the king, the raven and the son of the enemy ; norenmin

the king's crown

jeno

Jeno hates this.

He didn't realize, living in a forest settlement and political limbo for the past decade, that schmoozing would be such a significant part of revolution. He's not one for parties, nor the delicate stem of a glass flute pinched between his fingers. (He held it in his fist for a while, but people started to stare.) The ballroom is every bit the pomp and privilege that Founder Lee once decried while Jeno, just a boy, eavesdropped, captivated by the bold and treasonous ideas.

This is not bold. This might as well be orthodox.

He thinks of what Jaemin might feel, might say, if he knew Jeno was here, politicking while he rots in a jail cell. Something along the lines of fuck you, probably, and he'd sneer the way he does when he finds something baffling and affronting. Jeno crams down the guilt, the wrongness, the wine simmering in his gut, and the rueful affection he always feels when that sneer enters his mind.

Jeno imagines, when he returns to his chamber, Renjun will be there already, perched in front of the fire or maybe curled up under the duvet, reading a book from the shelf. Jeno wonders if he would recognize Jaemin's sneer if he described it. Wonders if Renjun has tamed it, kissed it gentle.

Jeno pours out his glass, and declines a refill when offered.

His father is across the room, talking gaily amongst a group of nobles. Each of them were important figures in the Royal Court, crucial to the Disunion as well. One of them must notice Jeno standing on his own; they call him over — laughing, smiles loosened by alcohol — and Jeno joins them, bowing his head in respect.

"There he is! Our commander!" The nobleman — Lord Roh, a stout, jolly man with a dubious combover — makes a few vague gestures around his midsection. "I remember you when you were this tall. Isn't that extraordinary?"

"Children tend to grow taller, you git," another noble ribs him. He slaps Jeno on the shoulder. "I bet your old man wishes you'd quit a few inches below him though!"

They bust into laughter. Jeno laughs along, unconvincingly. Oh, he's bad at this. He needs Jaemin's golden tongue.

(Oh, that golden tongue...)

(This is what he gets for drinking on an empty stomach.)

"The night is a success, old friend," a nobleman says to Founder Lee. "Dare I say, a flawless start to the Delegation's rule."

"Those words mean more coming from you. The fruits of our labour, gentlemen! Drink up and enjoy."

"See this, Commander Lee?" Lord Roh has a semi-painful hold on Jeno's nape. "You're witnessing the blossoming of your father's lifework. The councillors of the Delegation, standing right here before you."

"Yes, with any luck," Jeno replies. "It will be no small task, campaigning in a place that's never seen democracy."

The men share looks among themselves. One says in a wry tone, "Surely. Campaigning. All you louts better be on your best behaviour — you'll lose your spot on the council!"

They laugh again, a wine-sloshing roar. Founder Lee does not join them. He's looking at Jeno, calm and severe. Not another word. Jeno's throat has gone dry.

The party continues for a while longer, and Jeno floats aimlessly, gripping his hilt, just barely tempering the dread in his chest. Finally, the guests tire themselves of cheese platters and gambling and start to trickle out. Jeno sees Founder Lee leave the ballroom with a picket of soldiers on his heels. Jeno follows.