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The fresh spring comes in the form of the new wind, bringing along its path the calming sent of blooming flowers and refreshing rivers. The smell of sweet honey permits the air, sticking to the skin and the hair of the people walking around. Spring, this year, feels new and welcoming after the harsh winter they’ve had to face just weeks ago. And as the trees take on their new dressing and the flowers grow jolly, the villagers calm and the food comes again. It’s what Jeongguk, with his hands deep hidden in the high grass, witnesses in the early morning.
The first day of spring has always been a special one. No longer stuck inside waiting for the harsh winds and freezing snow to leave to another place, the tension deeply rooted in each and every wall of the many houses of the village disappears as the clouds dissipate, leaving behind their path the wake of a new dawn, one of new game to catch, new food to harvest, new rivers to bath in. The animals are always less resourceful after winter, waking up from their slumber and not yet again used to the hunts the village organizes, and the plants that grow are always bigger and brighter under the youthful sun of the new year. The rivers, too, get clearer and bigger as the snow and ice melt, allowing for the water to taste better and feel fresher on the dirty skins of the villagers. Jeongguk has witnessed this for many years now, always being one of the most enthusiastic to go out again, letting his skin bath under the new rays, not yet harsh because of summer, cool enough after the cold winter. Spring comes as a blessing, each and every year, and Jeongguk never refuses to put his issues aside if only to allow himself to take everything spring has to offer in its so awaited arrival.
And it’s not just Jeongguk that is happy, it’s everyone around him. His village, usually so formal and grim, always lose their tension as spring comes. Furthermore, their joy takes a greater high as the flowers bloom and colorful patterns surround the village, making the dark wooden houses small and welcoming instead of somber and cold. Some, mostly the families with pups, even take flowers and put them around the house, letting planted flowers hang under their windows or above their doors, draping the wood with a curtain of vegetation. And as they grow they take on the most beautiful of colors, painting the wood red and purple and yellow, sometimes orange or blue when the rarest of flowers bloom around lakes and rivers, the water’s pearls allowing them to grow strong and bright. These flowers, always the most sought-after, give to the whole village a sense of community and love that the village usually never has. Living in the middle of the forest, far from any other form of civilization, brings out the worst out of people, but these flowers have the power to bring out only the best, and so these flowers are searched for at the beginning of each spring. The people laugh and smile, and so, Jeongguk is happy, too, as he witnesses all of that.
So, as he digs and digs again, cutting the high grass and searching for new plants and mushroom they could all savor the flavor of, he smiles. The ground is still malleable from the melting of snow, not yet hard against his fingers, and the plants caress his skin instead of cutting it like they usually do at the end of spring, as summer nears and spring leaves again. He hums the best he can as he bends over, his back not yet hurting under the pressure, his bones still relaxed from a long and uneventful winter passed inside his house. This song, he knows it by heart, and he sings it to the flowers around, to the fresh high grass, to the animals that linger around, not yet shying away. As he digs and searches around, he finds edible flowers, yellow and bright, hidden under all the high grass. They’re pretty common ones, dandelions, and he knows the omegas in charge of cooking could make a delicious soup from the petals, even flavor for sugar along with the violets that are already in his basket. He picks them one by one, slowly taking the roots out of the fresh soil, careful not to cut them so that they don’t dry too fast once in the basket. After that, he puts them down in the basket, right by the violets and clovers’ side, before standing up again and walking away.
His basket is almost full, from the oyster mushrooms’ he’s found on the trees near the edges of the village, yet he searches again, lets his eyes roam around. This time, he searches for something specific, something that will catch his eye. A flower, brighter than the others, beautiful in its unique color. A flower out of the ordinary, or at least a flower that the other omegas haven’t found yet. He walks around and lets the high grass caress his ankles and knees, basket tightly grasped. He goes farther than he is supposed to, but his eyes still roam around, his feet still moving through the grass. He does so for a dozen of minutes, sometimes stopping to pick up more edible flowers and mushrooms he finds on his way. The walk is long but not tiring in any way as he takes his time looking around for the flash of color he seeks. The woods get thicker around him, the ruffle of the leaves gets louder, but Jeongguk doesn’t stop. And it’s only when the river’s rush lets itself known that he finally does. He stops mobbing, looks around and, as his eyes spot what he was searching for all this time, he lets a sigh of relief and joy escape through his now parted lips.
The flower, still young, has yet to grow high and strong. Instead, it looks vulnerable and fragile, almost frail in its stance. Yet, its color is bright, beautiful and its hues and shadows are mesmerizing to the eye. Jeongguk never stops looking at it as he lets go of his basket, putting it down softly. He takes his robe and lifts it, tying it by his hips, leaving his legs bare. He walks down to the river, lets his feet brace the surface before breaking through it. The water is cold against his skin yet still warm enough for him to not feel his blood freezing, and he keeps on advancing. Soon, the level rises up to his mid-calves, licking shyly at his knees. He walks through the timid flow of the river, a quiet and calm rush. Finally, as he crosses it fully, he bends down and crouches by the flower’s side.
