Atalanta

Part 8

• JIMIN •

Jimin stares at the ceiling, both arms crossed behind the nape of his neck. His ankles are crossed, too. Worn, leather boots propped up on the headboard. Technically, this is not even his bed. The bed given to Jimin is in the next room, but he deemed it too elaborate to sleep in – covered in silk, velvet and boasting an intricately carved headboard. The one time Jimin did sleep there, the entire thing nearly swallowed him whole.

Shuddering at the memory, Jimin turns over. No, he much prefers this bed – even though it is designed for a servant, settled neatly in the room adjacent to his. Jimin has no need for servants. He dismissed them all immediately, much to the chagrin of his new King and Queen.

Jimin frowns, considering. It is an odd thing to consider he now belongs to Dietas, not Kom. The fact that he – Jimin winces – is by all accounts, a prince. It would seem Aphrodite's title has come true. Restlessly, Jimin pulls his lower lip between teeth. The past few weeks have been full of lessons and instructions; an attempt to cram a lifetime of training into a mere matter of months. How to sit, how to stand, how to slurp soup at the dinner table. Lessons on politics, policy and strategy of war – things which Jimin is hopelessly inept at and which, consequently, means he has little time to see you.

There have only been a few rushed, hurried moments – glances in the hall, a passing brush of fingertips. Staring at the ceiling, Jimin releases a sigh. Each night, he returns to this room and immediately falls asleep. It is the natural consequence of being pushed to his limits, Jimin supposes. Of being groomed, over and over into something Jimin never desired to be.

Except – a smile flickers across his lips – although he did not ask for this, Jimin cannot deny he enjoys it. At least, some of it. Perhaps not the policy bits, nor the manners which being princely entails, but the part where he is able to help people. Jimin enjoys that. For the first time in a long time, it feels as though Jimin can make a difference.

Rolling onto his side, he stares out the window. There is no moon out tonight, for which he is grateful. It is difficult enough to feel he is not being watched without Artemis' dominion hanging over his shoulder. Ever since the trials ended, the goddess has been quiet – chillingly so. Jimin will not admit this to you, but her silence is worrying.

He fears she is plotting, watching and waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Most of Dietas has returned to usual, since nothing has happened but Jimin was not born in Dietas. He was born in Kom, and Kom does not forget so easily. Long ago, he learned to fear the wrath of the gods – Artemis will not forget such an insult so easily.

This knowledge makes Jimin shudder. Suddenly unable to sleep, he throws back his sheets to climb out of bed. Lowering his feet to the ground, Jimin stands and tugs on a tunic. Lacing his pants, he finds his shoes to step into the corridor. The palace of Dietas is stunning; Jimin has not gotten used to this fact. The idea that you grew up here, surrounded by such beauty – Jimin hides a smile, deciding it makes perfect sense.

The corridors are empty; logical, given the hour. There are only a few soldiers about, patrolling the halls – Jimin nods, acknowledging each one as he passes. It is still odd when people bow to him, rather than scowl. In Atalanta, he was no one and here, Jimin commands respect. It makes him wonder when these people will realize he is nothing more than a sham.

Shaking his head, Jimin continues. He does not know where he is going; just that he cannot stay in that room a second longer tonight. He wanders the halls for an hour, becoming acquainted with the palace and it seems like luck – or perhaps, fate – when he ends up at your door.

Jimin comes to a stop, tilting his head. He would not know it was your room, except he remembers a story you told him about attempting to climb out of the palace. You used the window in the hall, you explained; tied a length of rope to a light and slowly lowered yourself to the ground. Stopped in the hall, Jimin spots the object you spoke of – an ugly, iron lamp which seems out of place in this palace. Beside it is the window, emerald gardens beyond; the regal White Plains of Ore beyond that.