Golden Sands [FIC] 2/3
Apr. 30th, 2022 05:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
notturnitowarnings: hj sh ys uses they/them but they don't mind being called by gendered honorifics, then (mostly for the part near the end of the chapter) blood, self-harm induced by "coping" with dissociation, ptsd, implied suicidal (jh & ys), torture (?) which is a bit like animal experimentation (jongho as imugi was stripped off his spine and made a spirit sword, basically).
imugi: mythological serpentine dragon who controls the rain.
baksu-mudang: male shamans.
please take care and be careful while reading the chapter! :(
*
As an all-powerful imugi who can control the rain, Jongho's life is supposed to be rather alright, trying to blend in with Geumseong humans. But, then, of course, there is Mingi.
Dark.
The bottom of the ocean was a dark, cocooning pit. It was almost a relief from before, from the fire and haze and blood, from the bedlam that hedged him in until he could almost feel it dye his nonexistent flesh. The battlefield is a place he is made to belong to, but how he abhors it, when it was just simply this— a one-sided carnage. The indifference of gods disguised in mortals’ lust for all that is momentary - land, power, wealth. Here in the pit, he is separate from all those ephemeral things. He is reprieved.
Here in the pit, he dreams.
There is a figure in front of him, gauzy and veiled as though refusing prying eyes. When he reaches out with his right hand, the blurred figure similarly holds out his left hand.
He knowingly puts his hand down. It puts his hand down at the same time.
The person is wearing royal clothing, his garment woven from the softest hessian they could find and his cuirass made from the Eumnu people's best sable skin. It was not as elaborate as the robes worn by other princes after that person's dynasty nor was it as magnificent, but for the likes of his people who tended to cattle and horses, the garb worked fine.
He used to wear the same outfit, presented himself with the exact same robe, down to its folds and botched inner linings. But he wears different things now- comfortable sweater, tight-fitting pants. Things that fit modern times.
Yet he knows, if he truly wants to look, the person in front of him will have his face. Or more precisely, he has the figure's face.
At the realization, the figure starts to unspool.
It ripples, falling apart in bits and pieces just as though threads unraveling from the seams of tapestry. The undoing leaves him in unasked solitude, in this darkness that fills even the emptiness of his spine.
He remains in the depths of the primordial ocean, untouched by any light. He shall never be unearthed for evermore.
Jongho wakes up.
It takes a while for him to get adjusted to his surroundings, but he knows exactly where he is as soon as he hears the distant crash of waves, even before the slight impurity of Geumseong’s ether starts to register in the air he drinks in. He blinks, letting his eyes adjust to darkness before he can make out the outline of his room, make out the threadbare of his walls despite having lived here for nearly two years. On the surface of the bedside table is a sturdy hairpin, ivory-white against the dark grain-like patterns.
Outside the window, the sky is a dusty lilac color, still polluted by all the town lights despite the purity that Yeosang’s existence brings. And yet, the glitter of stars stretches across the span of sky, remaining visible to Jongho’s eyes.
It’ll be a while before dawn.
Yet he remains seated on the bed, hand on his soft blanket, not making any effort to fall back to sleep. He watches the color of the sky starting to shift outside the glass pane of his window. The haze of his dream still bogs him down, curling around his being and seeping down to his bones— and, ha, does he have bones now. Some wryness bubbles up in his chest, and he can’t help but to smile.
Imugi are not supposed to dream.
But then again, he hasn’t been one for a long time, hasn’t he. The history of his body is rather interesting: once an imugi, then a sword—or a sword spirit, depends on who’s asking. And then… whatever he is now, after Hongjoong’s quartermaster fished him out of the nether oceans.
That’ll make an interesting topic, Jongho muses. Perhaps he’ll entertain Yeosang with it, after he’s asked about Mingi’s bargain with them. But he’ll first have to help around the studio… and, of course, he’ll first have to stop thinking about Mingi.
