THE CONCUBINE || TAEKOOK ||

SIXTY ONE

The morning dawned grey and cold, the sky heavy with clouds that threatened rain but did not fall.

Jungkook had not slept. He had not left Taehyung's chambers, had not eaten, had not spoken. He had sat in the chair beside the empty bed, his hands folded in his lap, his eyes fixed on the pillow where Taehyung's head had lain, where the impression of him still lingered, where the scent of jasmine and cherry blossoms still clung to the fabric.

They had come for him in the night. The servants, the physicians, the men who prepared the dead for their journey to the next world. They had washed Taehyung's body, dressed him in the finest robes, surrounded him with flowers. Jungkook had watched, had not moved, had not spoken. He had watched as they took Taehyung from the room, as they carried him down the corridor, as they laid him in the great hall where the mourners would come to pay their respects.

The hall was filled with flowers. White lilies and pale roses, the blossoms from the cherry trees that had been cut and brought inside, their petals scattered across the floor like snow. In the center of the hall, on a bier draped in silk, lay Taehyung.

He looked peaceful. The pallor of death had softened the lines of suffering that had marked his face in the final days, and he seemed almost to be sleeping, his hands folded on his chest, his lips slightly parted, his eyes closed. The flowers that surrounded him seemed to have been chosen for him delicate, pale, beautiful and the light that streamed through the high windows fell across his face like a blessing.

Jungkook stood at the edge of the hall, his hands clasped behind his back, his face empty of expression. He had not moved from this spot since they brought him here. He had not looked away from Taehyung's face. He had not allowed himself to think of what was coming, of what would happen when the sun set, when they would close the bier and carry Taehyung to the garden, to the grave that waited beside their son's.

The mourners came in waves. Nobles and servants, soldiers and scholars, the people who had known Taehyung, who had loved him, who had watched him rise from a servant to a consort, who had seen the light in him and been drawn to it. They knelt before the bier, their heads bowed, their tears falling onto the flowers, and they whispered prayers that Jungkook could not hear.

Jimin stood at the back of the hall, his face hidden in his hands, his shoulders shaking. He had not moved from that spot since the morning, had not spoken to anyone, had not allowed anyone to comfort him. He had left Taehyung when he was needed most, had gone to his mother's bedside, had returned to find his friend dying, and the guilt of it would stay with him for the rest of his life.

Yoongi stood beside him, his hand on his back, his face wet with tears. He had come as soon as he heard, had ridden through the night, had arrived too late. He had stood at Taehyung's bedside and watched him breathe his last, had held Jimin as he fell apart, had stayed through the night, waiting for the morning that would take his friend away.

Seokjin stood near the doors, his face pale, his hands trembling. He had watched him grow from a frightened servant to a consort, had seen the love that bloomed between him and the king, had believed that they would have years together, years of happiness, years of peace.

He had been wrong.

And Bogum stood at the edge of the crowd, his face hidden in the shadow of a pillar, his eyes fixed on Taehyung's face. He had come as soon as he heard, had walked through the night to reach the palace before the sun rose. He had not known what he would find. He had hoped foolishly, desperately that the rumors were wrong, that Taehyung was alive.