving his arms under his body to at least feel his own body heat.
He didn’t need to be looking at him to know that Yeosang was rolling his eyes. “Our first class starts at 8am. And it’s over at Changjohwan, so we’ll need the extra time to make our way over the bridge and find the room.”
Wooyoung huffed, knowing when a battle was lost. He sat up, eyes narrowed against the harsh light. His head pounded with the motion, and he let out yet another groan. “I’m never drinking again.”
This time he watched as Yeosang rolled his eyes, stepping away from Wooyoung now that he was up and moving. “Sure,” he said patronisingly, pulling out a pretty, emerald green robe from the dresser beside his bed.
Wooyoung begrudgingly hopped out of bed and began going through the motions of his morning routine. By the time he stepped out of the dorm room, he felt like a normal, functioning human again.
The dining hall was quieter that morning, and Wooyoung noticed he was amongst the many who had spent the night celebrating a little too hard when they had classes the following day. The hot sting of emotions also seemed to have settled, though there was a constant pressure of uneasiness amongst the tired student population.
Mingi met them at their usual table, looking just as bad as Wooyoung felt. Wooyoung and Yeosang sat down across from him, barely talking as they shoveled food into their mouths, ignoring the fact that they’d be crossing over to Changjohwan in a few minutes.
In their silence, Wooyoung’s thoughts strayed to San. Would he see him today? Would San yell at him, angry at whatever Wooyoung didn’t know he had done, or hide behind his friends to avoid his gaze? Would he ignore him, shattering any spare shred of hope Wooyoung had left? Or would he come to him, apologise, confess his love, and start them over anew? Wooyoung knew he shouldn’t, but he’d forgive him in a heartbeat.
Wooyoung hadn’t brought up Choi San since they’d arrived at Jozelja, and because Wooyoung hadn’t broached the topic, Yeosang hadn’t either. He knew Yeosang could tell Wooyoung was thinking about it – that he could see it in his tense shoulders, the small glimmer of hope in his eyes. But Wooyoung knew what Yeosang would say if he ever did speak of him, knew the argument that would ensue. So he held his tongue, and so did Yeosang.
Breakfast ended too quickly, and before they knew it, they'd made their way up to the third floor.
The stone wall, that had never fit quite right amongst the older stone of the rest of Jozelja, was completely gone. In its place was the opening to the great Sky Bridge. Small specks of ivy, likely woven by a vine weaver and left to grow the rest of the way on its own, wrapped around the top of the archway, hoping to make the new bridge seem more in place, more natural, even when it was anything but.
From this level, Wooyoung couldn’t see where the bridge lead – he couldn’t even see where the white clashed into black. On the ground the bridge had seemed huge, but here, at the entrance, it seemed endless.
Students milled around the third floor, anxiety and uneasiness fluttering through the air as they tried to convince themselves to take a step onto Sky Bridge and begin their journey to the mysterious halls of Changjohwan. Wooyoung wound his way through the pack, Mingi and Yeosang not far behind him, taking that first step onto Sky Bridge. He stood there a moment, as if waiting for something to happen – like the sky striking him down, or the bridge collapsing underfoot – but no such thing happened. When Wooyoung deemed the bridge safe enough to cross, he took another step, and another, until he was walking down the bridge at a brisk pace.
It’s a long walk along Sky Bridge, and Wooyoung mentally thanked Yeosang for waking them up early enough to make the voyage. He took back whatever curses he’d thrown at Yeosang that morning and sent them all to whoever had the bright idea of setting an 8am class on the other side of a fucking mountain.
The trio made small talk as they walked along the bridge, flicking their eyes through the hastily-carved windows along the walls at the beautiful view below them. Wooyoung spied the expanse of the forest below, eyes wandering down the river to the glittering lake hidden amongst the trees. He’d spent hours down there, swimming in the smooth waters in the middle of the night with only the faint hum of bugs and San’s soft laughter filling the silence.
Wooyoung, Yeosang and Mingi slowed once they reached the back of a pack of students, paused in the middle of Sky Bridge. Wooyoung cast his eyes to the walls, but they were still the same ivory as Jozelja – they were only halfway there.
Mingi frowned, trying to peer over the top of the crowd. “What’s going on?” A few students turned around with a shrug, equally confused as to why they were stopped so suddenly. Wooyoung gripped Yeosang’s hand and began to push through the crowd, the students easily letting him pass.
They pushed all the way to the front of the pack, but Wooyoung felt what was going on before he could see it. Anger was thick in the air, disgust curling around its edges. The students at the front seemed to be glaring forward, and Wooyoung trailed their eyes.
They’re in the dead centre of the bridge, the clash of colours right in front of them. It looked worse here than on the ground. The stone met in sharp, harsh strokes. Jagged edges came together like ill-fitting jigsaw pieces, spikes jutting into one another like swords at battle. And there, on the other side of the split, stood a pack of summoner students, decked in shades of blue. It seemed they were at a stalemate, not letting either group onto their respective campus. And with the anger whipping through the air, he could guess there were more than a few choice words spilled between the students.
Wooyoung held out his hands, ready to weave some calm into the group, or at least usher down the intense anger he felt so that everyone could just make their way to their classes. The last thing they needed right now was to be late to a class with a summoner professor who likely had their own biases against weavers.
With negotiations on the tip of his tongue, Wooyoung raised his eyes to meet with the group of summoners, but all words were forgotten when his gaze fell on him .
There, in the centre of the sky bridge, Wooyoung saw San for the first time in two years.
The sight of him stole his breath, stopped his heart, and shattered every piece of himself that he had precariously built back up in the past 2 years without him.
He looked just as beautiful as the day he lost him.
No, the day San left him.
Anger rose within him then, responding to the state of the student body surrounding him. San had left him. And yet here he was, perfectly beautiful and strong and every word that Wooyoung wished he wouldn’t be. He wanted San to be just as broken as he was, wanted him to be on his hands and knees, begging for forgiveness, wanted him to be left chasing after his own shattered heart. He wanted him to feel the torture he’d put Wooyoung through.
With that thought, Wooyoung abandoned any hope of negotiation and pressed his hands into fists in shaking resolve. He pushed forward, breaching the gap between the weavers and the summoners, eyes only for San. He heard Yeosang yelp behind him at his sudden change in pace, then the whispered oh no when he saw what Wooyoung did.
Wooyoung ignored any protests Yeosang had for him, making a beeline for San. But it's Yunho who caught sight of him first — Yunho, the only person aside from Yeosang who knew anything of their forbidden relationship. Yunho, who he last saw when he delivered the news that San never wanted to see him again.
He watched as Yunho tugged at San’s sleeve, obviously trying to turn the boy around, but San either didn't get the hint or didn’t care to.
When Wooyoung finally closed the distance, he was a mix of emotions. He should be able to tell the difference between them, as it was his specialty, but he couldn’t seem to pinpoint one. There's anger and sadness at the forefront, but also hope and that lingering love he still felt for him, even after all this time. Wooyoung tried to brush them away, but hope was beginning to leak through.
“San!”
The boy turned, wearing the dark, midnight tunic of summoner blue, and laid his eyes on Wooyoung. Wooyoung stretched out for his emotions, finding only simmering anger. There's another emotion there, buried beneath it all, but Wooyoung couldn’t make it out — as if it had been muted, hidden from him in some way.
They study each other for a moment, neither breaking the tense, uneasy silence that had fallen amongst the students. He felt Yeosang at his back, saw Yunho in his peripheral still tugging on San’s sleeve, felt the way the entire student body seemed to be holding their breath, eyes devouring the scene in front of them. But Wooyoung’s eyes never left San’s.
He was bigger now than the last time he saw him. His arms were muscled, looking buffer than Wooyoung remembered. His hair was shorter, small strands only falling halfway down his forehead. He’d changed in their years apart, that much was obvious, but he still looked just as beautiful as Wooyoung remembered him.
Wooyoung had a hundred words to say, a thousand more fluttering about his mind, but before he could let them fall from his lips, San spoke. It was only four words, but those four words spun Wooyoung’s entire world around.
“Do I know you?”
Wooyoung still remembered the first day he met Choi San – how could he not? That day had changed his life forever.
He had slipped through the window of his dormitory building, adrenalin flooding his veins. Ever since his first lesson in nature studies, where he was taught how to feel the magic surrounding him, Wooyoung had practiced almost every hour. He’d hoped to feel a rift ever since he’d left the confines of the city wards, but learned it was not so simple. So, he practiced and practiced, making sure to always feel that quiet hum of magic under his skin.
And then, one night, this night, he felt a disturbance.
Wooyoung made his way down the mountain, sliding his indoor slippers along the rocky terrain, using the hum of magic and the soft, silver moonlight to guide him.
He ended up at the forest edge, peering around to see the rift, though all he found was the large expanse of the dark forest beyond him. He lifted a hand, swiping it through the air blindly. Could he feel it? He hoped so, otherwise his trip was all for nothing.
Suddenly, his hand came into contact with something that felt not quite right, magic that wasn’t humming in harmony with nature. Excited, Wooyoung ran his fingers along the vibrating length of magic, feeling the way it twisted in his grasp. It felt sick, almost — like it was rotten.
It was there, at the dark forest edge, twisting magic around his fingertips, where he met a boy.
Wooyoung heard him before he saw him, the rocks on the side of the mountain set loose by the boy skittering along with a soft tap, tap, tap. Wooyoung turned to look at the disturbance, heart pounding in his chest as he snapped his hands back to his sides. Was it a professor? Would they kick him out for this? He could see it – the embarrassment of packing his bags, sending him home a disappointment and a failure. Out of line, they would say. Meddling with things he did not understand, nor had the clearance to.
But instead he saw a young boy, somewhere around his age, dark hair falling over one eye. Wooyoung’s heart settled in his chest, then his curiosity peaked.
“What are you doing out here?” the boy asked as he made his way down, stopping a few meters from Wooyoung as he eyed him down.
Wooyoung smiled at him “Examining the rift, as I suppose you are as well.”
“Rift?” the boy asked, frowning at Wooyoung.
Wooyoung rolled his eyes, turning back to where he felt the rift, lifting his hand to swirl it through the air again. “The tears in the natural world. We can feel them out here, outside of the city’s protection.”
The boy eyed him wearily, so Wooyoung stepped back to close the distance between them. He pulled on the boy’s arm, urging him closer to the invisible rift. He didn’t budge at first, but when Wooyoung pulled tighter, he let go, allowing himself to be dragged to where Wooyoung had stood before. Wooyoung grabbed the boy’s hand, pushing it up and into the rotten magic. “Do you feel that?”
The boy shook his head, dropping his arm. “I can feel something, but only because my magic barrier reaches this far. Something's scratching at it.”
Wooyoung frowned, not knowing what the boy could possibly mean by that. Scratching? For all he’d heard and, now, felt of rifts, not a single person had described scratching.
The rifts were tears in the natural magic of the world. Left long enough, they opened up more and began to drain the surrounding area of magic. Wooyoung wasn’t a ward weaver, so he didn’t have the power to patch the rift, and he was sure someone would be alerted to it soon enough to patch it. But they were just that – tears, rotten magic, something that required patching. Scratching didn’t make any sense.
“Maybe it’s a difference in our magics?” Wooyoung suggested, “what magic do you weave?”
The boy’s face darkened, and he took a step back from Wooyoung. “You're a weaver.”
Wooyoung narrowed his gaze, catching the poison in the boy’s words, “I suppose with that attitude, you’re a summoner.” Wooyoung dropped his hand from the rift again, turning to face the boy full-on.
He reached out to feel his emotions, still a little shaky but more well-versed in his own particular magic, and waves of anger and disgust rolled over him. Wooyoung tilted his head, readying himself for whatever this boy was about to throw his way, ready to twist those emotions back on him.
The boy only glared back, “So, is that how you weavers do it? You pull them forth through these rifts then?”
Wooyoung frowned, hands stuttering in the air. “What are you talking about?”
The boy almost snarled at him. “The Dark Creatures. You weavers keep taking magic that isn’t yours, and that’s what’s allowing the creatures to come through.”
“Creatures?” Wooyoung asked, “What on earth are you on about?”
But before the boy could answer, something behind Wooyoung caught his eye. Wooyoung felt a sharp stab of shock and fear pierce into him before the boy yelled “GET DOWN!” and shoved Wooyoung to the ground.
Wooyoung went to shove him off, but was interrupted from that particular action when a large, grey mass barrelled over them, smashing into a tree a few metres away.
“What the fuck was that?” Wooyoung screeched, scrambling up to a seated position. He gasped for air, the wind knocked out of him from his sudden trip to the ground. He eyed the mass in the distance before turning a glare towards the boy, “What the fuck did you summon?”
The boy, still sprawled on the ground, sat up to meet Wooyoung’s glare. “I didn't summon that! That was your doing!”
“ My doing!?” Wooyoung said, exasperated. But as he opened his mouth to argue back, a sudden deep growl rolled over them. Wooyoung and the boy slowly turned toward the grey mass that had nearly taken them out a few seconds ago.
It looked like a boulder, no neck to indicate where head met body, with bulging warts covered all over its pale figure. Its legs were short and stubby, and looked almost too small to carry the large weight of the thing. It had two pig-shaped ears at the top of its head, and its mouth was open in a snarl, showing two rows of very large, very pointed teeth. But perhaps, most disturbing of all, its glowing yellow eyes glared directly at Wooyoung and the boy.
“Shit!” The boy said as he scrambled up, taking one last fleeting look at the thing before sprinting away. The creature lifted one of its stubby legs, dragging it across the ground like a bull ready to charge, scratching claw marks into the earth below.
“Fuck.” Wooyoung whispered, stumbling up to follow the boy, hands and knees covered in dirt and twigs.
It didn’t take Wooyoung long to catch the boy, weaving his way around the forest. The boy was panting, stumbling over the earthen ground beneath them. “What the fuck is that thing?” Wooyoung asked. He could hear the creature bounding through the forest, could hear the snaps of twigs and branches and the heavy footfalls of the creature’s stubby little legs.
“We call them Dark Creatures.” the boy said, voice mirroring how out of breath and terrified Wooyoung felt. He chanced a surprised glance at Wooyoung. “You seriously don’t know what it is?”
Wooyoung spared a second to glare at the boy himself, and regretted his decision when he came face-first with a mouthful of leaves. He spat them out, sputtering “Why the fuck would I know what that is? You’re the one who summoned it!”
“I didn't summon shit!” the boy said, eyes still on the forest ahead. They wound their way through the trees on each other’s trail. “It’s because of you weavers using up all the magic in the world that they’re seeping through! That rift you were talking about must be their gateway.”
“But you guys are the ones opening the rifts because you’re stealing magic from the unnatural!”
The boys separated around a large oak, the tree temporarily halting their conversation. When they came back together, the boy leveled a glare at Wooyoung. “We don’t steal magic, and certainly not from magic other than our own.”
They heard a large crash and the sound of a tree cracking. Wooyoung chanced another glance over his shoulder, and found the creature had smashed into the large oak. Thanks to the temporary pause in their chase, the two boys slowed down to catch their breath.
“You seriously don’t know what that is?” the boy asked, and Wooyoung felt his confusion and hesitance roll around the air between them. Wooyoung frowned at the emotions, searching through them to find any deception.
“No,” Wooyoung told him, when he couldn’t find anything. “And you seriously didn’t summon that?” Wooyoung asked, still laser-focused on the emotions rolling off the boy.
“No,” he told him, and Wooyoung found he was being truthful. He sighed and stepped backwards until his back met a nearby tree, ruffling a hand through his hair.
“Surprised summoners aren’t evil creatures who have it out for weavers?” The boy taunted, but he kept light on his feet, ready to run the second they could hear the creature begin to stir.
“Surprised that everything I've been told about the rifts may not be truthful.” Wooyoung told him instead, eyeing the large oak in the near distance.
The boy turned to him fully, eyes mirroring the same fear and confusion Wooyoung was feeling now. “I'll have to agree with you on that one.” he said, and, for the first time that night, he offered a smile.
Wooyoung returned it.
A sudden growl interrupted their peaceful moment, and both boys turned to watch as the creature slowly made its way around the tree, like a predator watching its prey. The boy cursed, drawing a pin from the upper pocket of his shirt.
“What are you going to do with that?” Wooyoung asked, “Stab it with a pin ?”
The boy, ignoring Wooyoung, stabbed the pin into the tip of his index finger, drawing blood. “What-” Wooyoung began to ask, but before he could even form the question, the boy rubbed the blood along his palm, and a small, onyx dagger began to appear. The boy grasped the handle, positioning himself between the creature and Wooyoung.
“You should probably run.” the boy said, crouching down into a position ready to attack. Wooyoung pressed himself up against the tree, fingers scraping down the bark. He pushed his feet into the hard earth beneath him, grounding himself.
“But what if you get hurt?” Wooyoung asked, hoping his voice sounded braver than he felt. If Wooyoung was honest with himself, he knew his brand of magic was not useful in this situation. On people, sure, but otherworldly creatures? He was practically useless. He reached out to the boy, but felt that he, too, was not as brave as he seemed right now.
The boy scoffed, and Wooyoung was sure he must’ve rolled his eyes, but he didn’t argue.
When the creature lurched forward, the boy was ready. He spun away from the charging thing, gliding the blade up the side of its body. Wooyoung watched as it barrelled past, slamming into a tree behind them. Huh , Wooyoung thought, it can’t change direction .
The boy seemed to notice this at the same time as Wooyoung, and took advantage while the creature was still shaking its head from its crash into the tree. The boy slid on his knees across the forest floor, slashing out his dagger and dragging it across the back legs of the creature.
The creature wailed in pain, kicking backwards, black droplets of blood falling to the forest floor. Its legs weren't long enough to hit the boy, but he fell backwards anyway in surprise of the attempted attack.
Pain , Wooyoung thought, eyes widening at the discovery. This creature could feel things.
Wooyoung hopped away from his tree, running forward to help the boy from the ground as the creature began to get its bearings. Once the boy was standing again, Wooyoung spread his arms out and welcomed the waves of the creature's pain.
He closed his eyes in concentration, grasping onto the tendrils of feeling. Then he snapped his eyes open and pulled .
The creature began wailing louder, stomping its stubby legs on the ground to stop the feeling. The boy turned to Wooyoung in shock, but Wooyoung kept his attention on the creature, on the thick waves of pain spilling through the air between them.
“What are you doing?” the boy asked, surprise and admiration dripping from his tone. Wooyoung didn’t answer, and kept pulling on the pain until the creature was writhing on the ground in front of them.
He let go then, taking pity on the thing. Even though it was out here for no reason other than to kill them, he didn’t want to torture it.
When it was obvious the creature wasn’t going to get up, Wooyoung and the boy approached it.
Wooyoung knelt down, coming face to face with the creature. It glared at him through its glowing, golden eyes, and made an attempt to snap its jaw at him, but as it was so weakened by the pain, it was a poor attempt at best.
