The Bloom After Blood (Taehyung Centric)

At Elarion:

The first thing Taehyung felt was the cold.

Not the biting chill of winter, but the kind that seeps into your chest and wraps around your lungs, like grief given shape. When his eyes opened, the world greeted him in gray.

A thin, sickly light slipped through the broken beams of a rotted ceiling. Dust drifted lazily through the air like the last remnants of something long gone.

The wooden floor beneath him creaked with every breath he took, and the thin blanket wrapped around him did nothing against the hollowness clawing at his ribs.

Taehyung blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Pain settled in like an old friend, his limbs heavy, his throat parched, his heart sore and bruised in a way no healer could fix.

He sat up with a groan, his hands trembling slightly as he gripped the edge of the splintered cot.

His surroundings were unfamiliar. Cracked stone walls, a sagging roof, and shattered furniture strewn about like forgotten memories.

The room stank of mildew and age. It was a place that had known abandonment. A place where joy had never lived.

He wasn’t in Velmyra anymore.

He wasn’t even sure if Velmyra still existed.

His breath hitched at the thought.

Yoongi hyung.

Jungkookie hyung.

His father.

He clutched his chest, nails digging into his tunic. He had begged Yoongi not to leave. He had promised to wait for his father. And still, he had woken up here. Alone.

He stumbled to his feet, nearly falling as his legs gave out under the weight of his aching body and heavier heart. A low groan escaped his lips, not from the pain, but from the overwhelming silence.

There were no voices. No warmth. No sign of life.

He dragged himself toward the small table across the room. There, among scattered debris, he found a pile of old, rough clothes, stiff from dust and time. They were clearly not made for royalty.

Brown.

Torn at the sleeves. Smelling faintly of sweat and soil.

He stared down at his silk tunic, stained and torn, the hem scorched.

He couldn’t go out in prince’s clothes. Not when people of Mournvak are searching for him.

Taehyung reached out with hesitant fingers and grabbed the worn shirt. The fabric scratched at his skin as he pulled it over his head, the coarse threads rasping against his neck like nettles. His hands burned from the contact, so used to velvet, silk, and warmth.

It felt wrong. So very wrong.

But he kept going.

Each layer he stripped away, his robes, his sash, his past, was like peeling skin from flesh. And yet, as he fastened the belt around his waist and shoved his feet into broken boots, something inside him shifted.

He wasn’t the same boy who had waited beside a birthday cake.

He wasn’t the boy who dreamed of flying lanterns and held onto promises like fairy tales.

He was something else now.

Something forged.

He limped to the cracked window, leaned on the sill, and stared out.