It’s a poppy, a beautiful and young one. It’s fresh, and its color is new. It isn’t red like the ones that come later on in spring. Instead, it takes on a pale pink hue, soft and pleasing to the eye, almost caressing the pupil. The seeds have a dark purple shade and the shadows casted upon the flower’s petals look pastel mauve, the colors of old mallows in the late evening. Jeongguk softly touches the tip of each petal, careful not to move them too much, testing their strength. They move along his touches, follow his finger and, when Jeongguk stops touching, they follow the movement of the slow wind. The poppy tilts before straightening up again, doing the movement over and over again as the wind keeps on whistling and the river keeps on flowing. Jeongguk, mesmerized by the beautiful sight, waits longer before finally standing. With his nails he cuts the stem the closest to the ground, very carefully lifting the flower up. He turns back around, crosses the river again, before putting down the flower inside the basket. Then, after untying his robe, he takes the basket, holds it tight, and walks back to the village. The path is the same, so quiet and calm, and Jeongguk never stops looking at the beautiful flower that lays in the basket in his arms. It looks peaceful, in a calm slumber among the dandelions, clovers, violets and oyster mushrooms, pastel pink standing out among the many hues of yellow, purple, green and brown. It truly is a magnificent sight, Jeongguk thinks.
The villagers’ noises get louder as Jeongguk nears the village’s border. He keeps on walking but slows down as the noises become loud enough for animals to flee. Then, he stops, and breathes in the most air he can. As he begins walking again he looks down at his basket, taking with his free hand a handful of clovers and hiding the poppy under it. Finally, he enters the village, and the smell of spring comes of be forgotten.
Scents assault him from left and right, and the refreshing smells of flower quickly get replaced by the scents and of many different wolves, ranging from the deepest smell of wet soil to the lightest smell of fresh morning dew. The smell of cut grass in a rainy day, of warm green tea, of acidic lemon in warm water, of cedarwood in a dry forest, of burned leather, of salted seawater ice cream. The multiple scents and smells arouse from left and right, melting one withing the other, mixing and disappear before coming back stronger. And it would be disgusting, absolutely repulsing, were it not for the familiarity that each smell brings. One scent would be attached to the joy of childhood, another to the hardship of survival, one to the sadness of loss and another one again to the satisfaction of labor. Each scent is familiar, maybe even welcoming, if Jeongguk is to think about it a bit more. But he doesn’t, for he only has one goal in mind at the moment: going home for lunch.
It would be easy on any other time of the day, but in the morning, as noon nears and the people hurry, it gets harder by the second, even more as the alphas come back from the morning hunt. Jeongguk hurries, walks with agility in the crowd, dodging silhouettes and lose hands. Some alphas, the younger ones, look at him with dark eyes, but Jeongguk avoids their stare, hurrying instead. He walks up the central place, avoiding the coming and going of arrogant alphas and hurried betas, focusing instead on the smell of the kitchens as he comes closer to them. Fresh fish being cooked, and the smell of young carrots being cleaned from their dirt. He holds the basket tighter.
Finally, he escapes the crowd and enters the kitchens. The door is wide open as to let the smell of dish dissipate. Inside, there are dozens of fish hanging on a metallic line, all being cooked right above a low fire. Omegas run around, some cleaning the carrots, others cleaning them, while the last remaining omegas there prepare plates after plates. When Jeongguk looks up the other side of the kitchen, the open window shows a long queue of alphas and betas waiting for their meal. The omegas give them their plates one after the other, and the wolves leave with satisfaction in their eyes and the delicious smell of warm fish and carrots filling their nostrils.
Jeongguk lets down his basket, taking only in his hands the lone poppy, hiding it quickly behind him. He puts the hem in his robe, hoping for the flower to not fall. Then, as he nods to one of the cooks, he takes two plates with him and exits the kitchen as quickly as he came.
There are still a lot of villagers going around, some with their plates in hand, others still waiting for the right time to go in line, but there are already less people than before, and Jeongguk navigates the village with easiness, light on his feet. The sensation of laterite under his feet is familiar, and he still remembers the day the alphas had brought the stones from a place far away, only to decorate the main plaza. It was beautiful, how the red stone contrasted with the grimmer wood of the houses, yet though it was vivid at first, it now has a darker hue, a grimmer red, like dried blood. It still feels nice under the feet, but Jeongguk hopes for the alphas to change the stones soon, maybe go back to the darker stones, more common and easier to find. Though they would have to carve them, they would at least last longer, and they would surely look less gruesome at night. At least, during the day, they look somewhat pretty, with the deep red they display
Jeongguk lives near the edges of the village and as he keeps on walking, he smells his house before he sees it. The strong smell of a freshly-made bouquet of tiger flowers slowly starts to cling to the atmosphere, but among the smell, he deciphers the calming scent of spirea and light pollen. Jeongguk smiles bright and big before hurrying. He almost flies as he runs to his house. He doesn’t bother knocking, he just opens it. There, the best sight he could ever witness welcomes him.