“Sleep.” Wooyoung said, weaving the word around the creature, watching as its eyes shaded over, eyelids falling down and its breath evening out. It looked almost cute, like a puppy dog that had been warped by the horrors of unnatural magic.
The boy pulled out his blade and pressed it against the creature’s neck, sliding across it in one fluid motion. A mercy kill.
The two boys watched as the creature began to fade, disintegrating into a pile of dust, as if being cremated in front of their very eyes. Eventually, the creature dissolved away completely, the dust being carried off by the wind. The only sign the creature was ever there was the few droplets of black blood on the ground beneath them, and the grey shadow on the forest floor.
Wooyoung lifted a hand to touch it, shocked when he found the absence of magic, removing his hand as if burned.
“What?” the boy asked, brushing his hand over the greying earth beneath them. Wooyoung hissed and removed the boy’s hand.
“It drained the magic from the earth.” Wooyoung told him. “We thought it was the rifts, but it must be—”
“The Dark Creatures,” the boy finished. “It seems we each know something vital about what’s happening, but neither side is willing to share anything.”
Wooyoung mustered a breathless laugh. “Seems we’re too busy blaming each other to realise we have a mutual threat.”
The two boys smiled at each other then, sweat rolling off their foreheads with the effort in taking down the creature. They pushed themselves up from the ground, looking around at the damage the fight had caused.
The boy's weapon seemed to glimmer out of existence, fading away. The boy looked down at his empty grip and shrugged, “blood must’ve dried.” Then he held out his now-empty hand to Wooyoung.
“I’m San, by the way. Choi San.”
Wooyoung grinned and took the offered hand. “Wooyoung. Jung Wooyoung.”
Wooyoung tried to marry the boy he knew with the one standing before him, but he couldn’t match those harsh, unwelcoming eyes to anything Wooyoung knew of the boy.
“Excuse me?” Wooyoung breathed, feeling his entire body fizzle with heat. He heard the mutterings of the students for the first time now — their harsh, judging whispers at the fact that somehow, this weaver knew this summoner.
“Wooyoung—” Yunho started, waves of worry and sorrow wafting off the boy. Wooyoung's eyes didn’t leave San, but San turned to him, an eyebrow tilted upwards at the boy. Wooyoung latched onto the movement, letting out a low growl.
“What game are you playing?” His voice was low, trying to disguise it from the on-looking crowd eating up their interaction.
San turned back to him, eyebrows raised in his direction. “Game?” he sneered, “I don’t know what kind of game I would want to play with a weaver .”
The disgust that rolled off his tone stopped Wooyoung short. He gasped, feeling his legs weaken as he stumbled backwards in Yeosang, tears sprigging to his eyes. Disgust . That was all he could feel from San right now – no lingering love whatsoever. Just plain, undeniable disgust .
Wooyoung tried to speak, tried to say any of the words he’d practiced saying when he would finally see San again, but nothing came out.
“Let’s just go,” one of the summoners beside San said, pushing in front of him and shouldering past Wooyoung. The other students began to follow, but San’s eyes stayed trained on Wooyoung, cool and assessing.
Yunho nudged him forward then, pulling tightly on his midnight-blue robes. He glanced at Wooyoung for a brief moment, eyes holding surprising kindness and an unspoken apology, before pulling the two along and down the other side of Sky Bridge, leaving Wooyoung standing stumped in the centre.
The weavers began to disperse as well, knowing that the show was over. The groups of students snarled at each other as they passed, giving wide berth or otherwise knocking their shoulders into one another.
Wooyoung felt Yeosang tug at his robes, attempting to pull the boy from his stupor. Mingi was there now, too, confusion and weariness rolling off him.
“What the hell was that about?” He asked, eyes flicking between them for answers. But Yeosang ignored him in favour of Wooyoung, pulling roughly on his robes until Wooyoung was stumbling forward, allowing himself to be blindly dragged across to Changjohwan.
Mingi attempted to make small talk again, but Wooyoung remained wrapped in his mind. How could San regard him with such hatred? What had transpired three years ago, on the night of Wooyoung’s accident? How could he stand there, in front of the entire student body, and pretend Wooyoung had meant nothing to him?
San didn’t care. Those three, beautiful years together hadn’t meant a single thing.
Notes:
As stated in the beginning notes, I unfortunately have no update schedule planned, and will be busy with university and my honours thesis until at least October. That being said, I have written chapter 2 and am hoping to finish chapter 3 before I have to lock-in to my thesis. I hope to post both of those chapters relatively soon, but we'll see how it goes.
Chapter 2: impermanence
Notes:
hey guys !
so turns out, I'm slightly ahead of where I thought I'd be ! I've fully completed chapter 3, and am in the process of writing chapter 4. if I fully complete chapter 4 within the week, I'll post chapter 3 as early as this time next week (Monday). I won't make any promises though, so if the next chapter isn't out by then it's because I haven't finished chapter 4 yet.
also, for anyone who read chapter 1 before this was uploaded, you'll notice I've added YunGi and JongSang into the tags ! I had a good think about the relationships I wanted to add (whether or not they'll be added, and if I wanted yungi & jongsang or 2ho & minsang) and eventually came up with a loose plan for them.
I always try to make sure I leave no loose ends in my writing, and if I've tagged a relationship I usually try to follow it through. that being said, this story is going to be in Wooyoung's POV the entire time, so there's obviously bits and pieces about all other side relationships that won't make it in. I did briefly consider making a few side-stories for each of them, but considering I'm only 4 chapters in with a loose plan for the rest of the story, I think I'm over-shooting lol.
I'll re-ask the question much further down the line, if you guys would be interested in seeing the developments of the others outside of WooSan and Wooyoung's POV.
anyway, with all this said, please enjoy chapter 2 ! (I promise plot will pick up more soon)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Wooyoung and Yeosang stared out across the valley, watching the sun dip from the sky. They’d sat in the high branches of the trees that protected the city. If they were caught up here, they’d be punished severely – only vine weavers, ward weavers, and the occasional wind weavers were allowed above the city’s ceiling, but Wooyoung and Yeosang had been climbing this high for years, and not once had they been caught.
Yeosang held out a hand, wrapping the golden threads of the setting sun around his fingertips.
There was commotion down at the barrier, and both boys looked down towards it to watch a large group of ward weavers sprinting outside the wards.
“Another rift,” Wooyoung guessed, and Yeosang nodded in agreement. Rifts had begun to appear slowly in the last few years, though they had only become public knowledge a few months ago. Any rift appearance still brought out a crowd of onlookers, watching the ward weavers leave their protected haven.
The city of Yeonjapeul rested on the side of a mountain, trailing off into the valley below. Large trees surround the city, forming the major architecture. Houses hung from branches, or twisted along the roots, though none were built sturdily enough to last generations – impermanence was a weaver staple. Twinkling lights nested in the leaves and branches, spattering stars across the otherwise sky-less city. The castle itself sprung from the crest of the mountain, two hollowed-out trees acting as the tall towers on either side. The walls were white and gold, covered in veins of ivy.
Yeonjapeul was surrounded by an invisible barrier, woven by the ward weavers to keep their city safe from any rogue attack from summoners. The barrier only went as far as the city, though the country under the same name stretched further through the woods. The war between summoners and weavers had ended decades ago, but tensions were still high between them, and this was far from an era of peace. The barrier was built within the war, and was maintained to this day by ward weavers on the outskirts of the city.
Summoners had their own barrier around their city, Wibahim, though they had no ward weavers to keep it in place. Wibahim stood at the shore of the continent, jagged rocks creating a natural wall around their city, and the strength of the barrier protecting them moreso. Wooyoung had heard stories that one of their commanding generals had ripped out his right eye to create their own barrier, which had stayed standing until this day.
While there had been no rogue attacks on the barrier in the past few years, it had begun to serve an alternate purpose: protection from the rifts. Rifts, while new to public knowledge, had begun to slowly appear over the past few years. They were tears in the natural order of the world, destruction in the magic that flowed through nature. Left open long enough, the rift would grow, sucking magic out of the world. Ward weavers were the only ones with the ability to close them, being the only ones sensitive enough to pure magic and the ability to weave it.
Wooyoung was more than curious about the rifts, and even though the magic he could weave was about the last helpful thing in closing them, he still yearned to know about them. He wanted to touch one, wanted to feel the disrupted magic, wanted to know why and how the rifts were created.
The latest rumour mill blamed the summoners – with their permanent magic, stealing from the unnatural – their disruptive use of magic had come to a head, affecting the natural magic of the world. Weavers manipulated the natural elements, braiding the intricate magic of nature to their own use, before finally letting it go and allowing it to fall back into its natural state. Nothing belonged to them – everything was impermanent.
But summoner magic was the opposite. Summoners used their own blood and tears to permanently change matter; to transform it into something new. It went against every law of nature – stealing, not borrowing; changing, not manipulating. They defied the natural world, and these rifts were the ultimate conclusion of their disruptive magic. The natural world was falling apart, and magic was draining from its being.
Wooyoung wondered if the rifts were more common closer to the country of Wibahim – the natural world tearing closer to the source. If it were the case, would that, in turn, mean the quantity of rifts would increase around the school concentrated with untrained summoners? The school, just a mountain top away, from the school Wooyoung yearned to attend?
He couldn’t feel the rifts within Yeonjapeul’s barrier, but beyond it? That was his chance.
“We’ll be able to feel them out there, at Jozelja.” Wooyoung said, eyes wandering across the mountain range before them, as if he could see the academy beyond it. The academies, Jozelja and Changjohwan, sat in unclaimed territory, unprotected from either country’s barriers. The two schools rested on the crests of two opposing mountain peaks, glaring at each other as their students each did. The walls of Jozelja were the same ivory and gold as the city below them, and Changjohwan’s were the same black and silver as the jagged rocks the summoners had built their own city from. “I do wonder what they’re like.”
“The elves are worried about them.” Yeosang told him, eyes on the horizon. “They won’t tell me much, but they’ve noticed. Probably long before we did.”
Elves had a sensitivity to magic far greater than humans did. However, while their magic was similar to weavers, in that they worked with the natural magic of the world, they never used it for their own gain. They listened to magic, but they did not weave as humans did.
“They won’t get involved,” Yeosang continued, “not while humans are at the brink of war with each other. They refuse to take part in our battles.”
Wooyoung nodded, deflated but un-surprised. Elves, and many other creatures of their world, tended to stay outside of human affairs.
“But they will join, if we recognise our mutual enemy.”
Wooyoung frowned at that. “Mutual enemy? What do they mean?”
Yeosang shrugged, playing off that he didn’t care to know more, but Wooyoung could feel the waves of insecurity wafting from him, and knew him well enough to know that this cut deeper than Yeosang ever allowed it to show.
Yeosang was half-elf on his father’s side. He was born with the abilities of both weaver and elf, as was his elder sister, but the elves would only ever let him choose one. When the choice had inevitably come, he had chosen to become a weaver, like his mother. His sister went with their father to the elves. It was a tough decision, and while elves were a peaceful people, they didn’t take to sharing their knowledge and wisdom with outsiders, even if those outsiders were half-elf themselves. His sister sometimes told him things, but only small pieces of information, and she could get in trouble for even those.
Yeosang still yearned to connect to that part of himself, yearned for acceptance from the elves and to learn their culture. His mother did try, teaching him about the few things she knew that his father and sister did not divulge, but it was nowhere near enough for Yeosang. He taught himself archery, learned all the different protective plants to improve wellbeing and guard against harmful spirits, and spent hours above the tree tops of Yeonjapeul studying the stars.
It was how he and Wooyoung had met – sneaking above the branches roofing in the city, playfully teasing under the moonlight. Wooyoung always admired Yeosang’s strength, his drive and determination, his passion for knowledge on the part of his culture he was detached from.
Yeosang turned his head to the sky now, watching as the stars began to twinkle into existence. It wasn’t dark enough yet to read them, but Wooyoung knew that wasn’t the only reason why Yeosang enjoyed the night – he found beauty in even the smallest of things.
Wooyoung followed his gaze, straining his eyes against the still-bright sky. He couldn’t hope to read the stars himself, but he knew of one constellation – the one under which he was born.
“I wonder if they’re the same,” He said, breaking the easy silence between them. “The stars at Jozelja,” he clarified.
Yeosang hummed absentmindedly, wrapped in his own head. “I hope so,” he whispered.
Wooyoung yelped as his specialties tutor whacked her walking stick against the back of his shins.
“Your head’s all over the place.” Maehui-noona told him, tsk- ing at his weak attempts in projecting his thoughts to hers. “This is why you shouldn’t be taking such a long winter break. I’ve spoken with the school board multiple times. They never take me seriously.”
Wooyoung bent down to rub the back of his legs, trying to avoid rolling his eyes at his tutor’s ramblings to save from another hit.
Specialty weaving was the only course at Jozelja that wasn’t taught by a trained professor. Instead, the school enlisted highly-skilled weavers of each ability their current crop of students had to teach the intricate and specific parts of their abilities they wouldn’t otherwise learn from general studies. It was the only class taught on weekends, though tutors could request more time if desired, and the only class where year-level was mixed. Most students were clustered together in groups of 5-10, each with the same weaving ability, but Wooyoung was the only mind weaver of his generation. This unfortunate fact left him alone with Maehui four times a week, because she insisted that leaving five days between each training was unproductive and would make her teachings useless, as he would forget by the next week’s end.
Students snickered as they walked past him, enjoying their free time in the afternoon sun on the grassy slope of the mountain while Wooyoung suffered under Maehui’s gaze. He could almost hear their taunts and jeers – Crazy Mae and her soon-to-be prodigy, Crazy Wooyoung . And after the events that had transpired that morning, he didn’t blame the name, for once. San always made him crazy.
Mind weavers were quite rare to come across, and they weren’t well-liked either. Most thought their magic too close to summoning, as it involved people rather than nature . But emotions and thoughts and memories were just as natural as the wind and the sky and the sea, so Wooyoung didn’t really see the connection. He didn’t change people’s emotions, he just manipulated them.
Wooyoung knew there were other mind weavers out there, knew him and Maehui-noona were not the only ones, but they had never accepted the invitation to tutor. He knew the school board was hoping that would change, likely sending out invites at the beginning of every year just to get rid of Crazy Mae, but considering Wooyoung stood here, under the afternoon sun on his second day back , getting whacked on the back of his shins for not performing, he knew their hope of replacement was unsuccessful. Oh well, Wooyoung thought, I graduate at the end of next year, and Maehui-noona would likely be dead before the next mind weaver comes along. She’ll be out of their hair soon enough.
Crazy Mae’s reputation had been tainted long before Wooyoung was born. An old lady who lived as far from the city of Yeonjapeul as possible, driven mad by the all-consuming emotions and thoughts of the public. Some even said that getting too close to her house would drive you insane. Of course, that rumor had sparked a game amongst the kids who lived in the nearby villages, seeing how close they could get to Crazy Mae’s cottage before becoming as crazy as her.
Wooyoung tried not to let public perception of Crazy Mae impact his impression of her, but on their first meeting, when Wooyoung attempted to call her seonsaengnim, she’d immediately shut him down and asked him to call her noona, despite their age gap being well over 60 years and that a better fitting name would be halmeonim . After years of tutoring, Wooyoung had decided she was only slightly crazy.
Maehui slammed her walking stick on the ground, apparently done with her rant on the insufficiencies of the school board and the laziness of the youth. “Again!” She ordered.
Wooyoung closed his eyes tight, blocking out the noise of the passers-by and focusing solely on forming the words in his head, visualising them, hearing them. The sun is bright on this winter afternoon. He pushed them forward to where Maehui was now standing, only a few steps ahead of him, trying to make her hear what he wanted.
“The sun is winter,” she stated, then whacked out her walking stick again, this time colliding with Wooyoung’s elbow. Still within whacking distance, it seemed. “Again!”
Wooyoung thought of just making her say the sentence. Intentions were a lot easier to weave than projecting thoughts, as usually the intention to do something was always implicitly there. He obviously couldn’t make anyone do anything against their will – no, that would require summoning – but making them do something they even slightly intended on doing, well that was easy. But Maehui would know immediately if he’d done so, and that would only cause another round of whacking, so he cast the thought away and concentrated.
“Sun bright on afternoon.” Whack. “Again!”
Wooyoung began to grow frustrated at the lack of progress. He knew it was because his mind was elsewhere, still stuck on what happened that morning on Sky Bridge, on San’s reaction to him. It still made no sense. There was no way the San he knew could act like nothing happened between them. The kind, sweet San under all those layers, romantic at heart, protective in nature, loyal to boot. The same San who had strung lanterns in the trees for Wooyoung’s 18th birthday and had spent his entire afternoon off attempting to catch a butterfly just because Wooyoung had off-handedly said he liked them.
Whack. “Again!”
Maybe he had changed in those 2 years apart. Maybe he had become someone more interested in his own reputation than that of his beating heart, concerned with what strangers thought of him over and above the people he cared about. Maybe he was everything Wooyoung hoped he wasn’t – cold, unkind, prejudiced, willing to break someone’s heart and shatter it on the ground and pay no care to the aftermath.
Whack. “Again!”
Wooyoung growled out in frustration, kicking at the ground and sending a spray of dirt and blades of grass at Maehui’s feet. It was about the most disrespectful thing he’d ever done to her, and he knew he should get down on his hands and knees in a bow for forgiveness, but he was kind of bitter at the throbbing marks covering his body.
Maehui didn’t berate the blatant display of disrespect though, and instead frowned in question. “What ails you?”
Wooyoung huffed, staring stubbornly at the ground. He didn’t really want to divulge his doomed relationship with Crazy Mae of all people. She would just tell him the same thing any other weaver would – move on. Get over it. Everything is impermanent. And that was only if he failed to mention his lost love was a summoner – they’d probably exile him from Yeonjapeul for sleeping with the enemy.
That was the one thing he’d always hated about the Weaver Way – impermanence . Nothing belonged to them, nothing would last. Fabric will unravel, walls will crumble, trees will fall. Suffering is caused by human’s attachment to impermanent things. Mourning the dead was seen as unnecessary, as the ultimate conclusion of life was in death, as was nature’s way. The dead would just transform to something new – energy below the ground, feeding the circle of life. Heartbreak was even more unnecessary, even more useless.
Never get too attached, for one should know that nothing is permanent.
Wooyoung turned the mantra distastefully in his mind before squaring his shoulders, staring directly into Maehui’s concerned eyes and attempted to project the thought again. But his mind strayed back to San. To his cold eyes and the disgusted curl of his top lip. The scene that morning replayed in his head over and over and–
“Who is that boy?” Maehui asked, making Wooyoung’s breath hitch and his heart stop. Gods , had he really projected his feelings of San to Crazy Mae?
Wooyoung didn’t answer her, but he didn’t attempt to project any more thoughts again, in fear that he may accidentally project his entire love life and unending turmoil at the old woman. Instead, he stared to the side at the large expanse of forest covering the mountain like a sheet.
Maehui stepped forward and tapped her walking stick against his shoulder again, and although this time was soft, Wooyoung still flinched nonetheless.
