Passage [1/5]
anonymous
December 18 2009, 21:25:54 UTC
(I apologize that it isn't much about the sex. Somehow this took a complete and twisted life of its own)
The child of his former ally, the shaman queen who had conquered the peninsula, slept peacefully in a curled ball. He could have been no older than six mortal years, though the dragon knew that the boy had already witnessed a century. Much happened in a single century (endless war, countless kings, destruction and reborn dynasties). But you could not tell that in the peaceful expression upon the round face.
The dragon drank another cup of wine as he listened to distant music. The air smelled of flower petals (so sweet and frail and cloying, like a concubine’s embrace) and the promise of rain. Exhaling, he turned to reach for the jug when his arm stopped, arrested in place by some hindrance. Mildly perturbed, he looked down to see that the boy had fallen asleep atop the voluminous sleeve of his robe, curled up around embroideries of dancing dragons and curling clouds. To free his hand was to wake the peacefully slumbering child.
The dragon sighed and shook his head. He set his porcelain cup delicately on the ground. His hand reached to his embroidered belt, to the dagger he always carried there. He unsheathed the blade with one slow, smooth movement. Another man might have hesitated; the silk alone, brighter than freshly spilled blood, was priceless. But he only silently pressed the impossibly sharp edge of his dagger to the sleeve and watched as the fabric parted mutely. He pulled his now naked arm from the detached sleeve and watched the empty cloth hover in the air for a moment, as though truly able to fly, before drifting to the ground.
The boy had not so much as stirred after the careful operation. The dragon touched at the little head delicately, feeling wisps of fine hair under his fingertips. Under the touch, the boy sighed and smiled, his head shifting slightly. The fingers drew away and another sigh, perhaps of disappointment, escaped a little mouth still sticky from honey cakes. Then the dragon rose ponderously to his feet, his long arms reaching out and carefully gathering sleeve, boy, all and carrying the surprisingly heavy child indoors. Rain began to patter upon the tile roof and dripped into the empty wine cup.
…
Water dripped onto the expensive wool and silk carpet that had been a gift from a fawning ambassador (frankly, he hated it; but it was the principle that counted).
“And the current damages include a teak wood tray, two tea sets…”
The boy shifted in place, water having caused all of his hair but one single strand to stick close to his head.
“Two lords’ robes…”
Fidgeting continued.
“An entire stem of lotus blossoms, with even the seeds unable to be harvested.”
Muddy water had started to flow in a sluggish and many branched stream forwards to form a small lake in a slight depression on the floor.
“Six vases and a clock,” finished the Empire at last. “What have you to say for yourself, boy?”
The boy calling himself Goryeo silently proffered a moderately sized turtle for inspection. For a face that had so little in the way of facility, the beast wore a rather long-suffering expression.
The empire sighed. “Put it back, child. It does not belong here.” He silently prayed for patience as the expression on the boy’s face turned from sheepish to mutinous.
When he eventually did deliver punishment to the back of bare thighs, the boy did not so much as squeak at the strikes of the switch. Even as tears welled up in the corner of the bright eyes, the boy remained silent, nearly biting his lip hard enough to bleed. And then the empire deigned to let himself soften and gathered the child into his arms, letting silent sobs run their course.
Of course later, the boy would howl and wriggle, belying the almost frightening stoic silence that he had received his first punishment (And this would stick into the dragon’s mind, lingering with memories that would not be forgotten, no matter how much he tried).
Passage [2/5]
anonymous
December 18 2009, 21:26:33 UTC
The boy had an endless fascination with dance. Music as well, but dance seemed to be his first love. The boy simply had to move; to keep still was agony for him, despite reprimands and punishments.
He watched the movements of the court dancers silently, eyes wide and aglow at each minute gesture and ponderous movement within the beautiful embroidered robes and elaborate headdresses. They wouldn’t let him dance with them but he would copy their steps when he could. His feet pattered on the ground as he sought to capture their gestures with his fingers. And yet he could still use the too long sleeves of his garments, flicking them in the air in trails.