Jimin is ethereal, has always been. With his long brown hair tied up in a beautifully arranged crown braid and lose strands spiraling around his pearly face, he looks soft yet elegant, all the while sitting casually on the rocking chair by the fire. He’s lacing threads of gold and red around, embroidering the most beautiful of pieces one could find. And, as Jeongguk enters, he looks up, golden eyes meeting his, and the smile he offers Jeongguk is one of the most vibrant kind, his almond-shaped eyes disappearing in the form of small crescents. He lets go of the threads, putting them on his lap instead, carefully tucking and rolling them as to not tangle them.
“Jeongguk, I thought I would meet you here, is it okay?” Jimin asks, his voice soft against the crackling of the firewood by the chimney. He awaits Jeongguk’s response patiently, rocking ever so softly on the chair, the lose strands following the motion. Under the fire’s strong light, his pearly skin looks like warm honey.
“Jimin…” Jeongguk is delighted, truly, but as he comes nearer to Jimin, he suddenly freezes. And there, as he stands halfway between the entrance and Jimin, he sees the man facing him become tense, too. He stops rocking and, around them, only the fire dares moving if only an inch. “Jimin, you know it’s dangerous,” Jeongguk says, and the soft omega in front of him guiltily looks down, threads forgotten.
“Then scent me, Jeongguk, and then no one will know,” he answers back, and Jeongguk pushes his worries aside as he goes by Jimin’s side. He takes hurried steps before finally stopping behind the rocking chair. He grips the back of the chair, bends down, noses the soft spot where Jimin’s jaw disappears and where the neck begins. He noses it slowly, appreciating the smell of fresh spirea, before finally licking it warmly, tongue savoring the intense flavors that collide with his taste buds. After a minute he straightens himself again but keeps his hands firm on the rocking chair.
“I’ve already told you, Jimin, we need to be careful,” he says lowly, right behind him. He sees him shudder, trembling ever so slightly as the male resumes his rocking. Jeongguk observes as Jimin takes the threads in his hands again, small fingers skillfully exploiting the threads, tying it, untying it, sewing and stitching with great expertise. He sees painted nails and scarred digits, he sees beautiful threads hanging from every single one of his fingers, golds and reds all melting together only to paint the most beautiful and intricate of painting, made of threads and patience. Jeongguk sees the beginning of an image, knows surely Jimin is weaving a myth he’s heard of in his childhood, one he’s told Jeongguk surely a hundred times before in the pitch blackness of their most intimate of nights, yet he asks nonetheless, always so fond of Jimin’s voice and narration. “What are you weaving this time?”
“A story my mother told me about, when I was younger,” he says, and Jeongguk goes to lean down, putting his chin on Jimin’s relaxed shoulder. He inhales his scent on his skin, now the same Jeongguk has, no trace of spirea left, but he also smells firewood deeply attached to his hair and the clothes he wears. “I might have told you about this one before, but I don’t remember much of it. It’s about a wolf falling in love with the sun, betraying the moon along with its whole pack. I remember it braving the most dangerous and horrific of obstacles in order to join the sun, but I don’t remember what they were,” Jimin sighs as he keeps on weaving with his fingers. The threads attached to his digits follow the movements with a precision never seen before, attaching and tying the threads in little knots. As he speaks the image grows, and Jeongguk recognizes the tail of a wolf. He seems to sit alone, golden fur contrasting against the crimson red background. “Maybe there was a mountain to climb, an ocean to cross, a war to endure, and always the howls and cries of its own pack, surely the hardest of obstacles it could have gone through, but again, I don’t remember everything in detail. I just know that at the end, it meets the sun and hugs it tight, but the moon, ever so jealous, curses the sun to burn from its passion, burning the wolf as they hug,” Jimin looks up for a second, his eyes meeting Jeongguk’s with a fondness he knows by heart. In Jimin’s eyes, in the deepest parts of his irises, Jeongguk sees the beauty of the sun, trees illuminated by the new rays of spring, ever so calming, warm and welcoming. In his eyes, Jeongguk sees the embrace of a lover, the kisses of the dearest man he could hold in his heart. And, surely, Jimin sees the same beautiful metaphors deep in Jeongguk’s eyes, for Jimin and Jeongguk are the same. “My omega…” Jimin whispers, letting his head fall on Jeongguk’s own, cheeks meeting and melting one with the other, “My dearest omega, how I love you, how I hold you the closest deep in my heart,” he murmurs by his side, right against his mouth. Jeongguk smiles, kisses him fully, softly, his hands traveling to Jimin’s fingers. He plays with the threads tied around them, caresses the skin.