“It seems you’re better at projecting imagery than auditory messages.” She considered, shocking Wooyoung. She wasn’t going to make him talk? Tell him that he was wrong to still be heartbroken two years after his relationship ended? Impermanence, and all that bullshit? But instead she tapped her chin in thought, considering him as merely a piece of art she had not quite figured out the meaning of.
“Next lesson we’ll begin with imagery, I suppose,” she told him. “Then auditory projection, after you’ve mastered that.”
“You’re not going to tell me off about S– the boy? Tell me that heartbreak is a useless emotion and to just get over it?” Wooyoung rushed to ask, afraid of both her answer and her silence.
Maehui frowned. “Why would I do that? Heartbreak is just as natural as any other emotion.”
Wooyoung let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
“But be warned, Wooyoung-ssi.” She said, beginning to take her leave. The lesson was over. “You stay hung up on a love like that, and they’ll call you just as crazy as me.”
It took five days for Wooyoung to fall in love with San.
Realistically speaking, Wooyoung knew that wasn’t exactly true. It was the fifth day he’d met with San that he fell in love, but there were weeks and weeks of brewing in between. Of Wooyoung dreaming of his smile, of classes focused on replaying their conversations rather than on the paper in front of him, of meals spent gazing out the back windows across to the campus of Changjohwan.
It also wasn’t, strictly speaking, the day he fell in love with San . It was just a crush, at that point in time, but Wooyoung liked to declare the date anyway. That was where it all really started for him, when he knew he was in deep.
San just made falling in love so easy.
The second time Wooyoung and San met was awkward.
When Wooyoung felt the disturbance in the natural magic, two weeks after the first, he tried to excuse his reason for going there. The first night was out of curiosity, wanting to know what a rift felt and looked like. He had discovered that, and much more, but he still didn’t know much about the rifts – how they were created or why they were created. Did he think he could get his answers from another trip down to the rotten magic? No, but he tied up his shoes either way and slipped out the window.
The chance of seeing that boy, Choi San, again was definitely not the reason he sped down the mountainside.
As the rift was closer to Changjohwan’s campus this time, it was unsurprising that San had beaten him there. Wooyoung made sure to make his steps nice and heavy, to alert San of his presence. When close enough, San turned with a shy smile.
“Hi,” Wooyoung said.
“Hi.”
The silence that followed was uncomfortable, beating at the air between them. What did you say to a boy you weren’t really friends with? Wooyoung couldn’t quite call him an acquaintance, after the whole ordeal they’d been through, but he knew they weren’t close enough to call each other a friend. Wooyoung was usually great at meeting people, great at getting close, but with San it seemed that words evaded him.
Wooyoung pushed into the woods, hand out to feel the rift. Once he’d found the rotten spot of magic he began to trace steps backwards, leaving enough distance to be prepared for an oncoming attack. San appeared beside him, onyx blade already clutched tightly in hand.
“So–” San began, but just as he’d said it, a grey creature began to crawl its way out of the rift.
This one was much longer than the first. It had an almost perfectly round head, around the size of a kick-ball, nestled on a long, skinny neck. Its body was fat and lumpy, folding over itself thrice. Its arms and legs were long as well, thin as twigs and ending in long fingers and toes, the size of quills. Its eyes were beady and black, assessing the pair.
San took no time in closing the distance, slashing the blade across the creature’s face. He hadn’t anticipated the arms though, which immediately came to wrap around San’s middle. Wooyoung couldn’t see how it would do much damage – it had no claws, and its arms were so thin he’d be surprised if it had any muscle. But San wriggled in its grasp, wailing in agony.
Wooyoung stepped in then, increasing the pain San had inflicted on the beast. It cried out, a sharp whistling sound crashing through the forest. Wooyoung immediately pressed his hands to his ears, and watched as San attempted to do the same, though one of his arms was still trapped under the creature’s gangly limbs.
Luckily, the creature eventually dropped San when the pain became too much, moving its arms to instead paw at the wound on its face. San took the chance then, stabbing his blade into its throat as hard as he could, dragging it along to the back of its neck. The creature fell quickly, disintegrating on the ground with one last, ear-splitting wail.
Wooyoung and San turned to each other again, awkward silence returning.
“We make a good team,” Wooyoung told him, eyeing the black blood that dripped from his blade. “One inflicting pain and the other intensifying it. Horrible, but effective.”
San grinned at him. “See you next time?”
Wooyoung nodded, smile not fading from his face even when he was back in the safety of his dorms and under the itchy cotton sheets.
The third time they met, they were almost caught.
They should’ve expected it – honestly – when they’d decided to trek down to the forest again in the late-afternoon. Of course they weren’t the only ones who could feel the rifts – they were merely first years, sixteen years old and way in over their heads. If they could feel the rifts, two amateurs at weaving and summoning respectively, then it should have come as no surprise that almost every other person at Jozelja, and at least a few at Changjohwan, could feel the rifts and creatures as well.
On the first day, when they’d retraced their steps along the trampled forest floor, they’d caught sight of a professor in Jozelja white patching the rift. Wooyoung hadn’t recognised them, so he supposed they taught one of the elective courses available from third year. Wooyoung and San had stayed hidden amongst the trees until the teacher had tiredly made their way back up the mountain, before dispersing and taking the long way back to their respective schools.
The same professor stood before them now, patching the rift while Wooyoung and San waited with bated breath, hidden crouched amongst the trees. They hadn’t had long to hide, being that the professor had started to make their way down the mountain just after Wooyoung and San exchanged pleasantries, so Wooyoung hoped to the Gods that their hiding space concealed them well enough.
They watched the weaver at work, fingers dancing delicately over the air. Wooyoung held his breath as he waited, wondering if something would peak its head out of the rift. He felt bad for wishing something would appear, if only so that weavers would know that these rifts weren’t just that, and were actually gateways. But then, he supposed, that would only give them more reason to blame the summoners.
When the professor had finished patching the rift, they stood there a moment, arms dangling by their sides. Wooyoung huddled in closer to San, feeling his breath fan across his cheeks. San’s hand fell to his thigh, clutching him tightly as the professor stalled amongst the trees. Did they know they were there? Were they done for?
But then the professor turned quickly on their heel and began making their way back up the mountain side. San let out a breath, using Wooyoung’s thigh to lift himself from his side once the weaver was out of sight.
“Well–” he began, but Wooyoung grasped his hand and tugged him back down beside him. San let out a small yelp at the motion, and Wooyoung tried not to think about how utterly cute it was.
“They could be waiting to see if anyone was down here.” Wooyoung explained upon San sending him a questioning look once he was seated on the ground beside Wooyoung again. “Let’s just wait them out a bit. We have time.”
So they sat there, huddled together on the dirt flooring of the forest, afternoon sun trickling in through the breaks in the trees. They made small talk, just little things like classes and how their year was going, but toeing around the subjects with care – fear of unintentionally offending the other or making them uncomfortable heavy between them.
“So,” Wooyoung asked, tracing along the faint, silver embroidery along the bottom of San’s periwinkle robes. “What magic do you summon? Or do you all just have the ability to summon daggers from your blood?”
San giggled , and Wooyoung wished he could catch the sound and keep it in a bottle. He knew a boy in his year, Mingi, was a song weaver. Maybe he could one day ask him about that.
“We can all summon small, specific things, like pens and mini protective barriers, but no. All of us have a different internal magic, a different affinity to certain types of summoning.”
Huh , Wooyoung thought, guess summoners and weavers aren’t so different.
“I’m technically called a weapon summoner.” San continued, opening and closing his hand. “But I can also make shields and barriers, and I have an easier time with healing magic than most.”
Wooyoung raised his eyebrows at that. He’d heard summoners all held dangerous, harmful magics, concerned only with the amount of pain and destruction they could wreak havoc on the world. But as Wooyoung sat there, watching as San picked at the fallen leaves on the ground, his lips pushed into a pout, he supposed everything he had been taught about summoners had been a lie.
“Most people with my ability head straight to the military. Soldiers on the frontlines.” San told him, ripping a leaf apart slowly in his hands, the small, broken pieces fluttering to the ground like confetti. “I suppose it’s a given, with our magic and all. But there’s a man – Left Eye, we call him – in our chain of command who doesn’t like to fight. He built the barrier around our city. He values protection and safety over offense, not seeing a point in fighting if it’s not in defence of those we care about.” San turned to him, eyes determined. “I want to be like him.”
Wooyoung grinned at the boy, a wide smile tugging at his cheeks. “That’s admirable, San-ssi.”
The pout returned to San’s face. “Please, don’t be formal with me. I don’t think a monster-slaying team should have to be formal with each other.”
Wooyoung’s smile, if it could get any wider, grew. “Okay, San-ah.”
The wind rustled through the branches above, beginning to bring on the cooler, evening air. The sun hadn’t set yet, but it must be close. San’s cheeks tinted a slight pink at the comment, but he remained quiet after that. Wooyoung traced along the silver embroidery on his robes, relishing in the quiet. It was comfortable, just them, hidden in the foliage. It was their little secret, forbidden friends in the dark. It made Wooyoung’s heart race.
“What magic do you weave?” San asked, breaking the silence. “Assuming what you meant earlier that weavers, too, have an affinity to a certain type of magic.”
Wooyoung felt his cheeks heat. “Well,” he coughed, stumbling over his words. “I’m what people call a mind weaver. It’s not a highly admired specialty, to say the least.”
San frowned. “Why’s that?”
Wooyoung held out his hand, absentmindedly twirling his fingers, as if weaving the air. “It’s related to people, not nature.” He explained, not meeting San’s eyes again. “I can manipulate people’s emotions, and with more training, their thoughts, memories, and intentions, too. Weavers think it's a little too close to summoning, not realising we can only make people feel what they already do. I can’t just make someone angry if there’s no anger there.”
Silence spread between them again, and Wooyoung felt San’s hands pause in his destruction of a second forest leaf. Great, Wooyoung thought, I’ve scared off another potential friend.
That was the main problem that had followed Wooyoung his entire life – he didn’t have trouble making friends. On the contrary, he found it easy to make most people adore him upon their first few meetings. But keeping friends was an entirely different story, as most tended to “drift away” the second they learned of his weaving speciality.
And now, he was going to lose this friend, too.
But instead, San shocked him. “Can you try it on me?”
Wooyoung’s eyes shot to San’s. “What?”
“Make me feel something. I want to feel your magic.”
Wooyoung froze, mind turning the words in his head. San must be insane. “I’m not well trained,” he told him, “It’s kind of all or nothing, right now.”
San shrugged, turning to face Wooyoung head on, eyes expectant.
All other protests died in Wooyoung’s mind. What the hell, he thought, closing his eyes. San was giving him permission, and it didn’t seem he would be convinced otherwise.
Wooyoung reached out for the tangle of San’s emotions, pulling each of them apart delicately. Curiosity, confusion, and a touch of fear were there, but so was happiness, calmness, and a small twinge of desire. Wooyoung wrapped his hand around the thread of happiness, feeling the way it tickled his fingertips.
Then he pulled.
San giggled, the sound bouncing off the trees and the branches and the leaves. His eyes were crinkled so tight they looked like small crescent moons, his smile wide and lighting up his features and Gods, were those dimples? Forget the bottle, Wooyoung wanted to capture that laugh and smile in an entire barrel.
San turned to him, eyes bright, and went in for a full-on hug, pushing Wooyoung’s back up against a nearby tree. Wooyoung knew the hug was born mostly from the intense feeling of happiness that he’d just manipulated, but he didn’t care at that moment. He reciprocated the hug, wrapping his arms delicately around the boy.
“Your magic is beautiful, Young-ah.”
The fourth time they met, Wooyoung kept talking and talking.
Wooyoung was in a hurry to get down to the rift, as this one had decided to appear in the early morning. It was still dark out, stars still twinkling above, but the sky would lighten soon, and he didn’t think he’d be able to find a reasonable enough excuse to explain why he was late to his class with twigs tangled in his hair.
He was absolutely not running down the mountain because of San. Definitely not.
Of course, in his hurried attempt to get to the rift as quickly as possible, he hadn’t quite put his robe on properly. That had resulted in him tripping down a steep incline, gashes scraping up and down his arms and legs. Wooyoung hissed at the pain, trying to weave it away, but he hadn’t quite gotten the hang of weaving his own emotions yet.
San was already at the rift, waving his arm through the air though they both knew he couldn’t feel the rifts as Wooyoung could. Hearing his approach, San spun to greet him, a smile already high on his cheeks, but Wooyoung was immediately slammed with a wave of concern when San’s eyes finally fell on him.
San rushed forward, holding out an arm to help Wooyoung’s approach, even though Wooyoung wasn’t really having any trouble walking. “What happened?”
Wooyoung huffed, embarrassed. “Tripped on my way down,” he told him, pulling back his sleeves so that the blood didn’t stain the material. He turned to look at San, a smile now playfully bouncing on his lips, “Though at least this way you won’t have to cut your finger. I’ve got plenty of blood to form a dagger from.”
San’s hands left Wooyoung in an instant, detaching from him as if suddenly burned. Wooyoung wobbled to regain his balance, frowning at the sudden reaction.
“No.” San told him, voice firm and venomous. Wooyoung wobbled backwards, eyes widening in shock at the boy’s tone. “We don’t take from magic other than our own, unlike you weavers do.”
Wooyoung’s heart stopped in his chest. Where had this come from? He and San had gotten along so well the last time they were together? Why was he now being so cruel?
Wooyoung narrowed his gaze. “We don’t take nature’s magic. We borrow it. Nothing in the world belongs to us, we only use in temporary spaces. What is taken, returns.”
San’s shoulders deflated, and Wooyoung felt a wave of embarrassment wash over him. “Sorry.” San muttered, bringing them closer together again. “I guess it’s hard to unlearn years of prejudice in just a few weeks.”
Wooyoung smiled at him then, soft and understanding. “It’s the same for me too. But we can help each other, yeah?”
San nodded, cheeks tinted a soft shade of pink. He was still embarrassed, but it was ebbing away. “Yeah.” Then he shook his head, feathering touches up Wooyoung’s arms at the gashes from his fall. “Let me heal you.”
“Okay,” Wooyoung whispered, closing his eyes to the feeling of San’s soft touches up his arm. His fingers danced across Wooyoung’s skin, knitting a glowing thread of magic he’d summoned with a few loose strands of hair along the cuts and beaded blood.
“So,” Wooyoung began, breathless, after San had ensured not a single cut remained on his pale skin, “what does summoning actually entail?”
San smiled, opening his mouth to answer, when a creature finally peaked its head out from the rift. This one was only the size of their heads, grey like the others with two compound eyes holding what seemed like thousands of tiny ommatidia. It had two, small, semi-transparent wings attached to its back, beating them hundreds of times over, clearly too small to properly support its weight.
The creature swooped at them, but when San slashed out his dagger, it danced out of the way. Teasing.
The boys hurried into the trees, chasing after the beady little creature. It began a dance of swooping and stalling, buzzing just out of reach when either of them were poised to attack, then went in to nip at their noses once their arms swung down.
Despite it all, San still answered his question. “Summoning works on sacrifices,” he huffed, swinging his arm out and missing the creature again. “To summon something, another must be given. Nature is not without its laws – nothing can be created nor destroyed, but it can be transformed.”
“Or manipulated,” Wooyoung added, surprise in his voice as he threw a fallen branch at the creature, missing it too. “Summoners and weavers are just interpreting nature in two differing ways.”
San smiled, sweat rolling down from his forehead, “I guess so. But instead, we’ve convinced ourselves that the other group is using nature the same way as them.”
Wooyoung rolled his eyes. “The root of all political problems – refusal to understand.”
San chuckled as he took another swing at the creature. Missed. “Motherfucking– “ The creature danced out of arms reach, taunting them. Wooyoung was sure that if the creature could talk, a string of na na na na nas would flow from its mouth as it rose in the sky. “Anyway. We don’t sacrifice what doesn’t belong to us – you can’t sacrifice something unwilling to be sacrificed. It’s against all of our morals to take something that is not ours, even if the subject is in agreement. So instead we use our internal magic, our own blood and tears and bone, to create something.”
“But that’s limited, is it not?” Wooyoung breathed, sweat rolling down his arms despite the cool, early-spring air. “What if you bleed yourself dry? Sacrifice all of your bones?”
San laughed, though it was more breathless this time. “That’s the thing. Nothing is boundless, everything must stop somewhere. It’s nature’s give and take, in a way – you give too much, it will take you. Magic is limited, and it does not bode well for the greedy.”
The night continued on much like that – San answering Wooyoung’s increasing number of questions, the creature dancing out of their grasp. At one point they’d sat with their backs against a tree, legs splayed out before them, exhausted from the chase. The creature danced about them in the air, and whenever it came in close for a bite, San would wave his hand out half-heartedly before dropping back to his side.
“So, what?” Wooyoung asked, taking in as much breath as he could in their momentary break. “You could sacrifice a drop of blood and raise an army? Seems like a wild power-scaling thing, if you ask me.”
San huffed a laugh, too tired to do anything else. “No, stupid. Sacrifices must be equal. Larger summons require larger sacrifices, like the amount of time one has left or even their entire life.”
Wooyoung sat up quickly, immediately regretting his decision when he realised why he’d been resting his back against the tree. He slowly fell back against it, San’s soft, breathy laughs punctuating Wooyoung’s pain. “Who would be willing to sacrifice their time or their entire life for a simple magic spell?”
San shrugged, batting away the creature again. “Some things are worth the sacrifice.”
They played the creature's game again. Swinging and missing, nipping and taunting, until finally the creature showed the slightest hint of tire. Wooyoung held onto it like a lifeline, pulling until the creature was tired enough for San to get a hit in. Wooyoung grasped the tendril of pain that followed, and a minute later the creature was no more than a tiny, grey shadow on the forest floor.
Wooyoung kept asking questions as they made their way out of the forest, tracing their way back through the trampled undergrowth. They’d assumed it would be safe by now, given how long it had taken to destroy the Dark Creature.
Once they’d reached the edge of the trees, Wooyoung suddenly felt the embarrassment of the interaction. He’d just kept talking and talking, asking and asking. San was probably sick to death of him.
But when he turned to meet San’s eyes, all he saw was deep admiration reflected back. Wooyoung’s heart caught in his throat.
“I’m– uh– Sorry. About tonight. I asked you so much. ” Wooyoung said, shaking his head. “I’m just really interested in history, is all. I love learning about things, especially your world, given how much propaganda I’ve been fed my entire life.”
San gave him a dimpled smile. “It’s okay. Never apologise for being you, Young-ah.”
The fifth time they met, Wooyoung began to fall in love.
The fight had gone much the same as last time, but without the taunting of the creature. San wasn’t as fast on his feet, though, as if something was weighing him down. He had a satchel slung over his shoulder, and every time the creature got too close, he peered into the bag to ensure whatever was inside was safe and sound.