The boy grew and he left the rounded times of childhood for the stronger features of adulthood. The world left its impression upon him and he grew fiercer (though perhaps he had always had the blood of a tiger in him). Still, he loved to dance and he never seemed happier than when he moved, his feet never staying long upon the ground.
That was the beauty that the boy’s mother had given him, the gestures and energy and art of human forms and movements. Seeing the boy dance became a quiet pleasure for the dragon, though he would never say this aloud.
But the boy did not dance one day. He was drunk from victory and from loss. His hair smelled still of sulfur and ash and he breathed fumes of rice wine. He was dressed in beautiful Court wear, garments he was more than qualified to wear save for his seeming age. Dark blue robes engulfed his coltish limbs; gold embroidery glittering brilliantly in the light of candles and lamps like molten serpents silently dancing in a sea or a twilight sky.
“Why do you not celebrate?” asked the dragon mildly. He ignored the smell of sulfur and discreetly pushed the wine jug to the side.
“Because I have lost,” said the boy.
“But you have won.”
“At a cost, hyung-nim,” the boy replied softly.
“Your Admiral.”
“Yes.”
The boy drank another cup of wine as though it would soothe his heart and it would not. Both of them knew this (the boy had learned his lesson from his first indulgences in wine centuries ago). But the dragon had lost too many heroes and beloveds to count, yet he reached out and gently pushed away straying strands of dark hair from red-rimmed eyes.
“He died well,” he said softly.
“He died!” cried the boy angrily, slamming his cup onto the table. “He died and he left me all alone!” He stared at the shards of porcelain and then at his bleeding fingers.
“Are you truly alone?” whispered the dragon.
“I… I…” The boy looked away, his already flushed cheeks reddening further. “No. I have you, hyung-nim. I have you.”
The dragon did not chuckle but he nodded mildly, and something softened and sharpened in unearthly amber eyes. His adopted brother had grown too well, it seemed.
Passage [3/5]
anonymous
December 18 2009, 21:27:06 UTC
Goryeo danced in the rain, his feet pattering upon the wet and gleaming slate tiles of the courtyard. His passage sent waves of water surging from deceptively deep puddles (the courtyard was very old and had as many crevices as an ancient ravine). He tossed his head and his long black braid whipped through the air in a dark arc, trailing a ragged banner of torn red ribbon.
Today he wore white and it had grown translucent from the water from the heavens and on the earth. He danced anyways, raising his arms upwards and singing to himself. His voice had no unearthly beauty to it; it grated to the ears. But those tones held something like temple bells, deep as bronze, rich as gold.
His legs took him off the confining ground and he flew, like some great long-limbed bird. He drew a sword from his side and it whipped through the air, slicing raindrops. All the while, he sang in a tongue almost as old as time, those songs his long-dead mother must have surely taught him. Songs for warriors and kings, for beloved ones whose loss would be forever felt- mortal lives ended in such ceremony.
The dragon watched from the safety of the shadows, though dragons did not stay long in darkness. He watched silently as the boy continued to dance for joy and for sorrow.
Above, the sun rolled in the heavens like a glowing pearl in fine gray silk. It slunk west and the courtyard theater grew black with yawning shadow.
The boy subsided and stood in the very center of the empty place. Water poured over his still body and he tilted his face upwards, as his fingers clutched at his sword. The dragon stepped from the shadows and he bore an oiled silk lantern in one hand, an oiled silk parasol in the other.
Goryeo said nothing.
Water soaked into the hems of the dragon’s robes. It seeped into his fine suede slippers. He walked slowly and deliberately closer and he brought the parasol above his foolish little brother’s head. The water continued to drip from sodden hair and clothing. Dark eyes seemed even darker in the hollows of a slowly aging face (though those cheeks would never change, nor that wide and expressive mouth).