Mingi and his goofy lopsided smile. Mingi and his soft hunched posture, his soft gaze and soft-looking lips. Mingi, staring off to the distant horizon, his eyes always mapping the shape of a once familiar ship.
Mingi, and the vulnerability of his expression last night, as he looked up to the stars. Mingi, and the stark honesty of his yearning, clear for any stray gods to see.
Jongho's daily routine is as usual.
If he's not at the restaurant with Wooyoung, he's at the taekwondo studio with San, and at the studio the routine goes like this: he arrives with San and San's old man there, they all meet up with the instructors, then Choi Jongcheol gives them the instructions for the day before letting them all disperse. Just like everyone else, Jongho will clean up the dojang with San. Spray the mats with disinfectant, wipe them up, flip, do the same on the other side.
San is uncharacteristically quiet this entire morning. There is a small, simple smile drawn up his face, though, as he sprays the mat on his part.
"So,” San begins, and alright- here it is. Jongho doesn't even know why he expected differently. "Did you have a good night with Mingi-yah, Jongho-nim?"
From all around, the thumping of mats and the thudding of protective gears sound. Jongho shakes his disinfectant bottle hard, before spraying his mat perhaps a little too aggressively. Not counting the dream he had, Jongho’s been feeling a tad restless since last night; were his scales still there, he could attribute that to something that might have lodged itself in between.
He shouldn’t have thought of that.
“Good,” Jongho answers, to distract himself. He pauses at his own brusque tone, before he wills his voice to be softer, less wound up sounding. “It was good. And you?”
San giggles. “Wooyoung-ah is still stumbling a bit over his bon-puri recitations. We worked on that last night before moving on to the dancing part. Jongho-nim can imagine, how much happier he was about that.”
Jongho gives an acknowledging hum, still wiping down his mat. He’s heard about it from Mingi— Wooyoung's passion for dance. He’s heard about how his fortune-telling even involved that, how he wandered into Yeosang’s shop tailing Mingi, before coming face to face with the shopkeeper themselves. He thinks about Yeosang’s blurred face (were they frozen? Were they able to school themselves, their face betraying no expression?), facing a Wooyoung who doesn’t remember him, who still doesn’t know that that was a reunion. Mingi told him, though, about how the air seemed to suspend itself around both of them, limned by the serendipity of something that has been waiting to unfold for as long as Yeosang has lived. You will finally know the reason you dance as though you are in love with it. Their prophetic words, and the shinbyeong—divine illness calling most shamans to this line of work—that Wooyoung fell under afterwards. Mingi was the one who had to take care of him the entire week.
Jongho’s hand stills. Ah. The restlessness within him… it must’ve stemmed from his conversation with Mingi last night.
Thankfully, San doesn’t seem to notice, merrily bringing back the head and protective gears from the warehouse. “Talked about anything interesting last night, Jongho-nim?” As if hearing his thoughts though, San pries ahead, the tone of his voice gossipy.
“Just looked at the stars.” A pause, before Jongho decides to add, “Yeosang-hyungnim knows about your plan, though. Your courting- date thing.”
That makes San sputter. “They know?!”
Jongho hums noncommittally, wiping the last of the mats. Though all three of them are already together, Wooyoung and San get into the habit of taking turns courting Yeosang each week. It's rather sweet, actually. “I think Wooyoung lost a bet, or did a bargain, but hm. Something about flowers, right. Candles. Nice dinner.”
“That big-” he can feel San looking up to the ceilings in exasperation, before turning to him. “Jongho-nim," there is desperation in San's voice. "I need to know how much they know.”
With not a small amount of glee, Jongho points at the barrage of students now streaming into the studio. “Gotta go, San-ah. Talk to you later.”