It took a while for San to finally get a hit in large enough to cause the creature a large enough amount of pain, and when he finally did, Wooyoung grasped the thick tendrils and increased it tenfold. The creature fell to the ground, squealing and squirming, pawing at the cut to release it from its body. San wasted no time in dealing the finishing blow.
“What’s up with you today?” Wooyoung asked, approaching San once the creature had disintegrated, avoiding the grey shadow left behind on the ground. “What’s in that bag that’s so important?”
San laid a hand protectively on the top of the satchel, as if Wooyoung would come and steal it. Silence stretched between them, but when Wooyoung reached out to feel San’s emotions, he was surprised to feel him sheepish, heart thrumming in fear.
When Wooyoung was about to ask what was wrong, San finally flipped over the flap of the satchel and brought out a red, leather-bound book.
He held the book out in the space between them.
“Um,” San coughed, when Wooyoung didn’t approach any further. “I brought this for you. You seemed so fascinated in summoners and our history, so I thought you might like to read about it.” His eyes were turned to the ground, refusing to meet Wooyoung’s whose were wide with shock and awe. “You don’t have to take it. It was stupid–”
Wooyoung shortened the distance between them, stretching his hands out hesitantly to take the book. His fingers grazed along the cover, feeling the small, tell-tale bumps of leather. A golden rune sat in the centre of the book, and Wooyoung traced it, wondering what it meant.
It was only when the book left San’s hands did he look up, eyes still filled with anxiety. Wooyoung paused in his admiration of the book to look up at him and meet his eyes. His heart thumped in his chest, heat stinging from his heart and down his arms and legs, to his fingertips and his toes.
“Thank you,” he whispered, the word delicate and holding so much more meaning than Wooyoung was willing to address. He hugged the book into his chest, watching as San’s face finally broke in a wide grin, forming his little crescent moon eyes and his cute, deep dimples.
Wooyoung’s heart thumped heavily in his chest again.
Well, shit.
It took only five days for Wooyoung to fall in love with San, but it would take an eternity to fall out of love with him.
Wooyoung stumbled his way along the cylindrical tiles of the dormitory roof. He’d get in a load of trouble for this, as he would for climbing to the tops of the trees in Yeonjapeul, but the threat of punishment had never stopped him.
Neither had it stopped Yeosang.
Yeosang sat on the golden rooftop, staring up at the stars, legs dangling from the roof, utterly at peace with the night around him. It was odd for a sun weaver to be so entranced by the night and the stars, but Yeosang always seemed to defy the laws of nature.
Earlier that night, Yeosang stayed silent beside him at the dining table while Seonghwa, who should’ve been on his table with his 7th year peers but had never really cared for the age-hierarchy in the hall seating, had asked a hundred questions.
“They’re saying you got into a brawl with one of the summoners on Sky Bridge?” Seonghwa had asked when he sat down, voice and eyes holding the note of disapproval. It took longer than Wooyoung hoped to convince him that it was nothing of the sort, then even longer to decide how much of his and San’s relationship he was willing to tell Mingi and Seonghwa. They were his best friends after Yeosang, but something always caught in his throat whenever he went to tell the truth. Yeosang hadn’t even found out because Wooyoung intended to tell him, though he was glad that he was there with him through it all.
In the end, Wooyoung settled on calling San an old acquaintance he used to meet in the forest in first year, someone he had thought of as a friend, but clearly the feeling wasn’t mutual. It was the truth behind how he’d known about the Dark Creatures before they became public knowledge, he told them, cheeks tinting pink. He had told the pair years ago about the creatures, but never much more than that. And even now, he hadn’t given them the full truth.
Yeosang stayed silent throughout the whole ordeal.
Wooyoung carefully made his way across the slanted roof to his friend, making sure to place his feet in the grooves beside each cylindrical tile. Yeosang knew he was there, but he didn’t address him until Wooyoung had sat directly beside him.
Yeosang had a book of the stars open in his lap, his own scribbles and corrections along the margins of the pages. Wooyoung knew Yeosang had read the book back to front and upside down, but he was never quite happy with the way humans wrote about the stars. Their stories were so bland, he’d told him – constellations they’d decided were related to their own folklore. They didn’t read the stars, didn’t listen to them.
But he couldn’t get a hand on the elves' knowledge, couldn’t learn from the people who listened instead of told . So Yeosang was stuck reading the few books of stars the small collective of humans fascinated enough in them had decided to write. Humans didn’t tend to care for the celestial beings, the things out of their control. What could not be manipulated was not worth the precious time and energy. They didn’t listen.
When Wooyoung found his seat, swinging his legs over the edge of the roof, Yeosang slid a bowl over the grooves in the roof toward Wooyoung without taking his eyes off the sky. Inside the wooden bowl was a pile of yellow sludge that smelt of crushed flowers.
“Arnica Montana,” Yeosang told him, unmoving. “Mountain arnica; yellow wolfs-bane. I found some near the edge of the forest. It’s to help with the bruises.”
Wooyoung yelped at the explanation, surprised at the kindness even though he knew he shouldn’t be. Yeosang, though he had his head in the clouds half the time, was incredibly observant when he wanted to be. And what he couldn’t express in words, he always expressed in actions and gestures.
Wooyoung pressed two fingers into the sludge, gathering up a generous amount and dragged his hand down the back of his legs. He held back a groan at the near-instant relief. “Thank you,” he whispered, dabbing the sludge on the rest of the whacks Maehui had landed earlier that day. She never intended to cause lasting harm, and true enough the bruises always tended to fade within a day or two, but the old woman was unaware of her own strength.
Wooyoung set the bowl down beside him, mirroring Yeosang and looking out at the night sky. His eyes wandered the stars, but he could never hope to see what Yeosang did. They looked like a spattering of particles to him, just glowing lights in a black sea. Nothing uniform, nothing holding a story. The only cluster of stars he recognised was the constellation of his birth, though Yeosang never regarded human constellations.
“What do you see? What are they saying?”
Yeosang shrugged, eyes still on the night sky. He’d knitted a thread of silver moonlight and placed it on his head like a tiara, making him look more ethereal in the soft light of the night. “We never know what the stars mean until the event has passed,” Yeosang told him, even when he had said those same words a thousand times before.
The stars were always unclear, an answer could only ever be found after . No matter the original interpretation, things changed. The stars were always right, but mortal beings were rarely so.
“Do you think San and I’s story is up there in the stars?” Wooyoung asked him. He knew what Yeosang thought of him and San, knew the heartache Wooyoung had been through these past two years. Yeosang was the only one by his side at the worst of it, though Wooyoung knew at the back of his mind that Mingi and Seonghwa would have too, if he’d let them in. Yeosang, with all his soft edges and kind eyes, hated what San had done to him, how he had left him. So whenever Wooyoung brought him up in conversation, Yeosang tried to steer him away from the hope and lingering love that he knew would only leave Wooyoung heartbroken. “Do you think our time has already passed?”
“Wooyoung–”
“Please, Yeosang.” Wooyoung whispered, voice shaking. He closed his eyes, for fear the tears that had been threatening to spill the entire day would finally do so. “Not tonight.”
Yeosang silently watched him a moment, pity circling his figure, but then turned back to search the stars. “I don’t know. Maybe your time has passed. Maybe it hasn’t. Maybe you’re not written amongst the stars at all.” Yeosang shrugged. “It’s all just interpretation. Nothing is explicitly determined. Everything is–”
“– impermanent .” Wooyoung sighed. He hated the word, hated the Weaver Way. Hated the way that he wasn’t allowed to care about things just because they wouldn’t last forever, hated the way he couldn’t try to hold onto something when it was already gone, hated the way that in the eyes of weavers, love, life and everything else were useless and unnecessary, unstable and not worth the time to care for them.
“Well, yes.” Yeosang replied, frowning. “But impermanence doesn’t mean something can’t be maintained, that something lost cannot be found again. Things will change, they will always change, but that doesn’t mean we can’t change with them. That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t care about things. We’re impermanent, but living a life full of nothing, caring about nothing, just because we’ll die at the end of it completely erases the importance of life as a whole. The stars would never refuse to tell a story just because it would end eventually.”
Wooyoung stared at his best friend in shock. Yeosang had always had a quiet air of knowledge about him, even when he tended to wrap himself up in his head sometimes. Always quick with his wit, always the first to understand the depth of someone’s words. Wooyoung nudged him by the arm. “When did you get so wise?”
Yeosang snorted and nudged him back. “We always knew I was the brains in the pair of us.” Yeosang quipped, looking Wooyoung up and down slowly. “And perhaps the brawn, too.”
Wooyoung yelped at the comment, shoving Yeosang just hard enough that he stumbled, but did not fall from the roof.
They continued on like that for a while, playful shoves and snarky replies, the winter air wrapping around them and tickling their cheeks. Eventually, they stopped, after one of Wooyoung’s shoves had knocked Yeosang so off balance he nearly went careening over the side of the building.
They stared back at the stars, Yeosang reading them, interpreting hidden meanings, whilst Wooyoung just marvelled at the pretty, twinkling lights. He tucked his knees in close, conserving as much body heat as he could possibly muster. Snow season had passed, but Wooyoung believed it was still cold enough for the frosted flakes to trickle from the sky.
Wooyoung could feel the rifts out here. There were three in close proximity, each stretching further open, making room for the creature clawing its way out. He pondered, for a moment, whether he should go out to meet it there, like old times. His face soured at the thought. He hadn’t gone out to the rifts in two years, not since the first time after his accident, when San never showed. They were a symbol of them , of their love and what they meant to each other.
So he stayed on the rooftop and let it be someone else’s problem.
“I want to talk to him again,” Wooyoung told Yeosang, not daring to take his eyes from the stars to meet Yeosang’s disapproving gaze. “I just want to get some closure, at least. Away from the prying eyes of the students, where he might actually tell me what happened. Or, at the very least, what will happen to us from here on out.”
“Wooyoung–”
“You can’t change my mind on this, Yeosang-ah.” Wooyoung said, finally turning to meet Yeosang’s eyes, his gaze blazing. “I get what you meant. I know it’s okay to care about what happened, know that something has changed and just because I have to live with it doesn’t mean I can’t feel for it. But I don’t think I can change if I can’t even understand why it happened in the first place.”
Yeosang nodded once slowly, displeased yet understanding. “Okay.”
Notes:
forgot to put this on the last chapter's end notes, but if anyone was interested in how I got the names for the schools and cities/countries, they're actually a combination of Korean words !
- Jozelja: comes from the words Jjada which means “weave” (clothing, fabric), and jo-jeol which means “control” (regulating or adjusting something)
- Changjohwan: comes from words Sohwan which means “summon”, and Changjo which means “creation”
- Majahwan: comes from the words Mabeob which means “magic”, Jjada (weave) and Sohwan (summon)
- Yeonjapeul: comes from the word Jayeon which means "nature" (plus one other word, but I forgot to write it down and can't for the life of me remember what it was)
- Wibahim: comes from the words Him which means "strength", and Bawi which means "rock"I don't speak Korean at all, so these translations may not be completely accurate, but I like to name fantasy places after a combination of words that mean around about what I'm intending them to (for example, in another fantasy fic idea I have, an English-based country is called Dustcotta (from dust and terracotta) and is a place for primarily earth magic)
Chapter 3: honey wine
Notes:
So I haven't actually finished chapter 4 yet, but I'm completely overwhelmed with uni at the moment and don't think I'll have time to write again until September, so I'm posting this for the mean time :) I do plan on finishing chapter 5 before posting chapter 4, however I've kinda half-written both chapters (they were originally one, which I decided to split into two) so it shouldn't take too long to get chapter 4 out once I've finished chapter 5.
anyway, please enjoy! this chapter is slightly longer than the others, so hopefully that'll make up for the time being :)
Chapter Text
When Wooyoung was fourteen years old, his eomma took him to the Temple of the Gods.
The Temple of the Gods lay nestled in a cave to the west of Yeonjapeul, just outside of the city’s barriers. A steep staircase cut into the cliffside lead down to the entrance, framed in gold. While anyone could enter the temple at any time, the trek down was so steep and arduous that most avoided visiting unless under dire circumstances or presentation, instead choosing to erect a small shrine in the comfort of their own homes to honour the Gods.
At fourteen, Wooyoung had no business taking the trek down the cliffside. He had good grades in school, his magic had manifested cleanly and without issue, and while he didn’t have a good circle of friends, he had the only one who mattered. By all means, Wooyoung had no reason to visit the temple. But it wasn’t for him that they were taking the journey – it was for his elder brother, Dongyoung.
It was tradition to present oneself before the Gods in one’s 16th year, just prior to attending the academy, and once again in the 24th year, after graduation. On the eve of your 16th birthday, you would enter the temple at sunset and kneel down in the centre of the cave, on top of the magic circle carved into the cave floor. Then, the Gods would assess.
It was common to not feel a pull toward a God upon first encounter but, after graduation, the pull would indicate which God had taken interest in you, and thus the career path best suited for your strengths. You didn’t have to choose the path of the Gods, though the most religious weavers believed it to be disrespectful to ignore their word, and would bring downfall and misery on one’s life. Most rarely felt a pull at all.
Wooyoung let his hand graze the cliffside, bracing himself as he carefully made his way down the steps. He’d heard stories of people who had fallen from the staircase, judged by the Gods as selfish in their reasoning to seek them out. He was only here for his brother, but he still hoped the Gods didn’t judge his character and believe him unworthy of being near their temple.
A small ledge jutted out at the entrance of the cave, and from here Wooyoung could see exactly how far down the drop from the cliff was – only a wind weaver could survive such a fall. He hugged close to the entrance, taking care not to step inside as his eomma ushered his brother into the cave.
Wooyoung peered inside as his brother took slow, careful steps toward the centre of the room. The cave was lit with green, everlasting flames that sat on torches scattered about the room. While not very large in diameter, the roof of the cave stretched so high Wooyoung could not see its top. Pillars, while not needed to hold the cave roof, were placed sporadically around the space, carved into the natural stalagmites and stalactites. The place was built to last much longer than anything else in Yeonjapeul, in honour of the Gods, but it was still impermanent – eventually, nature would take it, as it did everything else.
In the centre of the cave was a carved magic circle. Sitting in the middle and pouring any amount of magic into it would activate the circle, separating one’s mind from their body. It was to make the presentation easier – to feel the Gods and their pull – though it wasn’t essential.
Spread evenly around the circle stood the statues of the Eight Gods, each representative of magic so pure, no human could hope to manipulate it in its entirety – Life, Nature, Wisdom, Luck, Power, Prosperity, Love, and Death. The statues resided on large, stone platforms that stood two metres high. The statues themselves were built so high that their faces were hidden in the dark stretches of the cave. They were designed that way by intention – humans were unworthy of laying their eyes on the beauty of the Gods.
The room was built to mimic the Old Temple, the one that used to reside in the ancient, lost city of Hyejohwan. It was rumored the Old Temple was the only thing left standing after the First War, when human civilization split down the middle to make up the current countries of Yeonjapeul and Wibahim. As all records of the lost city had been wiped from the current era’s knowledge, historians could only make guesses as to where the lost city resided. Historians agreed that, as no one had found even a remnant of the ancient city, the temple had likely been lost to the workings of nature and time.
Dongyoung made his way to the centre, kneeling down on the magic circle and curling his legs underneath him. He stayed there a moment, still and quiet, before placing the palms of his hands onto the circle and tensing his back. Wooyoung could feel his waves of nervousness from there, and felt the indescribable urge to waltz into the room and help calm his brother, but he knew it was forbidden to interrupt presentation. So, Wooyoung stayed standing there at the entrance, staring at the back of his brother’s head as he knelt before the Gods.
A small, white light began to shine in the centre of the circle, creeping outwards and filling every little crevice in the carvings as if it were a flowing stream. Once the white light had filled every piece of the carving, Dongyoung removed his hands from the ground and straightened up in anticipation.
Time passed. Wooyoung wasn’t sure just how much, but Dongyoung showed no sign of movement, no sign that a God or Goddess had paid him any attention, any thought of mind or interest. The sun dipped, and only when the sky was completely black and the stars began to shine, the glow of the magic circle stopped. Dongyoung removed himself from the cave.
When Dongyoung met them there, on the little ledge at the entrance of the cave, he merely shook his head. No sign, no notice, no pull. It was as common as anything, especially on first encounter, but Wooyoung watched as his mother’s shoulders dropped ever so slightly, the small twinge of disappointment peppering the air.
Wooyoung stared back into the cave at the faceless statues. They seemed so grand, so powerful, even if they were just made of stone. The small fragments of the Gods’ powers that resided in them were grander than anything humans could hope to achieve.
Dongyoung began to make his way back up the cliffside, taking his steps with even more care than on their trip down, wary of the darkness and its effects on the journey. Wooyoung’s eomma tugged on his sleeve, making her own way back up the stairs. Wooyoung took one last look in the cave before turning towards his mother to begin the journey home.
A cool brush of air fanned across his face. Wooyoung turned back to stare at the entrance of the cave, lifting a hand to his cheek. It felt as if the cave was inviting him in, as if the Gods wanted to see him, too.
Wooyoung made his way carefully down the steps, his mind pushing one goal – get inside the temple.
He walked slowly into the room, making his way toward the centre, but stopped just before the magic circle carvings. It didn’t feel right to step onto the circle. It wasn’t his time yet.
Wooyoung cast his gaze along the feet of the statues, wondering why exactly he’d come inside the temple. However, when his eyes laid on the statue of the 7th Goddess, Samirang, he felt it.
It wasn’t a pull, exactly, unlike what people had described. He didn’t feel like he was tugged a certain way, pushed by the Gods to go to one of them. No, he just felt inexplicably drawn to the statue, as if there was something over there he had to see.
Wooyoung took small, careful steps toward Samirang’s statue, using the green light and the weird feeling to guide him. When his feet were only a step from the base of the statue, Wooyoung stopped and turned his head to stare upwards.
Samirang. The Goddess of love, friendship, and all other matters of the heart. Ancient runes decorated the base of her statue, though Wooyoung couldn’t read them. He held out a hand to trace the carvings–
“Wooyoung!” his mother hissed, finally having realised her youngest son was no longer behind her. “Get back here!”
But Wooyoung paid her no mind. He touched the base of the statue, fingers falling into the intricate carvings on the stone platform Samirang resided on.
Fire heated in his belly, stinging up his arms and making his face blaze red. This was passion unlike no other. Wooyoung, so used to feeling the emotions of others, both weak and strong, had never felt something quite so intense before.
A deep, female voice spoke in his ear: Interesting.
Suddenly, he was ripped away from the statue, his mothers arms wrapped tightly around his middle. She was shaking, pale white and drenched in sweat, but for some reason Wooyoung couldn’t pick up exactly what she was feeling. Everything felt muted.
“What in the G– what were you thinking?” She hissed at him, bowing at the statue of Samirang before pulling him toward the exit of the cave, where Dongyoung waited for them with bated breath.