“Inside,” the dragon breathed.
And they made their way inside, leaving an empty dark world of rain behind them.
Passage [3/5]
anonymous
December 18 2009, 21:27:39 UTC
It took more than some rain to kill those like them. But the boy shivered once inside the beautiful chambers lit with bright lanterns and scented with many perfumes. Summer bloomed here eternally, with even the illusion of lazy sunlight and the slow ripening rot of flowers and fruit. Carefully cultivated, for that was what illusion required.
Goryeo clutched at his sword as the dragon called for gently heated wine and sweet ginger tea. He dripped water over the exquisite carpets but he made no movement to remove his sodden garments. The dragon sighed and moved to do so. He had managed to persuade the kingdom to move enough to take off the first layer of clothing when the servants arrived with the requested drinks.
The dragon removed the first layer of his robes and put it aside without any real thought. He stepped out of his suede slippers and indicated that Goryeo also step out of his sodden leather shoes. Surprisingly, the young kingdom obeyed and sat across from the dragon. He realized that his sword was still out but the scabbard was wet. The dragon mutely rose and retrieved a jar of metal oil, setting it delicately before the kingdom. Goryeo murmured his thanks and he dipped his fingers into the stone jar and rubbed it into the gleaming, damp metal of his sword.
The silence unnerved the dragon more than it should have. He was far too used to his adopted brother bringing a whirlwind of words to life. Silence continued to reign and finally, the kingdom set his sword aside and lay the scabbard by it. He accepted the cup of wine that the dragon poured and he drank it with the feverishly bright expression of one completely exhausted. The dragon would have fussed over the damage to the precious textiles and furnishings, but he found his mouth reluctant to castigate.
Somehow time slipped through their fingers like fine sand. They drank wine and hot tea and Goryeo’s clothes became at least a little warmer though clammier. It took two cups of wine for the kingdom’s eyes to grow heavy-lidded and dark and he drooped over the dregs of his tea. He jumped at the chiming of the bells through the halls announcing the hour, the sonorous calls of the servants echoing through the passages and interrupting the many dreamers in these perfumed rooms.
The dragon finally rose gracefully from folds of fabric and went to the kingdom, who blinked at him bemusedly. Long nailed fingers gently drew up the boy and took him to the intimate chambers of the bedroom silently. In that sanctum, the empire undid the sodden clothing and set it aside, as the child blinked stupidly in the dimmer lights. Under the white (and he could think of two images, superimposed, dancing), the boy had a body that no child should ever have.
Sword cuts and brutal burns, spear thrusts and slave brands. Many of them faded now but the memory of them lingered upon a landscape of flesh. So the empire drew his eyes upwards, away from such unpleasant sights. The boy’s mouth was red and sticky now and it did not remind him of a flower.
That small hand (but so strong, so calloused) grasped for the ends of the dragon’s hair, as he had once done so many years ago.
Passage [5/5]
anonymous
December 18 2009, 21:28:28 UTC
“Do you remember my mother?” asked the kingdom at last.
“Yes.”
“Did you love her?”
The empire did not answer. The kingdom sighed in response.
“She loved you,” he whispered.
The boy lay upon silken sheets then, and his wet hair slowly unwound from an unfastened braid. His hair was far coarser than the empire’s and it did not resemble a waterfall of darkest ink. He lay there and he looked so inviting, so intoxicatingly vulnerable…
The boy accepted the kiss mutely and without a single sound of surprise. Drink had weighted his limbs and dulled his mind. An inviting flush filled his round cheeks, and the empire could feel the heat more than see it.
“Hyung-nim,” murmured the boy. Belying his drunkenness, he brought his rounded arms up and wrapped them around the empire’s neck, bringing him closer again.
The dragon breathed hotly onto a bare and damp chest and the kingdom sighed. Had the boy had ever known a woman’s kiss? Surely he knew of romance, of darker pleasures somehow. Both of them had debauched courts, cities laced with curious pleasures (though the kingdom’s was a pale imitation, a child’s thing).