For what they wish was eternity, they hug and kiss, placing intimacy above everything else. Jeongguk forgets their lunch, put down haphazardly on the ground by the entrance, and Jimin pushes his weaving to a corner of his mind. The myth he has just told resonates for just a mere moment before being casted a greater shadow upon, one of forbidden yet ever so pleasing and burning love. Their hearts burst with every touching of skin, heartbeat melting and speeding and never tiring.
Yet, seconds after, as quickly as their intimacy came, it leaves, as Jeongguk and Jimin hear the resonating noises of feet hitting the ground. Jeongguk stands up straight, taking Jimin’s hand in his, and they both hurry towards the back of the wooden house. As the steps come closer, sounds of wolves hurling, Jeongguk grips Jimin’s hand tighter, his golden eyes widening in worry. They turn around, push a door then two, running through the narrow corridors of the small house without looking back. Then, right at the end of the darkest corridor there is, Jeongguk throws the door open.
The backdoor opens up to the edge of the forest, almost, just a dozen futile meters away. The forest isn’t dense enough to hide, they both know it by heart, having risking being caught more than once in their time together. Instead, Jimin, with a look of reassurance deeply rooted into Jeongguk’s eyes, smiles and walks away, licking his palm before putting it against his scent gland. It’s useless, he knows, but it’ll will at least begin to erase Jeongguk’s scent on his skin. Jeongguk watches him go, threads still hanging from his fingers, flying as he walks away. He keeps his golden eyes in his mind, the same as his yet so unique in the way they always shine with love and hope.
When he comes back inside, closing the backdoor as quietly as he can, he hears whispers by the fire, slightly overpowering the crackling of the burning wood. He walks down the corridors, towards the entrance. There, and Jeongguk tries to hide his disarray, the Head Alpha stands, looking oh so mighty and strong. His inner wolf cries in despair as he smells the unfamiliar yet familiar scent of the Alpha.
It smells of smock, a put-out fire. If Jeongguk were to listen to his inner wolf more, then he would describe the scent as something cold and ridden of life, something so dreadful Jeongguk could tear up just at the idea of smelling it more. As he watches the Head Alpha stand, always so proud, by the entrance, eyes turned down at the still in motion rocking chair, Jeongguk feels his heart stammer and stop.
Lose threads cover the ground, cut by Jimin’s own teeth, and the golden threads shine under the fire’s dimming light. If Jeongguk were to react to the image, then Jeongguk would cry.
“Your scent, omega, why does it smell so atrocious?” The Head Alpha says, never with hesitation, never with intrigue. It is a voice full of arrogance, despicable.
“I saw a bear, Head Alpha, by the edge of the wood,” Jeongguk tells, trying to keep his voice steady yet breathy. It comes out perfectly fine to his ears, he would think, but the Head Alpha does not seem to care.
“Would that be the reasonable explanation as to why you seem so shaken up?” The Head Alpha’s voice takes on a cockier tone as he walks slowly to the fire. His red eyes shine as they watch the flames’ elegant dance.
“It is, Head Alpha,” Jeongguk doesn’t move from where he stands, yet his eyes dart around, detailing every ounce of the Head Alpha’s body. His grand posture is intimidating, his posture always so tall. He seems gargantuan in the small wooden house.
“I see,” the Head Alpha simply answers. He bends down, touching the threads before grasping them. With a strangely soft movement, something so careful, he lifts them, golden threads overpowering the red ones, glistening under his eyes. The shadows casted on his face are somber and dark, deforming the form and shape of his face, his eyes, and the only source of color Jeongguk can see is his eyes, red and cold, always so terrifyingly bright. “I have something to ask of you, omega Jeongguk,” he finally says, forgetting all about Jeongguk’s excuses. He plays with the golden threads, moves them around his fingers, scrapes at them with his sharp nails. “You seem close with this other omega, Jimin, aren’t you?” Dread fills Jeongguk’s heart and head, his blood cascading, rendering his legs weak and pliant. The Head Alpha’s eyes are on his, watching him closely. He sniffs the golden threads, plays with them some more. His movements, slow and calculated, take time and space, and Jeongguk doesn’t feel at home anymore. “Next full moon, as you may know, is the Moon’s Goddess ceremony. To keep her satiated and peaceful in order for her not to curse this pack, I have to sacrifice a virgin omega,” Jeongguk’s inner wolf howls, cries out and barks, making him deaf for a moment as his heart bleeds. He feels himself sweating, his blood always falling down to his feet, and he sways standing.