Wooyoung opened his mouth to answer, but all he could hear was the blood pumping in his ear and the stinging sensation covering his entire body. He wobbled on his legs, arms stretching out to grasp at the golden metal encasing the entryway, trying to catch his breath. Why was he so dizzy? What was going on?
And then he fell.
Magical theory was held on Jozelja’s campus, though the class was now mixed with the new Changjohwan students.
Wooyoung, Yeosang and Mingi sat in a pack together at the back of the room. The tables only sat two students each, so Mingi had pulled over a neighbouring chair to join them. The magical theory professor never cared about stuff like that – as long as work was done, and conversations were not disruptive, it was an anything-goes sort of environment.
He was one of Wooyoung’s favourite professors.
Wooyoung’s hands flew about the air as he spoke, animatedly telling Mingi a story from their Winter break. Yeosang had been there, and Wooyoung was wildly over-exaggerating some elements, but he didn’t try to butt in and stop him. Mingi nodded along, mouth open wide in interest.
Wooyoung felt him before he saw him.
Of course, given the fact that he and San were the same age, there was quite a high chance he shared some of his courses with him. But he still turned in shock toward the door, stopping his story short – half-way and just before the good part – to watch as San and Yunho made their way into the class.
He was struck once again by the beauty of San, face sculpted by the Gods, and a pang of heartache stabbed his chest. Mingi seemed to be tugging at his arm, wanting to get his attention for something, but Wooyoung kept his eyes on the pair.
When they entered the room, San went to make a bee-line for the back of the class, but it was Yunho whose eyes fell on him. Yunho gave him a soft smile, kind yet small, and turned to tug San closer to the front of the room – away from Wooyoung and his friends. Wooyoung didn’t break out of his stupor until he watched San grumble into a seat closer to the front and all he could see was the back of his head.
He was suddenly reminded of his conversation with Yeosang the night before – of how he wanted to talk to San again, just to clear the air, just to understand. But seeing him now, in all his beauty and shining kind eyes and dimpled cheeks, Wooyoung knew that was going to be a little easier said than done.
He turned back to his friends, one looking at him with wide-eyed curiosity, and the other with a disapproving glare.
“Uh– where was I?”
It wasn’t until after class that Wooyoung finally had the chance to meet with San.
It was completely accidental too – Wooyoung had made his way out of the class, head reeling with ways he was going to get San alone, when some kid had bumped into him in a rush to get to their next class. Wooyoung had stumbled, his heavy textbook falling out of his arms as he tried to regain his balance.
“Bastard, ” Yeosang cursed, watching as the student disappeared down the hall. Wooyoung rolled his eyes, shaking his shoulders back before bending down to pick up the book.
Another pair of hands met him there. Hands Wooyoung recognised. Hands that he had held tightly in his own, hands that had brushed his cheeks as if they were the most precious things in the entire world, hands that had felt every crevice of his body.
Wooyoung’s eyes shot forward, looking up to meet San’s. They were kind, just for a second there, holding that shimmering love Wooyoung had become all too familiar with and had dreamt of in their last two years apart. Wooyoung’s breath stole in his throat.
But then they hardened, and San let go of the book as if it had burned him, letting the weight of the thing fall into Wooyoung’s palms. They stood slowly, Wooyoung considering how exactly he should approach this conversation.
This was his chance.
San narrowed his gaze, beating him to the punch. “You’re the boy from the bridge yesterday.”
Wooyoung gulped, suddenly aware of their audience. Right . The whole reason he wanted to get San alone was because he seemed to act as if he didn’t even know him whenever there were other students around. True enough, most had stopped their conversations to listen in to whatever was going on between him and San.
“Uh– yeah.”
“San-ah!” Yunho called, a few steps down the hall. “Let’s go!”
San gave him one last suspicious look before turning on his heel and following Yunho down to whatever class they had next, no more words said between them.
Shit. He was going to need a plan.
Wooyoung had come up with a plan.
It wasn’t a great one, in hindsight, because he hadn’t really thought it through beyond “ambush San in the dining hall and draw him outside to talk”, but it was something – an idea, a groundwork, the opening pages of a plan – so Wooyoung went with it.
With the schools now joined, students were allowed to eat at either hall. It made sense to do so, if you had classes immediately before or after a meal on either campus, but none of the students had ever attempted to actually sit down and eat with the opposing magic group. Wooyoung had seen a few summoner first-years, decked in periwinkle robes, grabbing small bites of food from the ends of the long weaver dining tables before scurrying along to find a hidden hallway or a spot on the frosted grass outside to eat, but none had ever sat down with them.
Wooyoung was lucky – or unlucky – enough to have had his history class right before lunch that day, so, just when they’d reached the Sky Bridge, he’d made an excuse to his friends about forgetting his book and having to go back, insisting they keep moving. Mingi had merely shrugged at Wooyoung and continued on his way, too hungry to care about Wooyoung being late, but Yeosang had narrowed his eyes on him. They stared at each other for a long moment, until Yeosang eventually turned to follow Mingi, surrendering to the fact that he had no proof that Wooyoung was lying.
Wooyoung made his way down the stairs of the tower, not in any real rush to get to the dining hall. He knew San must’ve also had history now – given that he was crossing that bridge on the first day of classes, whilst the rest of Wooyoung’s cohort were at Changjohwan – so it would take a while before San made his way across Sky Bridge for his own late lunch.
Wooyoung stopped at the entrance to the hall. It was almost an exact replica of Jozelja’s – two stories high, with large windows paned with cherrywood to match the floor. Large, glittering black columns stretched to the curved ceiling, with a spattering of blue, silver and grey mosaic tiles.
Although, there were some differences. Unlike Jozelja – where eight, long tables stretched around the hall, each table for each separate year group as well as the teacher’s table in the centre of the platform – Chanjohwan’s dining hall was an array of multiple little picnic-sized tables, each holding a maximum of ten students. The tables were scattered around the hall, seemingly paying little attention to student year level or any known age order.
However, Wooyoung thought as he eyed the tables, they did seem to follow a rule by robe colour.
At Jozelja, robe colour meant nothing, as long as it was in weaver green. Many of the students, like Wooyoung, had purchased an entire wardrobe full of the same shade of green they felt suited them best, and went through almost their entire education in the one colour. Others, like Yeosang, had a rainbow of green hues in their wardrobes, choosing whichever they wished to wear that day.
Summoners, on the other hand, were particular in their colours – the darker the shade of blue, the stronger the summoner was. Their robes were a sign of power, of honour, of the depth of respect one was owed. There was no set threshold to meet in order to change one’s wardrobe colour – it was based on a multitude of requirements, as things like raw power or intricate attention-to-detail weren’t best suited for all magic types. Naturally, as students developed and honed their skills over the years, their robe colour deepened. But there were some colours only the best of the best could achieve.
While year level didn’t seem to be of much importance here at Changjohwan, robe colour certainly was.
Wooyoung twisted his way through the sea of blue, ignoring the glares and hisses thrown his way, as he made his way toward the center of the room to the longest table. Unlike Jozelja, where each of the eight tables were adorned with fresh produce from the neighbouring areas, Changjohwan had one large catering table in the centre. A few students stood behind the table, silver ladles in hand, serving each of the students as they came up with empty wooden bowls and plates.
That's it, Wooyoung thought, pushing through the crowd that had already gathered there, That’s how I can get him.
Wooyoung positioned himself behind the table, grabbing a ladle at a station filled with large, metal trays of curried beef. Wooyoung turned to smile at the other boy, no older than seventeen, who was already at the station. “Hi!” Wooyouong greeted, scooping up a spoonful of beef curry in preparation to serve.
The young boy stared at him for a second longer before immediately dropping his own ladle in the curry and hurrying off. The curry splashed out, spatters raining down the side of Wooyoung’s robes. Great, he thought, but he painted on a smile and turned to the front, as if nothing happened.
A few of the other students down the line stared at him, questioning looks on their faces. Their robes were the light, periwinkle blue common amongst the first years, and their faces held the same, chubby youth. A few of them glared, a few of them had their mouths open in shock, but Wooyoung ignored them in favour of the droves of students coming along to get their food.
Wooyoung stayed smiling, feigning ignorance, as students followed the line to his station. Most of the students glared at him, bypassing his station and hissing whispers at their friends once they’d moved on. Some others hadn’t even noticed him at first, holding forward their bowls until they saw the green-robed arm attached to the spoon and immediately flinched away, as if he’d poisoned the food. He was sure one student even spat in the food, and Wooyoung grumbled as he had to carefully switch the full tray, but he didn’t let the smile drop from his face. Only a small population of students accepted the food Wooyoung served, and an even smaller group amongst them were thankful for it.
One such student came along, robes so dark they were almost black. His hair was a soft, burnt orange and he had a sharp, pointed nose. He was short, shorter than Wooyoung himself, but he held a power and grace about him that left Wooyoung’s jaw on the floor. The man grinned at Wooyoung as he carefully ladled the curry into his bowl, and then bowed in thanks before moving on.
Wooyoung watched him walk away, not caring to attempt to serve any more students, though he knew they wouldn’t take the food anyway. The boy with the dark robes and burnt orange hair made his way to a small table tucked in the corner of the room, with only three other occupants, each with dark robes themselves. When Wooyoung squinted to get a better look at them, he dropped his ladle in shock, spattering another bunch of curry on his robes and the grumbly student before him.
San was there, eyes bright and smile wide. Wooyoung hadn’t even noticed when he’d entered the hall. He was giggling about something one of the other boys – Jongho , his mind supplied, though he wasn’t entirely sure. So the kind one must be Hongjoong – had said, his laughter travelling across the hall. It was light, and fluffy, and everything Wooyoung remembered it to be. San was bigger, stronger, and his robes a darker blue, but his smile and his laugh had not changed one bit.
Wooyoung stood there, bouncing on his toes, trying to catch his eye. He waited for San’s stomach to rumble, or at least his eye to wander over, and finally make his way to the buffet table so Wooyoung could ambush him and drag him off somewhere alone to talk .
Students continued hissing at him, one of them even picking up the ladle for themselves to spoon the curry in their own bowl once it was obvious Wooyoung was not going to serve them, but Wooyoung no longer cared to keep up an act. He wasn’t really here to make friends or present a good impression of himself. The entire purpose of his little trip – which Yeosang was going to berate him for – was all to catch San off guard and drag him away from snooping eyes and nosy ears.
Wooyoung kept his eyes on the table, on San, wondering whether or not he should just walk over there and grab San himself. But if people were already suspicious of a weaver serving them lunch, then they’d definitely be suspicious about one prancing about their dining hall and stealing away one of their brightest students. So Wooyoung stayed on the spot, considering willing San to turn around so Wooyoung didn’t have to go over there.
In the end, it wasn’t San who had spotted him, but Yunho.
When Wooyoung’s eyes caught Yunho’s, he cursed and went to hide under the buffet table, but the damage was done. He watched through the semi-transparent table cloth as Yunho stood from the table quickly, muttering something to the group. He strolled over, long legs shortening the distance at remarkable speed.
Shit, Wooyoung cursed again, crawling along beneath the table. He tried to keep his eyes on Yunho’s legs, but more and more legs continued to block his path, and he swore someone had kicked him at one point, though it could’ve been an accident. He reappeared at the end of the table, running head first into one Jeong Yunho.
“Yunho-ssi!” Wooyoung greeted, as if seeing an old friend for the first in a long time. Technically he was , though these weren’t the circumstances he wished it to be under.
Yunho was unimpressed, immediately bypassing the act. “What are you doing here, Wooyoung-ssi?”
Wooyoung opened his mouth to answer, but noticed the immediate chatter around him had begun to soften – they’d started to gain an audience. Yunho seemed to have noticed, too, because he grasped onto Wooyoung’s arm and began to drag him out of the hall. Wooyoung yelped, quickly gaining his feet so he could walk on his own in time with Yunho’s brisk pace.
Yunho rounded on him once they were outside, practically pushing him up against a glittering black pillar, hiding him in the shadows. “What are you doing here?” Yunho asked again, voice firm, but Wooyoung could feel the softness to it, could feel the twinges of sadness and pity that had seemed to follow Yunho around whenever he laid eyes on Wooyoung.
“I need to talk to San,” Wooyoung told him, not caring to beat around the bush. This was Yunho – kind, sweet Yunho, who had engulfed him in a hug the first time they’d met each other, telling him how happy and soft San always was whenever he came back from their secret trips in the woods. Kind, sweet Yunho, who had been the one to tell him that San never wanted to see him again, when San never had the courage to say so to his face.
Yunho shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Wooyoung-ah. He doesn’t– he can’t talk to you.” His voice dripped with pity, but Wooyoung shrugged off the feeling. He didn’t want Yunho’s pity. He wanted answers.
“I just want to know what happened.” Wooyoung told him, surprised at the desperation in his own voice. “Please. Then I won’t bother him again.”
Wooyoung searched his emotions, untangling each of them one by one. He bypassed the sadness, the pity, the small piece of happiness at seeing an old friend. But he also was determined, determined to keep whatever San’s problem was with Wooyoung a secret.
Yunho sighed, turning away from Wooyoung. “You’re not going to stop, no matter how much I ask you to, are you?”
Wooyoung shook his head sharply.
He sighed again, taking a step away and back toward the dining hall entrance. “You’re not going to get any answer out of San, but whatever you do find, will hurt.” Yunho told him, placing his hand on the stone framing of the entrance, turning back to get one last look at Wooyoung. “I’m not only trying to protect him , you know.”
Yunho disappeared into the hall, and Wooyoung felt the touch of his own confusion bleed into the winter air.
While Yunho may have admitted he could not change Wooyoung’s mind about talking to San, he sure hadn’t admitted defeat.
Every class San shared with Wooyoung, the man was flanked by at least two summoners, and one of them was always, always, Yunho. Every time Wooyoung tried to catch San off-guard, Yunho was there. Every hallway, every class, even the godsdamned bathroom , Yunho was there. Whenever Wooyoung so much as glanced in their direction, Yunho suddenly remembered something he desperately had to tell San, and immediately ushered him away before Wooyoung had even the chance to approach him.
The message was obvious – Yunho couldn’t stop Wooyoung, but he could certainly stop San.
It made Wooyoung even more frustrated, even more desperate to learn what had transpired that night. What had happened that was so bad, Yunho had to physically keep them apart to avoid confrontation? What had Wooyoung–or San– done?
Between Yeosang’s disapproving glares and Yunho’s adamance at not letting the pair interact, Wooyoung was never going to get his answers at this point.
Eventually, though, Yunho and San had to part. It was in the evening, on the last day of their first week back at the academy – which, Wooyoung thought, was the longest week he had ever suffered in his life – that Wooyoung was finally able to catch San without his bodyguard.
Wooyoung made his way down to the basement of Changjohwan’s second tower, to where the potion labs were held. Dark and damp spaces were best for brewing most potions, as the heat of the sun tended to interfere with the potion’s progress. Wooyoung had slipped into a bench at the back of the room beside Mingi, fingers dancing across the cauldron pot.
San entered the room just as Wooyoung had begun to open his textbook, flanked by two summoners in slightly lighter robes. He made his way across the room, down to the back where he settled in, just one bench between him and Wooyoung.
Wooyoung’s breath caught in his throat. Did San remember? Did he remember the reason he had taken Potions and Culinary Arts in the first place? Did he remember the way the two had giggled about it, right at the end of their 2nd year, about how taking the same elective course was as close as they could get to being in class together? Did he remember the fact that the entire reason he’d chosen to persist with potions was because of his love for Wooyoung?
Wooyoung thought San would’ve dropped everything related to Wooyoung the second he had broken up with him, considering all their recent interactions and the glares and disgust that the boy seemed to have in abundance in his back pocket.
But no, here San was, still holding onto a piece of Wooyoung. Wooyoung didn’t know how he felt about it. It went against everything. Did San still love him, beneath all of those layers? Or did he simply not even care enough about Wooyoung and what he had meant to him, that keeping a class he had only ever taken for Wooyoung’s sake did not affect him in the slightest?
The professor, a hard-faced woman with heterochromatic eyes, made her way to the front of the room and broke Wooyoung out of his head. Later , he thought, as she began to draw squeaky lines of chalk on the board behind her. I’ll find out everything later.
Brushing Mingi off was easy enough to do when he was hungry.
Mingi was a loyal man to boot, and would not abandon his friends over simple, lame excuses like the one Wooyoung had given him, but the man was also hungry . It was late, and their class already stretched into dinner time, so Mingi was rearing to get away from the damp, Changjohwan basement and make his way back to the gleaming white halls of Jozelja and shove whatever the kitchen staff had prepared into his mouth.
He had given Wooyoung one last look at the end of the staircase, though, just to ensure he was really okay with him abandoning him for a few rolls of bread at the meat of the day, but Wooyoung had ushered him on and Mingi went without complaint.
Wooyoung turned back down the hallway, heart now racing. This was his one chance. Yunho was probably making his way down to the potion labs as he stood here, contemplating, or had at least sent another one of San’s friends to complete their shift on guard duty. Wooyoung had to try now.
He turned back to the potions lab, where most of the students were still milling around talking amongst themselves. They were mostly all an array of dark blue, as the weavers had all booked it back to their own campus as soon as the teacher dismissed them.
San stood right outside the door, chattering to another boy. Wooyoung didn’t recognise him from class, but he did recognise the boy from the dining hall two days ago. He was one of San’s closest friends – Jongho , Wooyoung thought. San had mentioned meeting the younger boy in his second year at Changjohwan, surprised by his youthful playfulness hidden under his mature stride – which meant that San’s guard had already arrived.
Wooyoung’s shoulders slumped, and he let himself fall backwards until his back met the cold, stone wall. He didn’t know much about Jongho outside of the fun stories San had shared, so he didn’t know how easily he’d be able to shrug off the guy for 5 minutes just so he could get a word in to San. Given his posture, and the obvious muscles hidden under the man’s shirt, he supposed it wasn’t going to be easy.
He stood there in the hallway, back against stone, watching the two converse. The other students began to wander off, probably to get their own dinners, but San and Jongho stayed in conversation. When there were only about five students left, including himself, San and Jongho, Jongho gave San a small nod, and San began his own journey deeper into the basement halls.
Alone.
Wooyoung bounced off the wall, quickly hurrying after San. He passed by Jongho, who gave him an indiscernible look, though Wooyoung could feel the disapproval and fear spilling into the air around him, but the man did not try to stop Wooyoung in his chase.
San turned a corner, and then another one, leading further into the basement levels of the second Changjohwan tower. Wooyoung stayed a few steps behind him, pressing himself against pillars and doorframes to hide from San’s sight, in case the boy turned to look behind him. He never did.
San led the way deeper into the basement, and Wooyoung was shocked at how far they were going – he was sure Changjohwan’s tower wasn’t this large. Was San leading him down some of the hidden corridors that connected the two schools? He didn’t recognise any of the pathways, though, and they hadn’t passed through an obvious concealment yet either.
Eventually, San stopped at a dead-end in a dark alcove, the air thick with the scent of sulfur. He stared at the walls a moment, as if admiring the smooth stone he was sure to be familiar with, before spinning around to stare directly at where Wooyoung was hiding.