“Wait-”
Jongho ignores San’s call as he makes his way to the reception desk—his actual duty in the studio. As he begins to answer the stream of mails and phone calls, he can feel San’s eyes on him at times, trying to will him by pure thoughts to look back. Thankfully, San is kept busy with having to prepare his— what does he call it again? Demo team? He has to go to the capital with his students at the end of the month for it.
San doesn’t have the chance to ask Jongho during lunchtime, because he's already snuck out to Yeosang’s shop once the other receptionist drops by. It’s a good thing, actually. Playing San this way… does nothing to alleviate that itch under Jongho’s skin.
When Jongho arrives, he doesn’t see Mingi on the shop’s front steps. Usually he would sit there, knees drawn together as his sandwich or lunchbox sat on his lap. His tall figure would be dwarfed by the trees surrounding them, though when he would look up, his eyes would be the only focal point that Jongho could care about.
At the moment, he’s nowhere to be seen around the shop, actually.
He's probably down at the beach already, with his letters and a new bracelet he's woven himself for Yunho. Jongho learns that he tends to write when he gets sentimental.
Somehow that realization seems to cave something in Jongho's gut. A dark pit. A bottomless ocean.
Mingi's not at the shop, though, which means that he can talk to Yeosang more freely. So, Jongho sneaks into the shop, finding himself in the hallway, brightened from the natural light coming from the kitchen. As he sighs, he turns until his back is facing the living room. Then, he waits.
The light from the living room shuts off, and Jongho turns around, finding Yeosang leaning onto the doorsill, half-obscured by shadows.
"Hey, little imugi," they nonchalantly greet.
Jongho eyes them for a moment. They look as beautiful as always, soft and subdued just as though moonglow, their eyes deep and searching. The sliver of light falls just right on the red mark by their left eye, making it alight, like a patch of glistening ember.
“Dalnim,” he greets back, testing the waters just because he can, and immediately Yeosang frowns.
“That’s no longer my title.”
Jongho acquiesces easily enough, amending his greeting properly. “Yeosang-hyungnim.”
Yeosang acknowledges that with a hum of their own, evidently more pleased. “What brings you here?”
“You thought I have a request for you?”
He is answered with a wry look from Yeosang. “Wouldn't you know that better yourself?” they ask with a gingerly smile.
Jongho smiles back.
Now, how should he ask this? He weighs on his words. “I want to ask about Mingi’s deal.”
“Oh?" Yeosang trains their eyes idly on the wooden frame of the door, drawing Jongho's attention to the finesse of their gentle profile. They rest a hand on the wood in consideration. "What is it about him?”
Jongho thinks back to last night, the expression on Mingi's face, his starlight hair windswept and his eyes bright.
“... five years at sea, one day at land."
Yeosang’s finger toys elegantly along the seam of the hanji door. “And?”
“Human lives are short, after all. By the time Mingi passes, the days he will have spent with Yunho will not even amount to a year." Jongho hesitates, before he speaks up. "Is it not too much?”
That makes Yeosang’s movement stop, their fingers stilling against the doorsill. They look up to Jongho, into Jongho, their gaze profound. “You thought it was Mingi who had bargained with me,” they pause, before they admit, “Yunho was the one who did it. In exchange for Mingi’s life, he has given away half of his own. And he will spend the remaining span fulfilling what is required of him, so that I will keep to my end of the deal. Hence,” idly Yeosang extends their hand into the brightness of the hallway light, letting the sun warm them up to their wrist before they retract their hand. “Five years at sea, one day at land.”
Jongho frowns. "You were a god. You could've offered a different sort of bargain," he pauses, before continuing, bold despite his own stature. “You could’ve given your blessing."
"Were," Yeosang points out. "But it is no longer my nature now. I am no longer able to grace; I can only arrange trades, equivalent exchanges. Further, not all deities give blessings—for humans, non-humans. Hongjoong-noonim always takes, their self centered around impermanence; Seonghwa-noonim is cursed to always watch, unable to intervene."
