Work Text:
Mingi has never lived under the Qun, but he knows all about the fate he was spared.
At times, this grim knowledge rears its ugly head and bleeds into his dreams, taking over them until he's thrashing in his bed, sweating, whimpering, unable to break the nightmare's hold—
(thread through the lips, no words, no wants, no will of his own, neck collared, heart chained up, his own fire always ready to burst, break, burn him from within on his jailer's command)
That's when a small shadow sneaks into his room, drawn to his pain like a moth is drawn to light.
Try as he might, Yeosang can't make him forget. Not something that isn't a memory. Mingi's mind will conjure it up again, this bloodcurdling terror, persistent the way only imaginary monsters can be. Yeosang has tried to reach for this tight knot of hurt many times, but it always escapes his touch.
Instead, he makes for the garden and looks through spindleweed sprouts in search of dried up leaves — the herbs don't mind sharing. Once he's gathered enough, he burns them at a convenient spot ouside Mingi's window. The smoke never gets in, but the scent wafts through the night air, reaching where it needs to be. It's almost the same as the incense Mingi's mother (never tamassran, always mother) used to burn at their home every time someone was sick, to cleanse the air and calm the mind. It spells home, care, safe, not alone.
Mingi's panicked breathing starts to slow. The pained grimace gradually disappears from his face as it goes slack. The chains around him loosen, and a soothing dream of a faraway home carries him away. The monster is gone.
Yeosang smiles down at him softly. Reaches out to leave a barely-there touch on his cheek. Disappears into thin air. His job is done for tonight.