Goryeo sighed again and turned his face away for a moment, biting his lower lip. Such a recalcitrant child. The dragon stole another kiss and felt the boy tremble like a leaf in a gale.
“Hyung-nim,” the boy whispered.
The empire had so much that he could sometimes never keep straight of what he had. This kingdom belonged to him and he indulged the boy out of careless affection or insignificance or a long-dead memory. He let his fingers trail along a rounded cheek and mused on the ugliness of the child-
Until his mind wove the image of the boy flying through the air in white, a lean and leggy crane, dancing in the rain.
The empire caressed the boy’s limbs with trailing fingers, felt the coarse hair against the back of a milk pale hand. He made the kingdom writhe under him and whimper like a dog. Limbs flailed uselessly, a mouth parted in hoarse, still sharp cries. The boy said nothing save that one name, begging or pleading or calling for some unsaid desire. The dragon did not go too far, however, and the boy finally sighed and subsided against the silk covered bed in a deep, lingering slumber.
Palms sticky, mouth bitter with old wine, the empire gazed at the child in his bed. He trailed his fingers through his tangled hair slowly. The boy’s mother’s unearthly beauty had passed him. And that was good, for the mother had beauty that terrified, not soothed.
Quietly, softly, the dragon wound around the child and dreamed of ghosts.
Passage [Author's Notes]
anonymous
December 18 2009, 21:29:14 UTC
“Shaman queen” - This author’s head canon is that the current Korea is the child of the three kingdoms (Silla, Paekche, Goguryeo; one woman and two males respectively). Silla, one of the three kingdoms of the Korean peninsula, conquered the other two kingdoms with the aid of Han China, resulting in the Unified Silla. Silla eventually fell to dissension and political strife and was eventually reemerged as Goryeo.
“sleeve” - a story goes that an Emperor cut off the sleeve of his robe rather than to disturb the slumber of his favorite young male lover. Interestingly, this story is repeated in form of an emperor cutting off the sleeve of a priceless robe in order to not disturb a kitten’s slumber and even as a version involving Muhammed.
“hyung-nim” - a very respectful term for elder brother (for men), equivalent of “onii-sama” in Japanese.
“The Admiral” - this is a reference to Admiral Yi Soon Shin, one of Korea’s most beloved heroes and well known for never having lost a single naval battle during his entire career. After his death in battle, he was honored in both Korea and China. The author recommends a quick Wikipedia search for more information.
White - The mourning color in Asia is white, though interestingly enough, the default clothing color for most Korean adults was in fact white (at least in the lower classes).
Re: Passage [Author's Notes]
anonymous
January 2 2010, 14:16:07 UTC
How does this not have more comments?! Authoranon, this was so beautifully written. Amazing. Gah. I love the atmosphere you created~! I'm definitely bookmarking this so I can enjoy it again~
The child of his former ally, the shaman queen who had conquered the peninsula, slept peacefully in a curled ball. He could have been no older than six mortal years, though the dragon knew that the boy had already witnessed a century. Much happened in a single century (endless war, countless kings, destruction and reborn dynasties). But you could not tell that in the peaceful expression upon the round face.
The dragon drank another cup of wine as he listened to distant music. The air smelled of flower petals (so sweet and frail and cloying, like a concubine’s embrace) and the promise of rain. Exhaling, he turned to reach for the jug when his arm stopped, arrested in place by some hindrance. Mildly perturbed, he looked down to see that the boy had fallen asleep atop the voluminous sleeve of his robe, curled up around embroideries of dancing dragons and curling clouds. To free his hand was to wake the peacefully slumbering child.