Then Yeosang looks at him again, their head tilted to side. It’s almost like Jongho can hear them ask: Wouldn’t you know that better, too, little imugi?
In truth, Jongho would. The danggot in his pocket seems to grow heavier in response.
“Then, what if I offer up my life? Half for each. But in exchange, Yunho’s deal with you will have to be annulled.”
Yeosang smiles. “Even if it means leaving Mingi?”
Jongho cannot find it in himself to answer.
As though reading his mind, Yeosang does not say anything. They retreat further into the dark room, the painted moon on the hanging scroll as though truly glowing. It haloes the outline of Yeosang's head, as Jongho makes out their movement as they caress the blooming forsythia flowers in the vase.
The quietness is broken with Yeosang's soft but resonant voice. “When I found Wooyoung again, I thought that that was it. The pinnacle of my current existence is… was centered on finding him again. Hence, when Mingi led him here to my shop, and when I looked, truly looked and saw him, I thought… that I could finally die.” Then they look up, and Jongho finds light within their eyes. “But I was wrong, you see. Your death can only do so much, but in living, you could stand conferred more than you can ever think of.”
A beat of silence as Jongho takes all of that in, knowing his defeat, as unacceptable as it is. The restlessness within him has nearly abated, though he still tries once more, his voice a near whisper.
“But Mingi misses him.”
“As he does," Yeosang agrees, not unkindly. "Yet, yearning is not necessarily a bad thing, is it?”
… no. No, it isn’t; it only means that both of them will not let go of each other. So Jongho says, “You would know, hyungnim.”
Yeosang laughs.
They truly would, evident from how they answered one of Jongho’s impertinent questions, once.
Jongho had asked this: why stay at Geumseong? Out of all the cities on the southern part of this peninsula that once worshiped the Moon Deity, why go through all the trouble of binding themselves into this weak form, only to be tethered to this one place?
Yeosang had sharply laughed at that, too.
“That idiot, he said he wanted to be reborn in Geumseong every single time,” despite their sharp tone, their eyes softened, the way they always did whenever they were talking about their last baksu-mudang. No matter how many times Jongho had seen it, his breath would always catch at the way Yeosang’s smirk unraveled, giving way to an absolute tender smile, at the way it made their eyes curve into soft half-moons.
“He said the moon is always beautiful here, so…”
Yeosang’s voice trailed off in a wistful note.
Jongho has always wondered what it feels like, to wait for someone, to have someone willing to wait. The person who once owned him—just as he’d owned the hairpiece in Jongho’s pocket—was gone, and the grudge between them, though it is now ground to something dull and more chewable, had run too deep that Jongho would not wonder if his spirit had entered the cycle of reincarnation. Still, he thinks about it.
He pictures Mingi waiting for Yunho to come back from the sea, time condensing in the moments they both are not together, and only flowing just as though beads of sand through the glass hour, when they both are. He pictures Yeosang in this shop, going through centuries in such uncertainty, clutching to a burning hope that any stranger passing by could’ve been the reincarnation of their last baksu-mudang.
Years wax and wane, but to their kind, time is all that they could afford. Everyone passes, moves on, and the memories about these ephemeral beings will fade despite how brightly they had burned in life, unless Jongho and Yeosang choose to grasp those memories, and never let go. Choose to become a memorial, and carve in the stone-surety of your immortality, the ones who you do not wish to forget.
In this way, he supposes he is similar to Yeosang, after all. He’s been holding onto what he has of his previous owner just as tightly.
As Jongho slowly breaks off from his reverie, he realizes that Yeosang is smiling at him.
Jongho raises an eyebrow.
Yeosang notes, their voice fond. “You’ve gotten close with them.”
As if he had a choice. Jongho sighs again, before he replies. “Not only that, but Yunho will not let me rest in peace too if I go through with this; his being an in-uh— a merfolk aside, he’d asked me to look after Mingi, after all.”