“Why-” he starts, but his voice is cut short as the Head Alpha moves towards the fire, threads still dangling from his long fingers. They don’t move around graciously like Jimin’s fingers would, they aren’t as small or elegant, aren’t as smooth or careful. Instead, they tear at the thread, making the gold covering the threads fall like ashes down to his feet, burned feathers shinning one last time before perishing. “Why- Why can’t it be another omega? Why Jimin?” He knows he is walking on dangerous grounds, his words daring and asking, something he should never do, yet he still asks, silently pleading, his voice oh so weak. Deep down he feels shame taking over, yet fear is always louder, ever since Jimin and he have dared to ignore their pack’s strict laws. The head Alpha moves even slower, it would seem, as he tears his eyes away from the thread, placing them heavily on Jeongguk’s own. His stare is piercing, menacing, red irises glowing as the flames move and waltz.
“Omega,” his voice is icing, freezing like a full moon on a dark winter’s night, “you are useful to us. You bring us food, find us everything we need to make the wolves happy with their meal. And your eyes,” he says, his own eyes narrowing, and Jeongguk feels his stare bypassing him, going right through his flesh. He remembers, then, the poppy slowly decaying behind his back, and he shudders. He had forgotten about the fragile flower hidden in his robe, and he wishes he hadn’t remembered, as the Head Alpha watches him with a cold and pointed stare. “Your eyes are the sharpest, always seeing so many details in the wide expense of our land. Through the forest you see the details no other could have seen, and you always bring us back the most exquisite of pieces. Other omegas, too, find something to make themselves useful, from taking care of the kitchen to breeding the strongest of alphas this pack could need. But omega Jimin,” his tone becomes vile, sharp and pointed, as his eyes narrow down to the threads in his head. He turns the golden threads around, ignoring the loose red ones that dangle limply from his fingers. The golden threads, now too damaged to mock him, make his scoff as he turns towards the fire. “This omega doesn’t know his place, doesn’t have any ounce of usefulness in his body. All he does is weave, and for what?” He advances towards the fire, and Jeongguk witnesses with terrified eyes as the Head Alpha seems way more dangerous than the pathetic fire in the chimney, that fights for survival against the low breeze, that moves as if wanting to flee, in vain. “So, with the Elders, we have decided to make him the next sacrifice,” his words are sure, almost an order, as he throws the threads in the fire. The flames engulf them desperately, begging for something to make them grow stronger. But the threads are weak, and though the flames crackle and sparkles fly around for a second, they grow weaker again. The threads are nothing to such a force, and Jeongguk sees Jimin burning along. “And you will not interfere. You will stay away, for as long as is needed, for him to be prepared for the full-moon ceremony,” the Head Alpha says. His voice is strong, loud in the silence, overtaking the desperate crackling of the fire by his side. He takes a step away, walking slowly towards the entrance, and Jeongguk doesn’t dare move. The head Alpha stops then, turning around one last time. His red eyes burn, so vivid and bright, and Jeongguk feels his mind slipping away, as he falls to his knees like a miserable embroidery without threads.
“From now on, omega, you will not speak a single word,” he says loudly, barks, almost, his alpha voice resonating in the deepest parts of Jeongguk’s mind. Then, he leaves, and Jeongguk is left pliant and weak, trembling on the ground. Not a sound leaves his throat, and his wolf cries out in despair as it is quieted down to nothing.
In the night, all is louder. The lives that live in the day sleep, yet the lives that lurk in the night are wide awake, being one with the shadows that engulf the universe. And the noises, made from the smallest of leaf, are amplified by the emptiness of the lands, by the winds blowing violently, by the night sky being so vast, echoing against nothing and everything. And the ghosts wake, souvenirs of past intimacies, of hidden embraces in the dead of the night, of muffled laughter, of murmured hopes and dreams, whispered behind bushes, far away from the village that is sleeping. In the night, all is louder, yet Jeongguk’s cries are silenced as he holds Jimin tightly, ghosts of their shared memories haunting their broken minds.
Jimin’s head is pressed against Jeongguk’s chest. His forehead firm against his sternum, breaking through skin, almost through bones, as he desperately holds him back. His arms, snaked around his waist, hold him close and tight, anchoring him against the warm flesh. And he begs, in his muffled cries, deep in the forest, for Jeongguk to cry back, but the tears that flow down the other omega’s cheeks are silent, and no sound leaves his mouth. His lips are open but his tongue is still, throat sealed, and Jimin feels like his cries aren’t enough for the both of them.