Shit . He’d forgotten San’s protective barrier, and the way he would always know whether there was anyone around him. He let out a shaky breath, surrendering.
“Why are you following me?” he hissed as Wooyoung sheepishly made his way out from behind the door frame. “What do you want with me?”
Tears sprung to Wooyoung’s eyes, desperation clogging up his throat and spilling from his mouth. He didn’t care that he had been caught. At this moment, here, in front of San, away from any peering eyes and nosy ears, he could finally, finally, learn the truth. He didn’t need San’s love, he didn’t need San’s avoidance, he needed answers, if only for his own peace of mind. “I just want–no, need –to know what happened that night.”
San glared at him, malice and hatred whipping at the air around them. It made Wooyoung’s nose curl and his stomach churn with sickness.
“Is that why you’ve been stalking me? Dropping a book to get my attention, seeking me out while I was with my friends at lunch? Yunho had to put a fucking protection squad on me to keep you away from me! And you’re concerned about some random night?”
“Random night?” Wooyoung gasped, “That night has haunted me for years! You mean to tell me that it was just– what? Nothing?”
“Yes.” San snarled, eyes boring into Wooyoung’s. He felt bile on his tongue, and had to clench his teeth in fear that if he opened his mouth again, he would spill his entire lunch on the cold, basement floor before him.
Nothing . The night that had haunted Wooyoung for years, the night that had led to the conclusion of the happiest and most precious years of his life. Nothing. San had stomped on his heart and left Wooyoung bleeding out for nothing. Like it was all some sort of game.
“Look,” San said, eyes softening, though his anger still hounded the air between them. “Whatever happened with us, whatever entailed, it’s over. You need to forget about it.”
Wooyoung drew in a sharp breath, tears finally slipping down his cheeks. A small, almost imperceptible shot of pity touched the air between them, but just as quickly as it appeared, it was gone again. San loaded the final bullet, and shot it directly into Wooyoung’s heart.
“We’re summoners and weavers. How naive are you to believe that we could get along for any length of time?”
San pushed past him, leaving Wooyoung standing at the doorframe in a broken heap. Wooyoung listened to his footsteps, listened to him walk up the stairs. He left , yet for some reason, this felt worse than the night he found that letter. He left, but this time he took the books, the gifts, the hugs, the laughs, the kisses, the words, and the I love you s with him. This time, he took everything.
Wooyoung rubbed his eyes, pushing away the streams of tears. He couldn’t go on like this. San had clearly made his choice, and he had seemed to have let go of every last drop of love he had once held for Wooyoung. Wooyoung needed to do the same.
Wooyoung braced his hand on the doorframe, using it to push himself up. He squared his shoulders, turned his chin up high, and plastered a fake smile on his face.
Fine . If San was going to play the hate game, then Wooyoung was sick of sitting on the bench. He was going to meet him on the field.
Historians believed the Old Temple of the Gods had been completely destroyed within the passage of time, as no one had found any records of the rumoured everlasting building.
Wooyoung loved his history, but he knew well enough the power that written word held. Or more, the power of lost pages and withheld mutterings.
The truth of it was they only knew the history that had been retained. All the power was held in the hands of those who wanted their stories passed down to the next generations. History would always be lost, because no one had planted the seeds to find it again. Historians worked on a lot of guess-work: making conclusions out of hints and scribbles in the margins of journals, trying to make sense of a story that had never been written on the page. But it was hard to come to the correct conclusion when you only ever listened to half the story.
Yeonjapeul’s knowledge only went as far as the stories the weavers of old were willing to pass down. But Wooyoung had the privilege of reading Wibahim’s history, too, and was able to read between the lines and find things that his elders, if only they’d had access to more information, would have been able to piece together decades ago.
Here was what Wooyoung knew:
- Both Yeonjapeul and Wibahim had created new temples once the two countries were established: each within a cliffside cave, each outside the city’s protective barriers, and each alleged to be a replica of the Old Temple.
- The placement of Majahwan, now Jozelja and Changjohwan, was intentional. Many thought it was due to the approximate equal distance between the borders of both countries, but could never explain why it was just slightly closer to Yeonjapeul when a nearby mountain, which also held two peaks, was perfectly equidistant from both borders. What they did not know was that the founders of the school, also privy to the same knowledge of history as Wooyoung, had made an estimation: the school, promoting peace and harmony amongst their two warring groups, would be built on the remnants of the ancient city, where they had once existed in harmony.
- San’s protective barrier range could only go as far as the base of the mountain. The academies had no protective barrier of their own, and while San hadn’t sacrificed anything near enough to erect a proper protective barrier around the school, his weaker barriers, that could only detect inside movement, were limited to the base of the mountain. Given San had improved since Wooyoung had gathered this information, that limit was likely slightly bigger, though not by much.
So, given his information, Wooyoung had reason to believe that the Old Temple still existed, and it was hidden in a cliffside cave not far from the walls of Jozelja.
For the first time ever, Wooyoung was glad that Maehui-noona set her weekend lessons at the crack of dawn. She believed the sleep-addled mind was more receptive to feelings rather than focus , so she always made sure to get him when he was bleary-eyed and his hair was sleep-tustled. Wooyoung had only been hit twice that morning, and Maehui had let him go 2 hours later, nothing but genuine praise for his progress.
Wooyoung had snuck his way back into his dormitory room at 7am, making sure that Yeosang – whose specialty lessons were also usually early to make use of the bright, morning sunlight – had already left for breakfast. He packed a small bag: a few pieces of fruit he’d snuck off the table in embroidered napkins the night before, and a bottle of honey wine he’d smuggled from the kitchens.
Wooyoung began his journey down the mountainside, trying to enjoy the soft beats of the winter sun and ignore the feeling in his gut telling him he was wrong. If no one, in centuries , had discovered the Old Temple, then how could he, 21 years old and a 6th-year student at the academy, hope to find it? When people had spent their entire lives in search of the temple and had never found it.
He tried to reason with himself. He knew more than any separate weaver or summoner ever did, given he held information either side did not. He also had very-specific knowledge on the range of a ward, which only ward weavers and weapons summoners and very few others were aware of.
But what if he was incorrect in his assumptions? What if the founders of Majahwan had completely misjudged where the ancient city lay? What if ward boundaries could reach far further than any of San’s could, given enough ward weavers or a strong enough sacrifice? What if the fact that both Yeonjapeul and Wibahim built their temples in cliffside caves was only coincidence?
There were also shrines of the Gods at Jozelja. He could’ve easily gone and prayed before one of them. But no, he was determined to find the Old Temple – the place rumoured to hold the highest concentration of the Gods’ power.
Wooyoung wasn’t even religious. His faith in the Gods had dwindled over the years, especially since Yeosang didn’t believe in human deities, though his lack of faith was not because of him. He’d even become fully convinced that that night, the eve of his brother’s 16th birthday, was some dreamed-up hallucination. He’d passed out after the encounter, and he didn’t feel anything during his own presentation. For all he knew and believed, it was a figment of his imagination.
But Samirang was his last hope. He couldn’t possibly hope to weave out his feelings of San, and giving up his memories of them was impossible. The only thing that could possibly help him get over his love for San was a heavenly deity, capable of magics far beyond human comprehension.
Wooyoung pulled out the embroidered cloth and unfolded it, popping a few grapes into his mouth. Whatever the outcome, it was only half a day’s journey to his suspected cliff face. And it wasn’t like he was breaking any rules travelling out this far – they were free to go wherever they wanted, so long as they did not miss any classes. If today’s journey ended in failure, that wasn’t much of a loss anyway. Praying to a Goddess he didn’t even believe in was about as far as he could go in a last-ditch effort.
With that thought in mind, he placed the napkin of stolen fruit back inside his satchel, secured it tightly over his shoulder, and continued his journey across the mountains.
As he met the forest that climbed halfway up the mountainside, he tried not to think about San. But with the familiar scent of pine and the heavy bottle in his bag, it was hard not to. This forest was a collage of memories, scattered in the trees and the branches and the leaves. The fights they fought together, the laughs they shared under the moonlight, the stolen kisses in the encasing darkness. His first kiss by the shimmering lake, the first exchange of I love you s in the tree tops, the last night he was held in the arms of his lover on the warm, blood-soaked forest floor.
Wooyoung wished he didn’t love so intensely. Wished that San wasn’t so easy to love. Wished that he could move on from the love of his life and still have something to live for on the other side.
Keep moving forward , he told himself, when the memories threatened to engulf his entire being and leave him in a breathless heap on the ground. Keep moving forward, he told himself, as he walked further into the forest, further into the collage of memories, until finally, finally , he was on the other side, where the woods stayed dark, untrodden, and unfamiliar.
No more memories from this point on.
When Wooyoung made it to the edge of the cliff, his heart was beating so hard he felt it would almost break free from his chest. He paused at the top, placing his feet sturdily on the ground before leaning ever-so-slightly over the edge.
There was no sign of a cave.
All this effort for nothing . The bottle of wine lay heavy in his bag, weighing him down as if in punishment of his decision to seek out the Gods, unfaithful and way in over his head. Wooyoung stumbled backwards and slumped to the ground, too tired to scream or even just enjoy the view that his hike had led him. He picked up a stray pebble, throwing it lamely over the cliffside, hearing it bounce against the cliff face as if falling down a set of stairs.
Stairs…
Wooyoung shot up, tripping on his feet over to the edge of the cliff again. He moved his gaze across it, searching for a sign or something of a way down. If there were stairs, they would lead to something, right?
And then he found it: a small, insignificant trail of stairs leading down the cliff face. They were so small and indiscernible that, if he hadn’t been looking for them, he would’ve just assumed they were part of the cliff rocks. From his height and angle he couldn’t see where they led, but he hoped beyond hope that it was the Old Temple of the Gods.
Wooyoung assessed the stairs, if he could even call them that. Time and nature had eroded them, and Wooyoung judged he would only be able to place both feet next to each other if he pressed his knees and feet together. If the staircase at Yeonjapeul was dangerous, this one was a death trap.
Wooyoung wished he’d brought Yeonjun with him. At least if he fell, the wind weaver would’ve been able to lift him back onto the top of the cliff to try again. But Yeonjun would never have taken the journey without knowing what exactly had Wooyoung so focused on finding an ancient, lost temple of the Gods that shouldn’t even exist anymore.
He should just go back. Risking death just to offer a God a gift was foolish enough as it was, especially added with the fact that Wooyoung didn’t even truly believe in the Gods. But he’d made it this far, and this plan was really his only option left.
So, Wooyoung took one, careful step forward, testing his weight on the first step, where he was safe enough to fall back onto the ground if the piece of jagged stone fell loose. But it held, so Wooyoung took another step, and then another.
His hands dragged along the cliff face as he made his way down the steps, the harsh stone wall cutting gashes into his sweaty fingertips. His legs shook with every step, and it took him a minute or two to breathe and steel his courage before he could take another. He tried not to look down at the long, long fall to the ground, but in order to keep his eyes on the narrow, steep path ahead, he had to also see the drop to the ground. Gods, he was up high.
He didn’t know how much time had passed as he made his way down the cliff, though it felt like hours. At one point his foot had slipped, and Wooyoung slammed his hands into the grooves in the cliffside stone to keep him on the trail. He didn’t move for a good 5 minutes after that. At another point, the steps got so narrow he could no longer stand with his feet side by side, and had to carefully take them, one foot in front of the other.
Eventually, he reached the end of the narrow staircase. He took a minute to breathe, small droplets of the blood on his hands painting the cliffside red.
When the wind whistled by, he was hit with the smell of dirt and damp, damp air. He turned his head to the side, hands grasped tightly on the cliff wall, and saw it – the entrance to a cave.
It was massive, framed in a silver metal that cast beautiful, intricate designs over the cliff face. The patterns seemed to be runes, but ones so ancient Wooyoung didn’t recognise them. He was sure now – he had found the ancient Temple of the Gods.
He was surprised he hadn’t noticed the cave until that moment, but supposed his gaze was locked on his feet in the effort of not falling to his death that he hadn’t even been paying attention to his surroundings.
The glee of finding the cave was short-lived, though, when he noticed there was no ledge jutting out at the entrance. Gods almighty, he was going to have to jump into the cave.
It’s okay, Wooyoung reasoned as his heart pounded against his chest, it’s only one more step down.
Bracing his body against the silver metal frame, Wooyoung pivoted on his foot and swung one leg around and into the cave. Rocks slid from under his foot, and the other one dangled in the air a moment. Slowly, he bent his knee until his other foot hit the solid ground.
He let out a breath, hands sliding down the metal in a mix of nervous sweat and blood. He pivoted on the leg inside the cave, swinging the other around until his whole body was inside.
Wooyoung nearly fell to his knees. Sweet, sweet, solid, wide ground.
He wanted to lay there, against the smooth, cold stone of the cave floor and kiss it, but stopped himself when he remembered where he was – this wasn’t just any old cave, this was the Temple of the Gods. The Ancient one, the one where their power was said to be strongest. He didn’t think it would be quite so respectful to sprawl on the ground at their feet.
Wooyoung cast his eyes around the cave, once he’d convinced himself he was no longer in danger of falling. The temple was much larger than the one near Yeonjapeul, with thick stone pillars dotting the space. Rather than being encased in walls behind the statues, though, two curved staircases lead up and further into the cave.
Wooyoung supposed they led to the chambers of the lesser Gods, the ones forgotten by time and history. All he knew of them was that they ruled over the lesser magics, like the wind and water and fire. When humans began practicing their own magic, they no longer cared for the older Gods, for the power they wielded was at their own fingertips. Very few even knew the old Gods existed.
He cast his eyes over the centre of the temple, eyeing the statues of the Gods. As with the temple near his home, the statues stood so tall he could not see their carved faces in the dark of the cave ceiling. He listed them all in his head as his eyes trailed along the platforms. Halmmachi, Jirogu, Hyeuiseong, Seongunli, Boholiba, Peomyeongja, Samirang, and Juramigeum.
Life, Nature, Wisdom, Luck, Power, Prosperity, Love, and Death.
But as his eyes trailed the room, he noticed something amiss. The statues’ placement was odd – where the eight Gods should stand equidistant from the centre and each other, with Boholiba and Peomyeongja sharing the centre, Peomyeongja seemed to be directly in the centre, skewing the Gods slightly to the right. Wooyoung frowned, trailing his eyes over to where Juramigeum should sit, opposite Halmmachi.
A small pile of rubble lay in a heap across from Halmmachi. It was as if another God should have stood there, as if their statue had been crumbled. Wooyoung tilted his head at the pile of rubble. He’d read about the lesser Gods, but he’d never heard of a ninth God. If it did exist, it had been effectively erased from the history books, and thus, from any human’s knowledge.
Wooyoung took a few careful steps on shaky legs into the cave. Everlasting flames of purple lit up the space, and Wooyoung could see the carvings of a magic circle in the centre. He knew he was here for Samirang, but something drew him toward the decimated stone.
His knees met the ground as he examined the broken pieces. Whatever was once here, it wasn’t very big. It was as if the old temple worshippers had accidentally built a ninth platform and destroyed it before they ever had a chance to build a statue atop it.
Wooyoung’s hands grazed over the stone, fingers falling into faint grooves. There was writing on some of the pieces, but when Wooyoung tried to read the runes, even with his knowledge from years of education, he couldn’t place them. This was a language far more ancient than what had touched the parchment paper. It looked as if it were the same writing as the ones on Samirang’s platform back in Yeonjapeul.
Samirang.
Right. He thought as his heart gave a horrible thud in his chest and the honey wine in his bag began to weigh heavier than ever. He was here for a purpose.
Casting thoughts of the rubble aside, he stood up shakily, brushing the cave-floor dust from his pants and reaching into his bag to pull out the bottle of honey wine.
Every God and Goddess had a series of gifts they enjoyed and, if offered, would give promise of something different. A bouquet of angel’s breath offered to Juramigeum, the Goddess of death, destruction, and the passage of time, would bring safety and peace to a lost loved one in the journey to the afterlife. A clay jug filled from a waterfall offered to Jirogu, the God of the natural world, living creatures, and magic, would ensure clear drinking springs and eliminate the risk of drought. A gold, beaded bracelet offered to Seongunli, the God of luck, victory, and self-fulfilment, would bring success and accomplishment in a nearby hardship.
Samirang had her own sharing of favoured gifts: yellow tulips would ensure long-lasting friendship; a flute carved from the wood of a maple tree helped one to find a partner; red apples ensured a peaceful, protected marriage; a withered rose aided in a smooth, mutual break-up; and honey wine helped to cure the ailment of drunken love.
Wooyoung carefully placed the honey wine at the foot of Samirang’s statue, kneeling down before her. This was it. This was where his journey had led. This was his last hope.
He cupped his sweaty, bloody hands together in prayer and closed his eyes. He tried to feel something, anything, from the statue, but all he could feel was the cold, damp air of the forgotten temple.
“Um, hi.” Wooyoung said, then internally cringed. He didn’t know how to address the Gods, and he certainly had never attempted until this moment. “Sorry. Dear heavenly Goddess Samirang…”
He was stumped for words. Usually, he had so many things to say. But here, at the foot of an ancient, crumbling statue, feeling silly talking to himself, he couldn’t find any. How do you address a God you don’t believe in?
Probably not by kneeling in front of them in prayer, thinking about how you don’t believe in them.
Wooyoung pursed his lips. Maybe if he just spoke his mind? He never really had the chance to really talk about San, about his love for him and the heartache he caused. Sure, Yeosang had been the audience to plenty of Wooyoung’s rants, but Wooyoung could tell when Yeosang was growing disinterested, when he didn’t want to hear more. And it wasn’t like he could go to anyone else – Yunho was the only other person who knew of their forbidden love, but he was San’s friend before he was Wooyoung’s. So Wooyoung had stopped speaking his mind about San, and bottled up a lot of emotions around him.
But Samirang was the Goddess of Love, so surely she would be entertained by the tragic story of his love, right? Even if she wasn’t, Wooyoung was here alone, kneeling before a stone statue with a bottle of honey wine and a wavering wish. It didn’t matter if no one was listening, he just needed to feel listened to.
So, he spoke.
“I’ve been stupidly in love with San for years. You know that honey-moon phase people talk about? When they’re freshly in love? Sorry. Of course you do, you’re the literal Love Goddess. Well, um, that’s how it feels to be in love with San. That honey-moon phase never went away. I feel my love for him so intensely that I don’t think I could ever, truly let him go.
“He’s… well. He means everything to me. He’s the sun and the stars and the rain. He’s the reason I wanted to wake up every day, and the reason I never wanted to sleep at night. He matches me perfectly, as if we’re two souls locked in an eternal dance. And when I die, I want it to be before him, because I don’t think I could ever hope to live in a world without him in it.