“Did he now,” Yeosang muses. “Funny, I heard from Mingi that he'd asked him the same thing, but for you.”
Jongho feels his eye twitch, despite the slight trickle of warmth in his chest. Sly bastard, he tries to think.
But Jongho is collected, after all. Calm and poised and collected. He only says, “Unnecessary. Even without their minding, I would have fended for myself just fine. He's the one who shouldn't take for granted his precious childhood friend."
Yeosang grins, leaning in with visible interest. “But you are fond of him.”
“That doesn’t say anything. I am also fond of Mingi.” And just like Mingi, he also misses Yunho, though he’d rather eat his own spine than admit that outloud. He would have looked for him in the nether oceans if it weren’t for Mingi, and his promise to take care of him.
“Right," Yeosang says, their lips pursed in a disbelieving moue. "Is there anything else?”
There is, actually. Jongho holds out the danggot he kept in his pocket to Yeosang. “Mingi gave this to me last night.”
“Ah, your heir apparent’s hairpin." Yeosang gives it a considering look, but does not take it. "I am a little bit surprised it’s taken him this long to make way to this batch. But he is right, it is yours.”
With their permission, Jongho slips the danggot again into his pocket, trying to ignore the relief blooming within him.
“I just don’t want to trespass. Any item that the Destiny drops off is the shopkeeper’s.”
Yeosang smiles again. “But if you are that piece's original owner, does it truly matter?”
Jongho doesn’t know. This is the question he thinks about every day, about whether the thing Yunho picked up was his spirit, or his heir apparent’s spirit, disguised in the mixture of their memories. He does not even think to wonder about how he's managed to live on until now. Sleeping for so long in the nether oceans truly muddles the senses.
“Am I?”
"Well," Yeosang contemplates thoughtfully, "am I speaking to the heir apparent right now, or to the little imugi?"
Jongho shrugs. "Just like hyungnim is no longer the venerated moon, nor are you a mere weak human, hyungnim would know better. Wouldn’t you?”
When a deity becomes human, it does not simply erase the edges of their selves. In essence, divinity and mortality do not mix well together. When Yeosang said that they were no longer one, it meant that they became the closest thing a god could be to a human.
Evidently, it is the right thing to answer with, as Yeosang slowly grins, young and mischievous-looking.
“You are truly clever," they praise him. "Well, I’ll tell you this one truth I learned myself: the distinction truly does not matter. You exist, so you are allowed to live, Jongho-yah.”
Jongho blinks at that.
As though knowing his surprise at the statement, Yeosang smiles kindly at him. “Mingi is back now in his office room. You can go without disturbing him.”
Jongho woodenly nods.
The light of the living room switches on again, and Yeosang is gone.
There is also light in Mingi's work room as he passes by, though he does not stop to greet. Despite the heavy steps of his feet, Mingi doesn't seem to realize that Jongho is here as well. Jongho has half a mind to stop, see him just for a bit, his mind already picturing Mingi with concentration in his face and his lips being pressed thin that it brings out his dimples, as he scrawls something Yeosang has assigned him for the day.
But you exist, so you are allowed to live, reminds Jongho of something else he needs to do.
He needs to see his real body at the shrine.
The sun is snuffed by heavy clouds when Jongho walks out from the shop.
It'll rain soon; there is clinging humidity to the air, the ether heavy already even with the shallow restlessness of an upcoming light shower.
If Jongho makes this quick, he can go back to the studio undrenched, back to safety before the rain starts.
The shrines stand in neat rows, their soil-baked roof tiles even darker under the trees' shades. There is the Sea Deity shrine on the leftmost row, while the Sky Deity shrine is next to it, and then the smaller, now-abandoned Moon Deity shrine on the rightmost. Abandoned, they call it, but it only means that no one goes there to offer prayers and oblations anymore. The shrine itself is still cared for by San's elders, who make sure that the turquoise coat of the wooden doors and the red columns of the shrine remain lustrous, the space inside clean, and the paintings uneaten by moths.