“Oh, my omega,” he cries, allowing himself to become louder as the seconds pass them by, “oh, my love,” he grips him tighter, embraces him so tight his blood clog, “he took away your voice, my love, and soon he will take me away from you, too, what will we do?” His voice begs and begs to Jeongguk, to the half-moon, yet no answer comes, and his tears become heavier, weighing on his cheeks like pressure on his shoulders, like fear on his mind, like despair on his heart. Jeongguk holds him tighter then, too, placing his nose against the back of his neck, his own tears tracing silver paths on both of their skins. They dance along the apple of his cheeks before waltzing down Jimin’s neck, soaking every pore, every detail on the latter’s skin as they fall down and down again. As Jimin shudders his voice becomes louder. “Please, Jungkook, let’s run away, let’s leave this place, let’s never look back again,” his voice is broken, distorted by his own cries, by the trembling of his traitorous throat. Jeongguk holds him closer, always closer, never letting go.
And the moon, cut by the night in a perfect half, witnesses their cries through the leaves. Heartless, she doesn’t move, doesn’t answer, only watches on as they slowly fall apart, torn by their emotions. With her silver eyes and her silver smile she never gives a solution, never helps, never answers, only spying on them through the trees supposed to hide their shame, supposed to muffle their despair. Merciless goddess! Jeongguk thinks, as he watches with teary eyes how she turns around, shadows moving, lurking, always, observing but never more. And as she turns, Jeongguk knows, she mocks them, mocks him, for his weak silence, for Jimin’s weaker cries. She mocks them as the night slowly fades, as she gives her place to the sun, as the darkness protecting them slowly goes. In the next night she will appear fuller, and again, until, red like Jimin’s burned threads, she will ask for Jimin’s blood, next. Jeongguk engulfs Jimin against him, his arms covering his neck, covering his head, covering his whole self. He hides him, shies him away from the harsh truth, yet as the village wakes, as the wolves take back the territory that is rightfully theirs, Jeongguk stands up, holds onto Jimin’s hand tight as he helps him stand.
Jimin, with his eyes half-closed, crescents like the moon, golden irises drowned in holographic tears, pale shades melting with the strong gold in his eyes. And Jeongguk, in those magnificent eyes, sees shapes unseen before dance and waltz, pure beauty raw, only for Jeongguk to witness. And so, with his tongue still and his throat sealed, he goes to kiss him, letting his lips melt with Jimin’s, the two omegas’ scents mixing, suffocating the both of them. Then, he lets go, and with a sad smile they part ways. And while Jeongguk goes deeper in the forest, basket in hand, Jimin goes back to the village, chained feet heavy against the forest’s grounds.
It isn’t the soles of his feet that crush the dry branches under each of his steps, but the rough metal between his ankles as it drags on the ground and tugs at his heart.
Despair overcomes them as the moon, later on, comes again, and then again, always fuller, rounder. Her smile is wicked, and her appearance is rancid. Rotten goddess.
On the day of the ceremony, the moon is larger, already awake in the early morning. Her reflection is on everyone’s eyes as they observe her beauty. In the longing stares of many wolves, she promises a new year of peacefulness, of pleasure and of resources. She promises the end of harsh days and harsher weathers, always harsher than before, and the wolves that long for peaceful nights and even more peaceful days swallow her light like they would swallow the beautifully constructed words from a lover. Gulping down promises like thirst is the only thing they know. And the moon, high and mighty, like a great tyrant, forces the shadows around to dance and waltz, turn and move, as she climbs the sky, always higher, never stopping her beautiful and elegant ascension. Greater than the sun she lights up the skies, blinds with her beauty the stars, hiding behind her own rays the constellation and everything in between. From nothingness she creates beauty, and so, as the goddess, tonight, she shall be celebrated. The villagers move, become wolves, as they should, with their eyes bright and their scent strong. They howl, waiting for the perfect moment the moon will be honored.
Yet, behind the village, hidden between two wooden walls, a lover’s cries overcome the howls of the night. From his despair grows sadness and fear, a terrifying feeling creeping up his spine, taking over his mind. With his bloodied hands he fights the chains around the feet of the one he loves. His tears, they blind him, blind his thoughts as much as his eyes, yet he fights. And from his cries come rage, wrath, as he digs the skin. The one he loves, he screams, fights, too, tearing the chains away. And just when the howls grow impossibly louder yet again, the chains fall, bloodied and broken beyond repair. The frail omega falls on weakened limbs, trembling legs, as he pants and pants again. His heart is loud and fast, but his eyes are bright, and hope comes back in his eyes. With his mouth sealed, he takes his lover’s hands, shaking, before grabbing his cheeks, squishing them. He kisses him strongly, tears mingling with his lover’s own.
“Jeongguk, Jeongguk,” the one he loves answers to his kisses, arms tight around his waist, hands frantically caressing his back and shoulders. “I will run now, and you will come with me later, alright? If the Head Alpha gives you your voice back, tell him I ran away, tell him I attacked you. Then you will come to me, alright? You will come to me and we will run away together. By the time the moon reaches the top of the skies, I will be out of the pack’s territories. Do not worry about me, alright?” Jimin stands up, ankles bloody yet strong, and Jeongguk follows him up, lips never leaving his. With his arms still trembling he holds him tight against his chest one last time and, after that, he lets him go. Jimin takes a step back, then another, before smiling. “When the moon goes down again, that I am sure of, we will find each other, my love. I’ll be waiting.” After that, he leaves, runs on shaking limbs, and the night goes silent again.