“But… we’re not together anymore. We haven’t been for two entire years. You probably knew that too, Goddess of love and all. Anyway, I spoke to him yesterday, and he wants nothing to do with me. Nothing at all. He just wants us to pretend like we never meant anything to each other and go on with being enemies just because we’re born in separate countries, to separate magical laws. He wants me to pretend the most precious years of my life never happened.
“So here I am, kneeling before you with a bottle of honey wine and a speech that you probably have no time in the world for. I’m drunk on my love for him, and I don’t think I can ever move on from him and give him what he wants, nor have the ability to grow for myself, if I can’t rid myself of these feelings. But it’s been two years and I still feel him so intensely and you’re kind of my last hope so please–”
Wooyoung's voice choked on the last word, his breath coming up short. Tears streamed down his cheeks, though he couldn’t remember when he started crying. He wiped at them with his clasped hands, and went on to whisper the hardest words of all:
“Please help this love fade. It’s killing me.”
Wooyoung opened his eyes, blinking the blurry tears away. His heart pounded in his ears, and he felt like he was underwater. He stared up at the stone statue of Samirang, hoping for a sign. A pull, a glow, a thrum of energy in answer.
But she was as still and as cold as ever.
Chapter 4: scars
Notes:
Hey guys, sorry for the long wait. As I've mentioned in pervious chapter notes, I'm a complete idiot who decided to start writing this right around my thesis. My thesis is due this time next month, and my classes finish at the end of October (though, after my thesis is due I'll have a load more free time). I don't officially graduate until December, but I'm at the home stretch now! Which also, unfortunately, means I'm overloaded with uni work until the end of October.
That being said, I plan on updating on a 2-3 week schedule until my classes are up, and then my updates should be weekly (fingers crossed). My free days at the moment are Sundays (today), so updates will likely be Sunday/Monday every other week.
Anyway, this chapter is slightly shorter than the last few, but last chapter was slightly longer, so this should even it all out lmao. Next chapter is also super exciting, so take that as an apology for the long wait!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Where did you go the other day?”
“Huh?”
“On the weekend.” Yeosang clarified, breaking Wooyoung out of his staring contest with the window. “Mingi, Seonghwa and I couldn’t find you. Not even Yeonjun knew, and Yeonjun knows everything.”
Wooyoung shook his head, turning to look at Yeosang. It was magical theory again, so he, Yeosang and Mingi had taken their designated spots at the back of the classroom.
The white walls of the classroom made the sunlight bounce across them, lighting up the room far better than any at Changjohwan. There were a lot of plants, too, filling the room, with vines dripping down the window and door frames and little pots sitting by the window seal. Wooyoung was happily watching a little beetle flutter amongst the roses at the window, ignoring whatever – or whoever – else was taking up space in the class before Yeosang had decided to disrupt that peace.
“Just went for a walk in the forest and lost track of time. Maehui’s been harder on me recently now that she’s teaching me projection.”
Yeosang was watching him carefully, trying to pick apart the cracks in his story, and in Wooyoung’s carefully built posture. “And that little walk had nothing to do with San?”
“Who’s San?” Wooyoung asked him, hoping he looked bored.
Yeosang raised his eyebrows. “Well that’s a change of pace.”
Wooyoung shrugged, turning his head down to fiddle with the little pen at his desk. “I don’t consult with summoners.”
Mingi’s eyes bounced between the pair of them, leaning forward onto the small piece of desk he used since he’d pulled a chair over. “Is this about the boy from Sky Bridge? The one you used to meet up with when you went out to the rifts?”
Wooyoung scribbled the date on the top of his parchment paper, hoping their teacher would enter the room soon and relieve him of the conversation. “I have no idea who or what you are referring to.”
Yeosang huffed out a breathy laugh as Mingi frowned. “Wow. Talk went great, did it?”
Wooyoung hummed, beginning to scribble lines down the side of his page. Maybe he could draw a pretty little garden as a border for his notes.
“So are we not making friends with the summoners?” Mingi asked, completely unaware of the full meaning behind the conversation they were having. It wasn’t his fault. Wooyoung had kept that part of his life a secret from everyone but Yeosang for years, and he wasn’t prepared to open that can of worms now anyway. He was trying to forget, and he didn’t think that revealing the entire story of his relationship to Mingi and Seonghwa would help in that aspect. “Because I think his friend is kinda cute.”
Wooyoung looked back up at Mingi, his pen dragging somewhere down the page. He was looking across the room toward the opposite back corner – the exact corner he was avoiding so much as glancing in the direction of.
“I don’t know who he is, but you should talk to Yunho. He’s nice.”
“Yunho, is it?” Mingi whispered absentmindedly, eyes trailing over the tall man’s body. Wooyoung snorted.
He supposed weavers and summoners dating may not be as forbidden as it was a few years ago now, considering they wanted to build camaraderie between their two nations. Who knew, if this whole war with the unknown played out in their favour they might finally achieve peace. Even then, weavers and summoners making friends was still quite frowned upon in the student body, so dating one was unlikely to win anyone any favours. Perhaps not exactly forbidden, but still not socially accepted in any capacity.
Yeosang was still watching Wooyoung, not taking the bait of the changed conversation. Of course he wouldn’t. Yeosang’s head was up in the clouds half the time, but when he was interested or focused on one particular thing, nothing could stray him from the point. It was incredibly annoying.
“So we’re now pretending he doesn’t exist?” He asked, tucking a strand of hair behind his pointed ear, revealing the small spattering of red beside his eye. His hair was golden today to contrast with the darker green robes he’d chosen.
“Who?”
Yeosang rolled his eyes. “Gods. I don’t know if this is better or worse.”
Wooyoung shrugged. Thankfully, their magical theory teacher had taken that next moment to walk through the door and put an end to the conversation.
Professor Kim was easily Wooyoung’s favourite teacher, given how slack he was on the rules. He had a sort of anything-goes policy in his classroom, so long as students didn’t disrupt his lesson. If you didn’t learn anything by the end of class, that was your own problem. Despite this, he had one of the best overall grade point average in the teaching faculty.
His hair was a light brown, and sat in a pretty mess of curls on his head. Rumour had it that Professor Kim’s curls were not natural, but a product of his flame weaving that he would get up early every day to achieve. He had a light dusting of freckles on his nose, and despite being in his mid-40s with clear eye-wrinkles, he had a youthful presence about him.
Wooyoung turned back to his page, doodling a couple of leaves on the lines he’d drawn as the rest of the class settled down in preparation for the lesson.
Truthfully, Wooyoung wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing about the San Situation.
His trip to Samirang at the Old Temple, while quite an eventful adventure, hadn’t seemed to have done much. He wondered whether the bottle of honey wine was just sitting there now, slowly becoming an ancient artefact of the lost temple, or if Samirang had actually taken the offering. If she had, Wooyoung was sure she had decided to punish him with the constant feeling. He still felt San as intensely as before. His heart still skipped every time they passed each other in the halls, his scent wafting past him and setting every nerve on fire. He still stayed up those long hours in the night, fighting the urge to go out to the – now numerous – rifts dotting the forest beyond in hopes that he’d meet that summoner boy there again.
But San told him to forget. Told him the night he shattered his heart, and the days and months and years prior to that, had meant nothing to him. That Wooyoung was an idiot for believing that they could last – even with the scar in his ear and it’s matching one on San’s chest. He supposed there was some merit in weaver's impermanence.
Wooyoung was lost on what to do. In his head he was angry at San. Angry he broke his heart, angry at how unaffected he seemed, angry at how he just told him to forget what they had once meant to each other. Yet in his heart, he still loved him. He wasn’t sure he could ever fall out of love with him, even if San had no trouble doing the same in return. Maybe Samirang had tried to cure his drunken love, but Wooyoung was so high on the feeling that not even the Goddess of Love could save him.
With his head and heart at odds, he had decided to do the only thing he could muster at the moment – completely ignoring San’s entire existence while he tried to wrap his head and heart around forgetting the boy.
It was the only thing he could do. San wanted him to forget, so Wooyoung would act like they’d never met in the first place. Eventually, hopefully, his heart would settle down, and he would finally be able to live the rest of his time at the academy in peace. After that, well, they’d go on to get jobs in their respective countries and never have to see or talk to each other again.
So, he was going to ignore whenever San crossed him in the hallways, make sure his gaze never strayed to the space San occupied in the classroom. He’d ignore the rifts, as he had been doing for the past few years, and avoid bringing up his name in conversation. If asked directly, San was just some random summoner who Wooyoung had no ties to. He didn’t know his name, nor his face, and that encounter on Sky Bridge was just a rumour.
It was better that way. It was what San wanted when he told Wooyoung to forget.
And hopefully, with time, it would be what Wooyoung wanted, too.
Professor Kim began the lesson, speaking in general about the magic systems in their society. He wasn’t really bringing anything new to the discussion – this class, amongst many others, had seemingly backtracked a lot of the lessons to things they learnt in the early years at the academies, trying to make sure everyone was on the same curricular level before delving any deeper. These past few weeks were moreso a recap than anything. Regardless, Wooyoung began to jot down notes as he spoke.
Wooyoung blinked in surprise as the words on his page began to disappear, slowly fading into the same yellowy-brown of the parchment page. He rubbed his finger on where the ink should be, wondering what the fuck was going on.
But then a few letters began to focus in, and Wooyoung knew this was Yeosang’s doing.
“Seri ou sly , what ha P pened ?”
Wooyoung held back a groan, cutting a quick glare in Yeosang’s direction, who was staring ahead and feigning interest in Professor Kim’s teachings. “Can I please read my notes?”
The words on the page began to change again, the old letters fading away until two letters stuck out.
“N O”
Yeosang’s ability to weave light was one of the greatest in generations. While most light weavers could twirl strands of sunlight between their fingers and send straight beams of concentrated light at their enemies, Yeosang’s control allowed him to change colours. Wooyoung wasn’t exactly sure how it worked, but Yeosang told him everything they saw had to do with visible light, so in weaving it, he could change the colours of things or even make things entirely invisible.
Usually he used this ability to change the colour of his hair or add a new shade of green to his large wardrobe on hanbok, but occasionally he abused the power to send Wooyoung notes while erasing all of Wooyoung’s own.
He sighed, knowing the only way he’d get his work back was to entertain Yeosang. He glanced over at Mingi, who was tapping his pen on the page but his attention was focused more on the boy across the room, then returned his gaze to Yeosang.
“Okay,” He whispered, leaning his head forward. Yeosang tilted his own head down to meet him. “We talked last week, just before the weekend. He basically told me he doesn’t care and to just forget. So that’s what I’m doing.”
Yeosang turned to him, face wrought with concern. “When I told you to move on, I didn’t mean ignoring his entire existence. This isn’t the right way to go about things. You’re going to hurt yourself.”
Wooyoung shrugged, straightening his posture and returning his attention to the lesson. “I am moving on. This is just how I’m going about it.”
Yeosang sighed, straightening up himself and resuming jotting down his notes. “I know I can’t change your mind when you’ve got your heart set on something. Just be careful,” he muttered.
Wooyoung hummed. He knew he wouldn’t get Yeosang’s approval on this, but what else could he do? He couldn’t exactly move on in the healthy way Yeosang wanted him to – if that were even possible, he would’ve done so by now. It’s been two years. Two years was a pathetically long time to be hung up on a man. So ignoring his entire existence would just have to work, for now.
Yeosang sighed again, but returned Wooyoung’s notes to their original colour.
Seonghwa groaned as he flopped down in the seat across from them in the dining hall at lunch, his bag hitting the ground with a resounding thump.
Mingi audibly swallowed a large bite of food, frowning slightly when Seonghwa slumped forward with his head on his arms, not even taking a bite of the various foods displayed before him. “Hyung. What’s wrong?”
Seonghwa groaned loudly again, catching the attention of a few sixth years sat beside them. Wooyoung glanced over at him, taking a bite out of his own chicken leg.
“Kim Hongjoong is what’s wrong.” Seonghwa said, not raising his head from where it lay atop his crossed arms.
Wooyoung raised his eyebrows. He knew of Hongjoong from San. He’d always told Wooyoung lovely stories about the elder, of his dedication to his craft. Hongjoong held a powerful magic, so it required much bigger sacrifice than most summoners. Despite that, he worked himself hard regardless, and was renowned to be the most powerful summoner of their generation. The last Wooyoung had heard from San, back before the events of that night, was that Hongjoong was working on creating summoning circles of his own. And that was when the man was in fourth year.
San always spoke highly of him, of his talents and his unwavering kindness. Wooyoung himself had a glimpse of it, if the man with the bright orange hair was indeed Hongjoong, so he was surprised to see Seonghwa, whom Wooyoung also considered in the same regard San saw Hongjoong, so obviously off-put by the man.
Mingi flickered his eyes between Wooyoung and Seonghwa. “Do we all have problems with summoners? Or is it just you two?”
“I don’t know what you’re referring to.” Wooyoung said, taking another bite from his chicken leg.
Seonghwa lifted his head from his arms, long, dark hair falling over his eyes. “I’m not the one with a problem. Kim Hongjoong is the problem.”
Mingi sighed, scooping up a large mouthful of vegetables before turning to Yeosang. Still chewing, he said, “you’re the only sane one amongst the three of them.”
“What are we talking about?” Yeosang asked, casting his eyes over the scene from above his chalice of cranberry juice.
Mingi huffed. “I retract my previous statement.”
“Seonghwa’s got a problem with one of the summoners.” Wooyoung told him, reaching over to Yeosang’s plate to grab some more meat. Yeosang stared at him as he piled the food onto his own plate, though Wooyoung paid him no mind. “Mingi’s sick of the drama.”
“I don’t have a problem with him.” Seonghwa clarified again. “He’s the problem.”
“What did he do then?” Wooyoung asked, taking a bite of the food he stole. Yeosang was still staring at him.
Seonghwa groaned again, carding his fingers through his hair in frustration. “He’s just a know-it-all. Always putting up his hand in class – he even corrected me, me, on something to do with plants. He acts like he’s above it all, like he didn’t just learn about the rifts and knew all along. It doesn’t help that he picks up things unfairly easily.”
“There’s a boy in our class who does that too!” Wooyoung exclaimed, pointing a piece of bread at Seonghwa. “He’s so annoying.”
“You mean San.” Yeosang said, taking a sip of cranberry juice, surrendering to the fact he wasn’t getting his food back.
“Is that his name?”
“Oh my Gods!” Yeosang exclaimed, obviously getting very tired of Wooyoung’s charade.
“All the other summoners treat him like some God.” Seonghwa continued, unperturbed by Wooyoung and Yeosang’s bickering. “I honestly don’t understand what they see in him.”
Wooyoung shrugged, pouring honey mustard over another chicken drumstick and biting into it. “His robe colour is the darkest in the school. That’s probably why.”
Seonghwa groaned again, falling back down to rest his head on the table.
“You sure this isn’t some weird sexual foreplay you guys have going on?” Mingi asked through another mouthful of food.
“No!” Wooyoung and Seonghwa exclaimed in unison, shooting withering glares at Mingi, who threw his arms up in surrender.
Seonghwa sighed, deep and loud. “I just don’t know what to do about him.”
“Just ignore him! Pretend he doesn’t exist.” Wooyoung told him. “That’s what I’m doing to the annoying guy in my class. I can tell it’s getting to him that not everyone thinks he’s a God walking among us.” He continued, ignoring Yeosang’s muttered ‘No it’s not.’
“You know what, yeah! I think I’ll do that!” Seonghwa said, sending a grin in Wooyoung’s direction and finally moving a plate toward himself.
Yeosang sighed into his drink. “I’m surrounded by idiots.”
Wooyoung continued ignoring San for the whole week.
Every time they passed each other in a corridor, Wooyoung would barrel past as if no one was there. He’d pretend he hadn’t heard the teacher call on anyone in class, San’s answers meeting a wall as far as Wooyoung was aware. He’d greet Yunho if they ever came into contact with each other for more than a second, not even glancing at San in his periphery.
Wooyoung tried to savour the feeling. It felt somewhat good to ignore San’s entire existence, though he was a little disappointed he couldn’t see any of San’s reactions to his behaviour. There was the twinge of annoyance that began to follow Wooyoung when San had, eventually, caught on to what Wooyoung was doing, but even though the emotion felt like him, Wooyoung never took the opportunity to check that it was really San who was annoyed with his antiques. For all he knew, some other person in their class was just really peeved off about something, and that annoyance seemed to spike whenever Wooyoung ignored San for some coincidental reason.
Despite his quiet joy at San’s possible annoyance, Wooyoung still felt his heart flopping in his chest. It really didn't matter what he was convincing himself of, his heart and emotions would always betray him. And honestly, curse his stupid power for letting him be so in-tune with his emotions. Just once would he like to be sad and mistake that sadness for anger or some other emotion, like all the emotionally constipated teens and young adults at the school.
So, in honesty, the ignoring San plot wasn’t entirely about aggravating San and purposely misunderstanding his words. He was also doing it for his own, betraying heart. Being around San was hard, especially when San didn’t seem to be bothered by Wooyoung’s presence at all. San had gotten over him, and Wooyoung was still stuck chasing him.
Ignoring him was easiest. If he looked for San, if he spent any time thinking of him, that dangerous emotion of hope would seep in. Maybe he could win him back. Maybe this is just an interlude.
But then Wooyoung would remember himself, remember San’s words, and the rocking waves of sadness would crash into him. San wasn’t his, hasn’t been his for years, and likely would never be his again. It was like reading that letter all over again – tearing him up from the inside, body and soul, because of the words of one man. A man who had loved him one day, and broken his heart as if it were nothing the next.
Ignoring San meant ignoring the hope and sadness, ignoring the love once there. Maybe Samirang had actually taken the honey wine and influenced him to do this, as he was taught by Maehui to do – weave an intention to the forefront.
It was this exact reason he had convinced Yeosang and Mingi to follow him down through the maze of corridors below the school, so that they wouldn’t have to pass by San on their way to their history class on Sky Bridge.
“Are you sure this is safe?” Yeosang asked wearily, eyes raking over the jagged ceiling of the hidden corridors. They’d barely stepped inside, only just reached the bottom of the short staircase, but getting Yeosang this far was already a miracle in itself.
Wooyoung rolled his eyes. “Yes. I used to come down here all the time, remember?”
Yeosang gave him a heated glare, but took another step forward.
The hidden corridors connected Changjohwan and Jozelja, built into the natural caves of the mountain. The flooring, walls and roof were all made up of the same jagged orange-red stone that crumbled slightly at touch. The corridors were almost labyrinthian to the untrained eye, but there were small signs pointing directions along the way. Wooyoung had memorised the ones that lead to the Changjohwan dormitories and a few of the lower classrooms, but he'd never really had the time to explore them all. Allegedly, there was an entire hall down here that used to host grand parties before the two schools separated.
The corridors had been concealed years ago, but never fully closed. Hidden behind tapestries and statues and loose illusionary wards. Some concealments were impossible to move through, but others, like the one at the basement of Jozelja’s second tower, you could practically walk through – if you knew where to go.
