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.
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.
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