The shrine's plaque is shrouded with a white cloth. Jongho spares a moment to stare, before he enters.
On the inside, the small space is dark and reeking of mildew despite the effort put into its care. Jongho decides to leave the door open as he steps further inside. The wooden table meant for offerings is placed on the farside of the room, empty except for its white tablecloth covering.
Above the table is a sword, mounted on the wall.
Is this the part where Jongho is supposed to feel something? Anything other than, 'ah, that thing is still there'?
Because nothing feels different, even as Jongho nears the blade, takes it off the mount. Nothing, as he examines it along the length. There is nothing decorative about the sword, its body bare from even a hand guard. It resembles a long, white needle - unassuming, forged for definitive efficiency. The scabbard is gray-white, made from a material most humans will never recognize or ever think of. It is the same ivory material that forms the blade, one with even segmentations, a pattern that becomes clearer once Jongho unsheathes a part of it to the view.
So this is what Jongho looked like to his owner, several centuries ago.
The Eumnu people lived under Buyeo’s rule. Their settlements stretched upwards as though a slip of ribbon, from the sea up to the mountains that border Okjeo people’s territories. They tended to cattle, pigs, and horses; they paid tributes with their abundance of red jade; they hunted sables for their skin; they sailed to the south and plundered from the coastal cities of other kingdoms.
North of their northmost settlements was where Jongho had been born, in the convergence of the rivers Amur and Ussuri.
The Eumnu people were not unified under one leader— each settlement having their own chief who presided over their own men. But the largest, wealthiest settlement once had a heir apparent most favorable to the people. Not only that, he was also heaven's darling, the gods' beloved. Driven by the hunger to unify that strip of land belonging to the Eumnu—from the mountains up north to the seas down south, though his people used the bow as weapons, he once asked heavens for a powerful sword that could subdue his people's enemies.
And so the Eumnu's gods plucked an imugi from his streams, stripped his spine from him and fashioned him into a divine weapon.
Jongho supposes that he should be furious, and he was, at that time. Untamable, temperamental, impossible to wield. But the heir apparent mastered him, and so Jongho served.
And then heir apparent was gone, his gods having turned their backs on him with all their fickleness, letting him and his settlements be destroyed by their enemies in a cloud of ash and fire. Now, no one will mourn for him, except for Jongho.
He did not think of a human form, and so he took on the heir apparent's. He did not think of a human name, and so he made the heir apparent his namesake.
His existence is a mirror of his previous wielder, as it is now. Yeosang calls him a living ghost.
Droplets of rain pitter-patter down, and Jongho blinks, carefully disentangling from his thoughts.
It’s light gray outside, the sky misty yet still bright despite the rain curtaining the shrine, enclosing Jongho within it. Drip-drop. Drip-drop.
Oh, he thinks. The mist will cover the sea after the rain, which means… Seonghwa-hyungnim won’t be able to find Hongjoong-hyungnim like this.
It’s almost as though Jongho can see it; Hongjoong, in their usual coat, setting alight the lantern from their cabin, holding it with one hand as they make their way down the upper deck. Thump thump thump— then stop. The mess of Hongjoong’s black hair was even more ruffled by the wind as they tilted their head up, as though waiting for something, someone.
And then a patch of the night sky had slipped down, as though a yard of fabric was tugged around a figure. Seonghwa. It cloaked them with a shadowy, starry piece of the night, as they emerged down to the embrace of Hongjoong’s welcoming arms.
That time, Jongho was at the crow’s nest, nestled next to Yunho. The ship was buoying along the rhythm of the sea, the breeze just enough to linger but not enough to bite. Jongho was observing the two figures on the dock, engulfed in each others’ embrace, sluggish and comfortable enough that he did not startle when Yunho’s weight shifted next to him, his lips and a puff of his breath suddenly next to the shell of Jongho’s ear.