The dragon sighed and shook his head. He set his porcelain cup delicately on the ground. His hand reached to his embroidered belt, to the dagger he always carried there. He unsheathed the blade with one slow, smooth movement. Another man might have hesitated; the silk alone, brighter than freshly spilled blood, was priceless. But he only silently pressed the impossibly sharp edge of his dagger to the sleeve and watched as the fabric parted mutely. He pulled his now naked arm from the detached sleeve and watched the empty cloth hover in the air for a moment, as though truly able to fly, before drifting to the ground.
The boy had not so much as stirred after the careful operation. The dragon touched at the little head delicately, feeling wisps of fine hair under his fingertips. Under the touch, the boy sighed and smiled, his head shifting slightly. The fingers drew away and another sigh, perhaps of disappointment, escaped a little mouth still sticky from honey cakes. Then the dragon rose ponderously to his feet, his long arms reaching out and carefully gathering sleeve, boy, all and carrying the surprisingly heavy child indoors. Rain began to patter upon the tile roof and dripped into the empty wine cup.
…
Water dripped onto the expensive wool and silk carpet that had been a gift from a fawning ambassador (frankly, he hated it; but it was the principle that counted).
“And the current damages include a teak wood tray, two tea sets…”
The boy shifted in place, water having caused all of his hair but one single strand to stick close to his head.
“Two lords’ robes…”
Fidgeting continued.
“An entire stem of lotus blossoms, with even the seeds unable to be harvested.”
Muddy water had started to flow in a sluggish and many branched stream forwards to form a small lake in a slight depression on the floor.
“Six vases and a clock,” finished the Empire at last. “What have you to say for yourself, boy?”
The boy calling himself Goryeo silently proffered a moderately sized turtle for inspection. For a face that had so little in the way of facility, the beast wore a rather long-suffering expression.
The empire sighed. “Put it back, child. It does not belong here.” He silently prayed for patience as the expression on the boy’s face turned from sheepish to mutinous.
When he eventually did deliver punishment to the back of bare thighs, the boy did not so much as squeak at the strikes of the switch. Even as tears welled up in the corner of the bright eyes, the boy remained silent, nearly biting his lip hard enough to bleed. And then the empire deigned to let himself soften and gathered the child into his arms, letting silent sobs run their course.
Of course later, the boy would howl and wriggle, belying the almost frightening stoic silence that he had received his first punishment (And this would stick into the dragon’s mind, lingering with memories that would not be forgotten, no matter how much he tried).
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He watched the movements of the court dancers silently, eyes wide and aglow at each minute gesture and ponderous movement within the beautiful embroidered robes and elaborate headdresses. They wouldn’t let him dance with them but he would copy their steps when he could. His feet pattered on the ground as he sought to capture their gestures with his fingers. And yet he could still use the too long sleeves of his garments, flicking them in the air in trails.
The boy grew and he left the rounded times of childhood for the stronger features of adulthood. The world left its impression upon him and he grew fiercer (though perhaps he had always had the blood of a tiger in him). Still, he loved to dance and he never seemed happier than when he moved, his feet never staying long upon the ground.
That was the beauty that the boy’s mother had given him, the gestures and energy and art of human forms and movements. Seeing the boy dance became a quiet pleasure for the dragon, though he would never say this aloud.
But the boy did not dance one day. He was drunk from victory and from loss. His hair smelled still of sulfur and ash and he breathed fumes of rice wine. He was dressed in beautiful Court wear, garments he was more than qualified to wear save for his seeming age. Dark blue robes engulfed his coltish limbs; gold embroidery glittering brilliantly in the light of candles and lamps like molten serpents silently dancing in a sea or a twilight sky.
“Why do you not celebrate?” asked the dragon mildly. He ignored the smell of sulfur and discreetly pushed the wine jug to the side.
“Because I have lost,” said the boy.
“But you have won.”
“At a cost, hyung-nim,” the boy replied softly.
“Your Admiral.”
“Yes.”