“Why did you come down here so often?” Mingi asked, just two steps behind Wooyoung himself. His eyes walked along the ceiling cautiously, likely thinking it was about 5 seconds from caving down on their heads as Yeosang did, but that wasn’t what he was paying attention to most. Wooyoung knew his senses were stretched, listening to the way ahead. He was just as scared, if not more so, than Yeosang, but he had elected to stay in the middle of the pack rather than at the end of it.
Not ready to divulge his entire history with San, Wooyoung instead fixed Mingi with a smirk. “Do you really want to know that?” For effect, he kicked a loose stone by his foot, allowing the sound to scatter along the walls.
Mingi flinched, shifting closer to Wooyoung. “No. Forget I asked.”
Wooyoung cackled, sending the sound echoing around them. A few more steps forward and they’d ignite the first everlasting flame torch, and perhaps the two weavers would be more at ease along the corridors. “Come on. I took you guys this way because we’d get to history quicker than Sky Bridge, but the more you dawdle, the later we’ll be.”
At the mention of Yeosang’s possible tardiness, the boy sprung back into action and pushed his way past Wooyoung and down into the maze. Once the first torch lit, he turned back to Wooyoung and Mingi, as if he had been the one leading the pack all along. “Well?”
Wooyoung grinned, skipping forward with Mingi scurrying after them in fear of getting left behind.
The sconces were fixed every few metres, placed at perfect intervals so that whenever they were reaching the edge of light from the previous one, the next fire would light up the rest of the way. The flames were purple, the same colour as the flames in the Old Temple. He wondered if that was a coincidence, then realised it likely wasn’t. The founders knew far more about the ancient civilization than Wooyoung ever could have, having devoted their lives to bringing the two magic groups together. And colour was a large symbol in harmonics between both cultures.
Wooyoung eventually took the lead again once they’d reached a fork in the path, taking them deeper into the mountain. Sometimes they met a set of stairs, sometimes the path was slanted further down, creating a natural ramp. Sometimes the path was narrow, and other times it was wide – like now – and flat.
“I don’t see how this was quicker.” Yeosang said as they passed another torch, lighting up the path ahead of them and huffing at Wooyoung’s side. “Feels like we’ve been down here for half a class.”
Wooyoung shrugged, barely feeling the passage of time at all. “It’s unfamiliar to you, that’s probably why it feels longer than the bridge.”
“Mingi-yah?” Yeosang asked suddenly, turning his head away from their conversation. Wooyoung followed his eyes.
Mingi had stopped a few metres behind them, staring intently at a wall. His head was tilted in a way that meant he was listening for something, but Wooyoung had absolutely no clue what would be so interesting about a blank wall. Had it made an odd sound when they passed by?
Wooyoung and Yeosang shared a quick look before jogging over to Mingi.
He didn’t look at them, keeping his eyes firmly on the wall. “Wooyoung-ah. Did you know there’s a hidden room behind here?”
Wooyoung frowned, quickly shaking his head. As far as he knew of the corridors, they were only built as pathways connecting the schools, with various breakout spaces and the elusive hall. The entrances had been concealed, but he hadn’t heard of anything hidden within the corridors – that was not their purpose.
Mingi placed his fingertips to the stone wall, closing his eyes. He tapped a small rhythm on the wall, head tilted to listen, then withdrew his hand and finally addressed Wooyoung and Yeosang.
“It’s weird.” He told them, a frown settling onto his features. “There’s definitely a room behind there, because the sound is travelling more freely than through solid stone. But it’s weird. I don’t think this has been opened in a long, long time. The air isn’t right.”
“What does that mean?” Wooyoung asked, looking between Mingi and Yeosang. “Isn’t right?”
Mingi shook his head and opened his mouth to answer, but at that moment Yeosang pushed a hand forward, scraping his fingers delicately across the stone.
“There’s something written here.” He whispered, and then Wooyoung could see it – the way Yeosang’s fingers began to fall into barely-their grooves of some ancient script. Common script was written in both sharp and looping letters, but this language was all sharp angles and harsh lines. It looked somewhat familiar, but he couldn’t place where he’d seen the script before.
“It looks like Elvish.” Yeosang continued, dragging his fingers up and down the letters. “But also different. These letters are too sharp.”
Wooyoung and Mingi stood back, silent, as Yeosang traced the words. “This one looks similar to ajar, but I can’t make out the other word–”
A small cracking sound interrupted him, then a stone clattering against the walls echoed around them. Mingi looked around frantically, but Yeosang’s hand was still on the wall, still squinting at the grooves.
Wooyoung stepped forward, tugging at Yeosang’s sleeve. “Let’s just get to class,” he said, casting his eyes around the space again. It was common to hear noises in the caves, and a small sound was amplified by ten thousand within these echoing halls, but Wooyoung was shaken by the timing of the sound. He didn’t want to find out what reading that second word would do. “We’re running late.”
With another firm tug, Yeosang began to stumble after him, Mingi hot on their heels. But Yeosang moved slower this time, curious eyes trailing behind them at the mysterious letters on the wall.
All thoughts of the puzzling wall and letters escaped the three of them as soon as they entered the history classroom.
Unlike the other Changjohwan rooms Wooyoung had become accustomed to, the history classroom was quite bare. Many of the other rooms they had passed by had various gadgets around the room, little objects and contraptions teachers or students had summoned to decorate the spaces. At Jozelja, they tended to invite nature in – allowing plants to climb up the white wooden walls. But the history room was nothing like that.
Aside from the two redwood ornate bookcases at the back of the classroom, there was no more decor to fill the space – only the blackboard, the teacher’s desk, and the 20 singular seats with their matching chairs spread in five rows of four. There were no bronze whirling contraptions, no dolls or cool figurines. Nothing that would hint to the magic the teacher wielded. Even the ceiling, which some teachers had designed with the same mosaic as the hall below, was blank and black as the harsh Changjohwan walls. The lack of objects and personality made the space feel cold, especially with the midday winter sun pouring through the open windows, eliminating the need for the warm, orange light of candles.
Cold and empty as it may be, though, with what he knew of his history teacher, Wooyoung thought the space matched him quite well.
They had arrived only five minutes late, which was quite commonplace after the merging of the two schools. Teachers had become accustomed to students being slightly tardy, given the large walk from one school campus over to the other, and tended to let them off without warning. However, Professor Kwon, their history teacher, was much more strict.
“Nice of you to finally join us,” he said, as Wooyoung, Yeosang and Mingi hurried into the class, breath ragged. He watched them with a glare as they took their seats – the only ones available – at the front of the room. “You’ll make up for the time you missed after class.”
Professor Kwon was hard-faced and stern, the type to whack a cane across his hands when displeased. He had straight, black hair that fell to his eyes and wrapped around his head in the shape of a bowl. His nose was long and sharp, and his eyes were small, and even smaller when he turned his glare on the class, which was admittedly quite often. They’d only had him for a few weeks now, but all the weavers in the room knew not to cross him. He was known to be a harsh marker, and even harsher when it came to detentions and punishment.
However, there were moments when Wooyoung saw another side to him. He had a light in his eye when he spoke of history, a keen interest and passion about the subject he taught. It was barely there, something you wouldn’t even find if you weren’t looking, but Wooyoung could see it – the way his lip curled slightly, that glint in his eye. Even if Wooyoung couldn’t feel the small wisps of passion leaking through the air, he knew how Professor Kwon felt about history. It was the same as him.
Professor Kwon waved his hand at the board, the piece of summoned chalk scribbling characters onto it. Summoner Courting Rituals.
Wooyoung’s heart sank. He hadn’t picked up the textbook beyond the first chapter that the assignment was based on, so he had no idea what else was to come of this course. Of course, he hadn’t really thought he’d need to scope out the topics, not suspicious that history of all courses would be the one to shake up any nasty feelings.
Forget. He reminded himself, as his mind strayed to the little chest of treasures he kept in his closet. The one with the gifts he couldn’t bear to throw away, even during the times he wanted to burn the world and San along with it. He wants us to forget everything we were. So forget.
Yeosang tugged on his sleeve. His eyes bored into him, but the rest of his face was soft and reeked of concern. Wooyoung shook his head slightly, willing forward a feeling of calm to attempt to push Yeosang away, weaving it around the anxiousness ripping through his entire body. Yeosang frowned but relented anyway.
Professor Kwon’s eyes walked over the class, intimidating pressure drilling into everyone of the students. “Can anyone tell me what our courting rituals entail?”
Silence followed. Wooyoung kept his head down, hunching up his shoulders in an attempt to make his body small, to hide himself from Professor Kwon’s all-knowing stare. It was difficult, though, given that he was at the front of the classroom and not the back, where he could easily be hidden by the sea of students ahead of him. No, he was front-and-centre. Right where Professor Kwon wanted him.
“No one?” He said, tilting his voice in question, though there was no hint of surprise. “How disappointing.”
Wooyoung, despite all his knowledge on summoner history, never placed his hand up in this class. He just wanted to shrink in on himself, pretend that he didn’t have an intimate knowledge on summoners, but after an assignment given in their first week, Professor Kwon knew that Wooyoung knew more about summoner history than the average weaver. Wooyoung wouldn’t wave his hand, but Professor Kwon called on him anyway.
Today was no different
“Jung Wooyoung-ssi.” He spoke, knowing eyes boring into Wooyoung’s. “Care to tell us?”
Wooyoung could lie, could say he had no knowledge at all, even when his knowledge was much more intimate than the yellowed pages of history. But Professor Kwon would see through him. He always seemed to, whenever Wooyoung tried to shut it down.
His heart was racing in his chest, and he could feel his cheeks heat. Why now? Why were they discussing courting rituals when the last class was discussing the war from two centuries ago?
Professor Kwon raised an eyebrow at him. Wooyoung sighed, surrendering to his teacher.
“Earrings.” He said, voice cracking on the word. Shit. No one else would know what it meant, but the way Yeosang whipped his gaze to Wooyoung, he knew. Wooyoung cleared his throat and continued on, making sure not to look at Yeosang or address the concern rolling in waves towards him. “You summon an earring with a drop of blood, and the stone describes the type of love two people share.”
Professor Kwon nodded at him. “Correct. One must take a blade to the heart and cut just enough to release a drop of blood. This is placed on a magic circle, which will summon an earring with an embedded stone. However, the stone summoned is not chosen by the summoner. It is unique to the love bond shared between the summoner and the recipient.”
The chalk began to scribble furiously on the board behind him and, given the sound of fast scratching of pen on paper, the rest of the students followed suit. But Wooyoung stayed with his hands in his lap, meeting Professor Kwon’s intense stare full-on, even though his stomach was turning inside out.
“Perhaps next time you know the answer, you’ll raise your hand.”
Finally, when Professor Kwon moved away from Wooyoung and closer toward the chalkboard, Wooyoung let out a breath. He hated that Professor Kwon had caught onto his knowledge, hated how he managed to intimidate him enough to answer, hated that he had fallen for the bait, had answered the question he so desperately didn’t want to.
Unique bond shared. That was what the stone in the earring described. Different gemstones meant different things: quick love, passionate love, unsteady love. The magic circle read beyond the wants and desires of what the summoner had, beyond whatever love was currently there, and instead read their compatibility. It was an incredibly intricate circle, created by someone masterful. But occasionally, it was wrong. It had to be.
“Summoner courting rituals began 400 years ago with Princess Hyesoo.” Professor Kwon began, pacing in front of the class as his little piece of chalk scribbled behind him. “She had a long list of suitors wanting her hand in marriage, but beyond money and status, she valued a strong connection. She believed it to be the basis of a strong kingdom.
“So, she commissioned a mind summoner at her court to write her a magic circle, one that would analyse the compatibility between her and her potential candidates, and would produce a gemstone in representation of that bond. Her suitors went up one by one, drawing blood from their chests and summoning forth a piece of jewellery.
“The one who eventually claimed her hand only summoned a small, singular earring. But the stone inside was rhodonite. It wasn’t as flashy as some of the other stones, but this one boasted of open communication, healing, and, above all, a soulmate bond. Thus, in the end, he was the one to take the Princess’ hand. In honour of their bond, earrings became the symbol of courtship amongst our peoples.”
Professor Kwon turned to face the class, a small smile cracking on his usually stoic features. Wooyoung’s eyes trailed to his right ear, as he was sure most of the class had, and saw the twinkle of an earring there. He couldn't make out the colour of the gemstone, but it was dark. Wooyoung felt his own hand trail up to graze against his own ear, as if he could still feel the gem that had once sat there.
He hoped Professor Kwon hadn’t caught the motion.
“I know you weavers value impermanence, but this permanency in courting is perhaps what makes it so special to us. Both the cut at the heart, and the hole punctured in the ear, leave behind a scar. A permanent reminder of that love.”
He looked at Wooyoung then with that same, all-knowing look.
“Of course,” he continued, turning back away as if he hadn’t made Wooyoung’s stomach do about ten somersaults, “this is no marriage proposal. You can gift an earring more than once, you can place another gem in your ear. But it will always leave behind a reminder of what was once there.”
Wooyoung felt his face turn sheet white as he lifted his gaze to his teacher. Professor Kwon stared at him, waiting for him to understand.
He’d spent the last week trying to forget. Forget what San meant to him, forget the bond they shared. Pretend what they had was absolutely nothing and pretend those three years never existed. Even Yeosang was glad, though not by the way in which Wooyoung had come to this conclusion, that he was thinking less about San.
But here was Professor Kwon, lecturing his whole class on courting rituals but seemingly talking straight at Wooyoung. He couldn’t forget. What he had with San was permanently etched into his skin. He could wear another earring, San could re-cut that scar, but they would never be able to erase what they had, not completely. San could try to force them to forget, Wooyoung could try to play his game, but the evidence was there, in their shared scars.
He was going about this all wrong. He couldn’t pretend they never existed, but he could transform it into something new.
Wooyoung looked back up, hand falling from his ear, at Professor Kwon. A small smile nestled on his lips, as if he knew Wooyoung had reached that very conclusion.
Later that night, when Yeosang was tucked in bed sleeping soundlessly, Wooyoung crawled across the cold, hard-wood floor of their shared room and over to the chest of treasures he kept in his closet.
After San had declared that he’d needed to forget whatever happened between them, and after his journey to Samirang, Wooyoung had vowed to burn the box. Or, at the very least, never touch it again. But here, in the middle of the night, he found his fingers reaching for the clasp, hissing at the touch of the freezing metal as he opened the chest.
Inside held Wooyoung’s most treasured memories of San, the gifts he had collected over the years. The old, leather-bound history book, letters San had written for him over the summer and winter breaks that, though never sent to his home in Yeonjapeul, San had given him when they were back at the academies. The braided leather charm bracelet. The silver necklace of promises now broken. And there – at the very bottom of the chest – the earring.
Wooyoung held it between his fingers, marvelling at how despite the time, despite the dust in the bottom of the chest and how long it had been since he’d properly worn it, it still shone as if it were brand new. No erosion of metal over time, even clean from the dusty chest.
He’d taken the earring out years ago, when he waited by a rift all godsdamned night and San had never showed, when he realised that this break up was no mistake – that it was permanent. But he brought out the earring every now and then, feeling somewhat of a comfort with the metal in his ear again. He’d re-pierce the ear, making sure that scar stayed open just in case he’d ever have the opportunity to wear it again. The opportunity to proudly show off his love, what San and he meant to each other.
Wooyoung stared at the small piece of jewellery in his hand. It really was small, almost insignificant. The gem wasn’t flashy and sparkly like rubies or diamonds would be. It wasn’t showy like a necklace or ring was. It was just a small stud with a pink-and-black stone in the centre. It wasn’t much, but it was everything to Wooyoung. Once.
Wooyoung flipped the earring in his hand a few times, feeling the sharp metal prick his fingertips. He could wear another earring. San could summon another, for another.
He considered opening that scar again, ensuring that hole stayed open. But, as his fingers grazed over the stone in the centre, he supposed it would make all the difference of what was to come. The scar would be there, always, even if the piercing closed. But if he kept it open, he was inviting that love back in, inviting San back in. San who had loved him, San who had hurt him, San who had left him.
Keeping the wound open was allowing hope to trickle in, and with it, that horrible state of drunken love he had literally climbed the side of a cliff to erase. Keeping that wound open would stop him from ever, truly moving on. Sticking him in the mud, tying him to San. He needed to, whether he wanted to or not, close that chapter of his life and put that book on the shelf.
Not erasure, but moving on.
So he let the earring drop back inside the chest. Let the metal scrape the pages of letters, let the pink-and-black stone of rhodonite hit the wooden base of the chest. And then he closed the lid.
Heartbreak is weird, Wooyoung thought as he picked himself back off the ground and settled in under the silken sheets on his double bed. Some days he wanted to lock himself away and lay out on the cold hardwood floor, letting the cool air seeping through the cracks freeze the tears on his face and wear the crystalised water droplets as evidence of his broken love. Some days his heart glowed brighter than the sun, a hope so bright that even Yeosang could weave it, showering those broken days in a rainbow that said this isn’t the end – it’s only the interlude.
But those other days, the ones where he wasn’t wearing tears of ice or glowing with hope and love, he was angry. Bitter. Heat rose from his inner core, melting the frozen tears and turning that soft, bright light a burning red. He would walk the halls of Jozelja with vengeance in his step, black patches of ash following his shadow and the walls cracking with molten lava. How dare San leave him like that? No explanation for their break up? He couldn’t even meet him afterwards, and had sent Yunho to pass on the message.
He’d suffered the sadness. He’d tried the hope. But neither worked in his favour.
So he took the anger, took the heat and the fire and the ash and the molten lava, and sent it all towards San. It may not be what Professor Kwon intended, may not be the direction Samirang would want him to go when taking his gift of honey wine and his drunken love with it, it may make Yeosang angry with him, but he didn’t care anymore.
If San wanted to pretend that night – and every other moment that had led up to it – never existed, fine. San could try to snuff out the flame, but Wooyoung was going to keep burning, burning, burning.
Notes:
For anyone interested, I decided to make a uquiz to see if you're a weaver or a summoner, and what your magical affinity is! If you do the quiz, leave a comment below for what you got ! Here's the link :) See you mid-September !
traybake on Chapter 1 Mon 28 Jul 2025 11:50PM UTC
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ziahra on Chapter 1 Wed 30 Jul 2025 06:26AM UTC
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Joongie_LiitleDoll on Chapter 2 Mon 04 Aug 2025 05:45AM UTC
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MaskedGamer on Chapter 2 Mon 04 Aug 2025 07:16AM UTC
Last Edited Mon 04 Aug 2025 07:18AM UTC
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ziahra on Chapter 2 Mon 18 Aug 2025 07:29PM UTC
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noreplica_1313 on Chapter 3 Tue 19 Aug 2025 02:23PM UTC
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firecracker_halazia on Chapter 4 Sun 07 Sep 2025 04:27AM UTC
Last Edited Sun 07 Sep 2025 04:29AM UTC
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empathy00 on Chapter 4 Wed 10 Sep 2025 01:51AM UTC
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