His fingers are still bloody and beaten. His nails, still short and broken. His skin, still torn and covered. Yet, with his quivering digits, he takes the chains and hides them under his robe. The red and gray chains make a great contrast against the white and silver ceremonial robes, they stain and tear through the beautiful clothes, yet Jeongguk keeps them hidden under, secured against his thighs, as he runs back towards the hut where Jimin was supposed to get ready. There, there is no one and nothing, except from beautiful golden threads hanging from an even prettier golden robe. The robe, in all its beauty, is waiting to be worn, cleanly hanging from a single hook. It sways with the new lull of the night, glistening under the moon’s shine coming from the entrance. Foul goddess, still low enough to shine through the mud she walks on, Jeongguk thinks, as he takes the chains from under his robes and puts them on the ground. Then, with a single bloody hand, he attacks his own face. His nails tear through his right cheek, cutting right through his skin, and he feels blood running down his face, down his jaw and neck, before staining the collar of his white robe, blood running through the silver lining of the neck and shoulders. Hissing, he does the same with his shoulder and forearm, even cutting through his own neck. There are blood splatters on the ground now, on his cloth and in his hair, and as he hisses, as he whimpers in pain, as he pants and gasps through the horrible feeling cursing through him, he thinks of Jimin, his lovely omega, the only one he would be ready to die for, to go through great pain just to see again. He tears a little more through the skin and then, finally, he walks towards the hanging robe.
Taking the threads in his hand, running them through his fingers, the contrast of the golden threads against his bloody fingers reminds him of Jimin’s craft. The tragic myth he has told him about, the golden and red threads tied around his fingers, agile and fluid as they would weave the story to life. Jeongguk breathes in, breathes out, before slowly pulling at the threads in his hand. They tear slowly, so slowly. They undo the cloth, robe glistening almost with fear against the last rays of the moon as she climbs the skies and forgets the grounds. Jeongguk tugs and tugs, more violently, with more hatred and wrath than before, and the robe moves under his movements like it would scream from pain. Jeongguk sees it and smiles as he thinks of the pain this same robe would have forced upon Jimin. He tears the robe, then, and as it falls pathetically on the ground, the wolves outside howl again. Jeongguk destroys the robe, tears it apart piece by piece. Golden threads stained with blood fall on the ground, one after the other. Jeongguk tears and tears through the robe beyond recognizable, and what is left, then, of the robe that used to be so beautiful, is nothing more than a torn piece of cloth, golden yet dim, stained and dirtied. After that, threads still around his fingers, Jeongguk walks to the chains on the ground, throws them on the robe, and falls on the ground. He breathes in, breathes out again and, with his golden eyes closed, he screams.
A blood-chilling scream, one so broken, so weak yet so loud, that the howls abruptly stop.
Footsteps are heard, then, coming his way. An intimidating silhouette comes, enters, and the single light that could enter through is now blocked. A strong smell fills the hut, overcoming everything else, covering Jimin and Jeongguk’s own scents. Jeongguk gags as he keeps on crying out.
The Alpha comes nearer, but not to Jeongguk, to the robes on the ground. With trembling hands, he takes the chains in one hand and the torn robe with the other. He stands up and, for a minute, nothing but silence can be heard. Then, with his back showing, he speaks through the night.
“Where has that omega gone?” His voice is so deep, so chilling, that Jeongguk feels only fear in his mind. The night is cold, freezing, but the Alpha’s voice is all that and more. It’s terrifying, how the Alpha’s voice is filled with a burning yet freezing rage. “You, you useless excuse of a wolf, where has the omega gone?” Finally, through the fear, Jeongguk sees a ray of hope. Soon, the Alpha will allow him to speak again, the last obstacle to his and Jimin’s happiness. The Head Alpha approaches, throws the chains and robe on the ground. He creeps towards Jeongguk, standing tall above him. His eyes are filled with a wrath never seen before, a loathing so violent, so loud and so red, red and red. As he opens his mouth, his canines show, and Jeongguk feels dread overcoming all of his senses. “You let him run, you played me like a fool, and for what? You pathetic, absolutely disgusting thing,” with violence and rage he tears through the hut, breaking through the cloth hanging. He breaks the tent, destroys the wood, and soon, the moon shines on Jeongguk again. “You will run, omega, you will run like a pray and as mere man, and we will chase after you as the wolves that we are. And as wolves, we will devour you, offer you to the moon, and from your misery will come prosperity upon this village and our territory. But you will run and if, by the utmost of chance, you succeed in outrunning us, then you will become feral, you and your lover, and your freedom will become your curse,” he yells, then, slowly shifting into a wolf, menacingly looming over Jeongguk. Jeongguk trembles, his limbs weak, so fragile, so frail, like leaves desperately hanging from the branches of the tree that gave them life as fall slowly turns into winter. Fear is loud, oh so loud, and as Jeongguk looks up towards the sky, what he sees is the moon, high, at the top of the skies, bright and red, smiling down wickedly at Jeongguk’s dismay.