“Hongjoong-nim…” he murmurs, “you know they gave their left eye to Seonghwa-nim?”
Jongho had turned slightly towards him, an eyebrow raised at him. From this angle, Yunho’s warm eyes seemed to catch the lantern’s light, the corners of his eyes curving along his smile.
He - Yunho - had always thought that the most romantic thing. That, when the moon disappeared from the sky and Seonghwa could not see Hongjoong any longer, Hongjoong had told them this.
“The night may not know itself without the moon,” Yunho told Jongho that he’d seen Hongjoong smile, so simply, so lovingly, as they wiped away Seonghwa's tears. “But here, I give you my eye, so you can find me better come the dusk and beyond.”
Jongho wonders, sometimes, if he’d think Jongho a romantic as well. Hongjoong gave Seonghwa an eye. Jongho had given his spine, and then himself, before he regained both of them again. Come to think of it, Yunho did give away half of his life.
He wonders how Yunho is doing, actually. If it is bright noon there at the nether oceans, the sun leaving the sea-green waves sparkling from its light, burning a mirage behind Yunho’s head. If he is doubled-down laughing, the sound carried by the wind as he cracks a joke with the rest of the crew. Or if it is already night, and Yunho is crawling to the crow’s nest despite the actual lookout's protest, his long body and long limbs folded neatly beneath the swath of blankets, as he slowly drifts off to sleep.
What will Yunho think, Jongho wonders, when he sees him three years later. Jongho and Mingi; Jongho with Mingi.
He sheathes back the sword, putting it back on the mount, before he then turns.
The rain begins to pour.
As it begins to pound against the rooftiles, Jongho flinches from the sound. The air truly smells damp now, the inside of the shrine even darker without the natural light. The sky is glum, and Jongho’s ears only pick up the constant sound of the downpour. There is no way out without bludgeoning past it.
(He’s trapped now.)
He feels- he cannot—
Jongho feels his mind growing numb as he retreats further into the shrine, retreats until his back hits the corner of the table in a dull pain. His skin feels clammy, cold. He feels like… he can be separated from this body. Like he is separate already.
The downpour goes on, and Jongho feels himself sinking down.
He knows he is sitting down; distantly, he feels his palm meet the cool tile, and he feels—or tries to pull his knees to his chest, until he feels the press of his knees, his body folding until he feels his lungs constrict. He finds that the line of his sight zero in on the gray sky. And Jongho can’t- Even though he used to part the rain with ease, still can make the waters obey him, he can't—
It is all too overwhelming.
He remembers; it was raining, too, the day Jongho was stripped of his spine. It was raining, too, the day he and the heir apparent were dropped to the sea.
As though a stringed puppet working around its unfeeling, wooden limbs, Jongho peels back the sleeve of his long shirt, revealing his forearm. He slowly lowers his head, opens his mouth (not unhinges his jaw because he cannot do that anymore), his teeth fitted around the meat. Clamps down.
The tang of blood fills his mouth at the same time a sharp pain flits up his jerking arm, before the pain smoothes out to a dull feeling. Jongho bites down further, the pain tugging him back to the feeling of this body, the taste of rust spreading further. It's fine, Jongho tries to think. He'll hold on like this, keep on doing this until the rain finally stops.
When it rained in the nether oceans, Yunho used to do this for him too.
He would get Jongho, numb and unfeeling and sometimes berserking, below the deck to the crew's cabin. Would even drag him there, too, if needed. Jongho's mouth would already be on Yunho's arm, teeth sinking through the skin and drawing blood.
And Yunho, his entire presence hovering behind Jongho, his chest against Jongho's back though they would never be pressed together, would let him. Until the rain slowly came to a stop and Jongho finally remembered that he's no longer in the muddy streams, no longer in the aftermath of the bedlam. So he'll hold on until then, this time too.