The boy drank another cup of wine as though it would soothe his heart and it would not. Both of them knew this (the boy had learned his lesson from his first indulgences in wine centuries ago). But the dragon had lost too many heroes and beloveds to count, yet he reached out and gently pushed away straying strands of dark hair from red-rimmed eyes.
“He died well,” he said softly.
“He died!” cried the boy angrily, slamming his cup onto the table. “He died and he left me all alone!” He stared at the shards of porcelain and then at his bleeding fingers.
“Are you truly alone?” whispered the dragon.
“I… I…” The boy looked away, his already flushed cheeks reddening further. “No. I have you, hyung-nim. I have you.”
The dragon did not chuckle but he nodded mildly, and something softened and sharpened in unearthly amber eyes. His adopted brother had grown too well, it seemed.
Reply
Today he wore white and it had grown translucent from the water from the heavens and on the earth. He danced anyways, raising his arms upwards and singing to himself. His voice had no unearthly beauty to it; it grated to the ears. But those tones held something like temple bells, deep as bronze, rich as gold.
His legs took him off the confining ground and he flew, like some great long-limbed bird. He drew a sword from his side and it whipped through the air, slicing raindrops. All the while, he sang in a tongue almost as old as time, those songs his long-dead mother must have surely taught him. Songs for warriors and kings, for beloved ones whose loss would be forever felt- mortal lives ended in such ceremony.
The dragon watched from the safety of the shadows, though dragons did not stay long in darkness. He watched silently as the boy continued to dance for joy and for sorrow.
Above, the sun rolled in the heavens like a glowing pearl in fine gray silk. It slunk west and the courtyard theater grew black with yawning shadow.
The boy subsided and stood in the very center of the empty place. Water poured over his still body and he tilted his face upwards, as his fingers clutched at his sword. The dragon stepped from the shadows and he bore an oiled silk lantern in one hand, an oiled silk parasol in the other.
Goryeo said nothing.
Water soaked into the hems of the dragon’s robes. It seeped into his fine suede slippers. He walked slowly and deliberately closer and he brought the parasol above his foolish little brother’s head. The water continued to drip from sodden hair and clothing. Dark eyes seemed even darker in the hollows of a slowly aging face (though those cheeks would never change, nor that wide and expressive mouth).
“Inside,” the dragon breathed.
And they made their way inside, leaving an empty dark world of rain behind them.
Reply
Goryeo clutched at his sword as the dragon called for gently heated wine and sweet ginger tea. He dripped water over the exquisite carpets but he made no movement to remove his sodden garments. The dragon sighed and moved to do so. He had managed to persuade the kingdom to move enough to take off the first layer of clothing when the servants arrived with the requested drinks.
The dragon removed the first layer of his robes and put it aside without any real thought. He stepped out of his suede slippers and indicated that Goryeo also step out of his sodden leather shoes. Surprisingly, the young kingdom obeyed and sat across from the dragon. He realized that his sword was still out but the scabbard was wet. The dragon mutely rose and retrieved a jar of metal oil, setting it delicately before the kingdom. Goryeo murmured his thanks and he dipped his fingers into the stone jar and rubbed it into the gleaming, damp metal of his sword.
The silence unnerved the dragon more than it should have. He was far too used to his adopted brother bringing a whirlwind of words to life. Silence continued to reign and finally, the kingdom set his sword aside and lay the scabbard by it. He accepted the cup of wine that the dragon poured and he drank it with the feverishly bright expression of one completely exhausted. The dragon would have fussed over the damage to the precious textiles and furnishings, but he found his mouth reluctant to castigate.
Somehow time slipped through their fingers like fine sand. They drank wine and hot tea and Goryeo’s clothes became at least a little warmer though clammier. It took two cups of wine for the kingdom’s eyes to grow heavy-lidded and dark and he drooped over the dregs of his tea. He jumped at the chiming of the bells through the halls announcing the hour, the sonorous calls of the servants echoing through the passages and interrupting the many dreamers in these perfumed rooms.