The wolf above him, now fully formed, howls, and from the sound only, Jeongguk understands, then. He stands up quickly, hurries through the remains of the broken hut, naked feet walking on the leftovers of the robe, golden threads twisting around his toes, and he runs. As he runs he hears the crackling of bones, the shifting of skin, and the whole pack howls. The night is cold, the skies are bright with the moon’s red light, and Jeongguk runs as fast as he can. Behind him, the grunts and barks of a hundred’s wolves follow, and he can already feel his flesh being torn apart.
His breathing is heavy and loud in the forest, louder than the branches that break under his feet. Each of his step is loud and heavy as it slams against the ground, but Jeongguk doesn’t have the time to be quieter. He runs for his life, runs for his lover, runs for a chance of freedom and survival. His instinct takes over his mind and he only runs, desire to make it out alive breaking through his fear, through his thoughts. His eyes are wide open and, through them, he sees Jimin, he imagines him in all his beauty, calling him, waiting for him beyond the forest’s borders, beyond their pack’s territory. Jeongguk jumps and runs, hands catching his robe, tearing them, making his run slightly easier, but his limbs are weak, and Jeongguk has to force himself through the pain, through the fear, through every emotion that could take over his mind and his body.
He jumps above the river, then, the one he had crossed after long minutes of walk days ago and he knows, then, that only mere minutes remain before he is out and safe. But the barking and grunting and howling behind him are getting closer, the sound of teeth clashing and jaws biting getting louder, and Jeongguk hurries even more, wonders if he’ll truly make it out alive. And his feet, they bleed as he runs through the woods. The sharpest of branches digging mercilessly into the sole of his feet make his cry more, cutting the skin messily, showing the flesh raw. And while the dead leaves caress the tender member, the rocks hurt them instead, plunging directly into the fresh cuts, drawing blood, expending the wounds, settling like parasites inside the flesh. And he would scream, were it not for the muting fear that takes over his throat as he hears the pack getting ever so closer. He hurries through the terrifying night, through the maze-like woods, through and through the obstacles that, without a remorse, block his way to freedom. His blood drips like a cascade, left behind him like a trail. Jeongguk knows that, even if he outruns them and hides, they will smell and find him, and so he runs, runs as he runs he thinks of survival, as he thinks of the gruesome death that awaits him if he stops, as he thinks of red eyes and yellow teeth, sharp as razors, that long to cut through his skin harsher than the branches under his feet, deeper than the pebbles stuck in the abyss of his flesh. He despairs more and more, until a familiar smell takes over.
Spirea, he thinks of, in all of their innocent and pure beauty, beautiful white and deep pink, like clouds and snow and everything that is so mesmerizing and so pretty, so heavenly, so holy. Spirea, he smells, as he thinks of Jimin, as he slowly comes nearer and nearer to him. And his bloody and torn feet, he forgets them, as he hurries through the woods, as he slowly sees the end of the territory, as he hears his lover’s cries and smells his tears, smells his very emotions. Spirea, he smells again, as he breathes loudly, pants through the pain and despair, as he runs to his lover’s embrace, beyond the forest’s borders, out of the pack’s territory. He hears howls behind, ones of rage, but he never stops, Jimin’s silhouette coming into view right where the forest stops, right by the edge of the woods. He forgets the branches that pierce his skin, forgets the rocks that dig into the sole of his feet, forgets the pain shooting through him wave after wave after wave. And, right when a jaw closes around the back of his torn robe, he jumps, and lands in Jimin’s embrace right outside, where no tree obscures the sky, where the territory of the pack stops. The wolves come to a halt, then, standing tall and intimidating like the creatures of the night that they are, hundreds of bright red, blue and golden eyes shining through the dark veil of the woods and the night. Jeongguk, now safe in Jimin’s arms, pants and cries as he observes the many eyes turning around, leaving. Only one pair of eyes remains, a set of blood red eyes filled with rage. They blink, and Jeongguk and Jimin feel the bond of the pack break. Then, they turn, and the lovers are left behind, in the remains of the night as the moon has gone down, as the sun slowly wakes.
Their thoughts go astray as they feel their humanity being stolen, and surely the moon has taken it with her, but Jeongguk hugs Jimin tight, and as the last of their humanity is being lost to the night, they both know that they will love each other even when feral.