He doesn’t know how long it has been, as he sits there curled up in wait, until something… a scuffle sounds from the curtaining rain.
He lifts his head.
Ths sound, stifled at first, becomes louder and louder. And then—
“Jongho-ssi! Jongho-ssi, where are you?!”
Wooyoung’s voice, Jongho recognizes. Several other voices sound as well, muffled by the rain. It dissipates. A moment passes.
And then a figure stands at the shrine’s entrance.
“Jongho-ssi,” Mingi says, his voice breathless, and Jongho looks up.
His gray hair is matted, flat on his head; his chest is heaving. He is wet from the rain, evident from the forming puddle around his shoes.
Jongho finds Mingi’s eyes, and they both stare, holding each others’ gazes.
Mingi’s eyes flick down to Jongho’s arm, before returning again to meet his eyes. “Jongho-ssi,” he says, more gingerly, and Jongho unclamps his mouth. As he pulls back, he feels the skin of his lips separating from the stickiness of his taut arm. Mingi says again, “I… I’m gonna take you home, alright?”
Jongho blinks and looks at him.
Mingi exhales, slight sadness brushing past his face before he carefully says. “I’m gonna bring you back with me, alright? Can you stand up?”
He still extends a hand to Jongho, catching attention to his wrist, adorned by an already frayed, woven turquoise bracelet. Jongho stares at it for a while, before he takes the hand, holds it with his unbitten one.
Mingi’s body is warm even through his clothing. That realization slowly clears the haze permeating Jongho’s mind, as Mingi carefully guides him stepping through the threshold, shaking open an umbrella before holding it above both of them with his other hand.
“Mingi-yah! Did you find- oh, it’s Jongho-ssi!”
“You found Jongho-nim? That’s great!”
Wooyoung and San flock over, the worry in their gazes evident though they don’t question Jongho’s silence and the obvious blood ringed around his lips. They’re also soaked wet from the rain.
“Come on,” Jongho feels himself being ushered, his body huddled with the added warmth of the other two. Any other day, he would push them away, but today… today he will let it be. “Let’s get you somewhere dry.”
Jongho closes his eyes, grounded by Mingi’s hold around his arm.
Right.
Later, he will think more about this. About the realization that he can be saved, after waiting for so long for someone, anyone to come. That he is no longer in the unasked solitude of his being. That though the rain falls with no end, he is no longer untouched by warmth, nor will he be alone in the deluge.
That Yunho found him, in the nether oceans; that Mingi found him in that fateful rainy day - both of them convincing him to never let go, despite the mortality of this world.
But now, he lets himself be tugged forward, and he lets himself find consolation in the company.
.
.
.
In the human world,
It’s all separation until death.
How could the spring wind ever begrudge us
These long branches?
Notes:
and that concludes jongho's not-very-fun day!
1. hj, sh, and ys's shrines are inspired by the guksadang shrine.
2. the eumnu people are referred in wiki as the yilou people. i just used the korean transliteration. amur and ussuri rivers are also a real thing. btw while i was researching abt the eumnu people, i found this interesting article abt the languages of the three korean kingdoms! from this article i found the transliteration of the eumnu instead of yilou, and they were ancestors of suksin kingdom as well. v very interesting!
3. hj's words to sh: "the night might not know itself without the moon" is taken from rumi's poem in the arc of your mallet.
4. lastly, chapter title taken from li shangyin's poem: composition on breaking the willow branches at parting pavilion.
i. for now, trust in a cask of wine
to dispatch your weariness.
stop damaging those worried leaf-brows,
slender willow-waists.
in the human world,
it's all separation until death.
how could the spring wind ever begrudge us
these long branches?
ii. holding the mist, riling the fog,
all of it riotous reaching.
ten thousand unravelings, a thousand branches,
rake the setting brilliance.
tell that traveler for me
to stop his exhaustive branch-snapping.
half are reserved to say goodbye,
half are for welcoming a return.
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