The dragon finally rose gracefully from folds of fabric and went to the kingdom, who blinked at him bemusedly. Long nailed fingers gently drew up the boy and took him to the intimate chambers of the bedroom silently. In that sanctum, the empire undid the sodden clothing and set it aside, as the child blinked stupidly in the dimmer lights. Under the white (and he could think of two images, superimposed, dancing), the boy had a body that no child should ever have.
Sword cuts and brutal burns, spear thrusts and slave brands. Many of them faded now but the memory of them lingered upon a landscape of flesh. So the empire drew his eyes upwards, away from such unpleasant sights. The boy’s mouth was red and sticky now and it did not remind him of a flower.
That small hand (but so strong, so calloused) grasped for the ends of the dragon’s hair, as he had once done so many years ago.
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“Yes.”
“Did you love her?”
The empire did not answer. The kingdom sighed in response.
“She loved you,” he whispered.
The boy lay upon silken sheets then, and his wet hair slowly unwound from an unfastened braid. His hair was far coarser than the empire’s and it did not resemble a waterfall of darkest ink. He lay there and he looked so inviting, so intoxicatingly vulnerable…
The boy accepted the kiss mutely and without a single sound of surprise. Drink had weighted his limbs and dulled his mind. An inviting flush filled his round cheeks, and the empire could feel the heat more than see it.
“Hyung-nim,” murmured the boy. Belying his drunkenness, he brought his rounded arms up and wrapped them around the empire’s neck, bringing him closer again.
The dragon breathed hotly onto a bare and damp chest and the kingdom sighed. Had the boy had ever known a woman’s kiss? Surely he knew of romance, of darker pleasures somehow. Both of them had debauched courts, cities laced with curious pleasures (though the kingdom’s was a pale imitation, a child’s thing).
Goryeo sighed again and turned his face away for a moment, biting his lower lip. Such a recalcitrant child. The dragon stole another kiss and felt the boy tremble like a leaf in a gale.
“Hyung-nim,” the boy whispered.
The empire had so much that he could sometimes never keep straight of what he had. This kingdom belonged to him and he indulged the boy out of careless affection or insignificance or a long-dead memory. He let his fingers trail along a rounded cheek and mused on the ugliness of the child-
Until his mind wove the image of the boy flying through the air in white, a lean and leggy crane, dancing in the rain.
The empire caressed the boy’s limbs with trailing fingers, felt the coarse hair against the back of a milk pale hand. He made the kingdom writhe under him and whimper like a dog. Limbs flailed uselessly, a mouth parted in hoarse, still sharp cries. The boy said nothing save that one name, begging or pleading or calling for some unsaid desire. The dragon did not go too far, however, and the boy finally sighed and subsided against the silk covered bed in a deep, lingering slumber.
Palms sticky, mouth bitter with old wine, the empire gazed at the child in his bed. He trailed his fingers through his tangled hair slowly. The boy’s mother’s unearthly beauty had passed him. And that was good, for the mother had beauty that terrified, not soothed.
Quietly, softly, the dragon wound around the child and dreamed of ghosts.
Reply
“sleeve” - a story goes that an Emperor cut off the sleeve of his robe rather than to disturb the slumber of his favorite young male lover. Interestingly, this story is repeated in form of an emperor cutting off the sleeve of a priceless robe in order to not disturb a kitten’s slumber and even as a version involving Muhammed.
“hyung-nim” - a very respectful term for elder brother (for men), equivalent of “onii-sama” in Japanese.
“The Admiral” - this is a reference to Admiral Yi Soon Shin, one of Korea’s most beloved heroes and well known for never having lost a single naval battle during his entire career. After his death in battle, he was honored in both Korea and China. The author recommends a quick Wikipedia search for more information.
White - The mourning color in Asia is white, though interestingly enough, the default clothing color for most Korean adults was in fact white (at least in the lower classes).
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