paper umbrellas
Paper Umbrellas
gongchan/krystal; 1880 words
for kirakirashahida
The second son of the emperor grows up in a quiet town, far in the West, surrounded by rice paddies and apple groves. He learns to take advantage of the cart rides into town every week, he learns, slowly but surely, about the various things regarding the Great Empire that he will never rule. He grows taller every year, gains a greater eagerness and energy in his eyes. Chanshik feels incredibly alive in the golden air of his country home, wrapped up with reassurance (and shattering disappointment) that he will not grow up to be of much importance despite his heritage. He will not succeed his father who he has never met, and instead, may suffer the same mysterious fate as the former second princes. Chanshik, certain that despite his best efforts and wisdom, will never come to be of anything significant is a royal no different from every farmer’s son down the sunflower-trimmed main road. He just has better clothes and a sturdier roof above his head.
Chanshik turns sixteen at the end of the rainy season, when the water starts to seep away and the rain is less persistent. It is also the day that the empress visits, along with a pointlessly overbearing entourage. The doors are flung open to receive her highness and Chanshik takes his place at the doorway, upper body in a respectful bow to greet his mother he hasn’t seen for years. However, he also feels a deep unrest settle upon his shoulders as he takes up his seat to dine with the empress. She is as he has remembered five years ago, but her eyes crinkle up more and she wears her hair higher. They trade words, but it is not at all a lively conversation. There is a particular deadness to it, that makes Chanshik think about the lifeless koi fish that was washed away when the first torrent of rain fell upon the gardens.
She tells him, with no hesitation - at least none he can discern - that he ought to take up the task of seeking a respectable wife. And she must of course, be a noble. It is one of those rules that Chanshik is well aware of, but has never found at all relevant to him. He does not life in a palace and the second prince has no right to any place in the high court when he turns eighteen. So why must he seek a wife? As senseless as all this seems to him though, he knows etiquette, so he bows to the empress and smiles at her back when she leaves. All the servants do too, except for one.
He spots her, broom clutched in hand, hair swinging in the breeze. Her lips drawn into a thin line.
She is beautiful.
The rainy season comes early the next year, and the trees bend once again, straining against the force of the sky. Messengers from the capital hunch on the backs of their horses. Chanshik receives letters from the empress and they say a lot of things, as well as a lot of nothing. Chanshik decides to throw them into the fire one evening, and the rain is pounding on the roof. He can hear it, the thudding, like warhorses tearing down the sky.
“You should write back,” he hears from the door.
It is the girl from last year, who didn’t bow. There is no other possibility. Nobody employed has ever spoken to him in such a manner. Chanshik still finds it a mystery how within the confines of the mansion, he could manage to completely miss the existence of so many. But of course, he also knows that they are meant to stay in the shadows and tend to the second prince without even a breath out of place. “What is your name?” He asks in response.
“Soojung,” she answers readily - out of her own willingness or sense of duty, Chanshik is not sure. The uncertainty brings out a tension in his eyebrows that was not previously there.
He breathes in, forces himself to relax, and turns. He doesn’t see her, save for a glimpse of her back as she departs, to tend to whatever other duties they have assigned to her. It is so strange, Chanshik thinks, as he stares at the gap in the sliding doors, that while he is the prince, and she a servant, he is being led on a wild chase. A hopeless suitor after a beautiful princess. He reminds himself that this is silly, and turns back to finish his meal - and he finishes quickly, for his appetite disappears swiftly.
He ends up looking back over his shoulder, wondering if she will ever return one day.
He writes back.
They keep exchanging letters like they have never done before, and while Chanshik never feels that he has come in touch with a mother, he feels that there is a bond there that is strengthening. He stops throwing the letters away, and keeps them in his study. He never bothers to take them out to reread, but he keeps them there, a symbol that there was something of a mother in his life. He has family. People cared about him.
One day, he gets a letter from a nobleman’s daughter. A lady. Jinri. It is winter now, and the snow piles itself on the gardens. The messenger came through the gates that morning, coughing and wheezing. Bowing deeper than he had ever before. Chanshik takes the letter in his hands and studies it. He doesn’t unfold it, because he isn’t sure if he wants to read it. Reading it leads to all kinds of entailments. This Jinri, she has never written before. And why would she start now? It cannot possibly be a good omen.
And he knows, in the darker depths of his heart, that if he reads Jinri’s letter, Soojung will become a dream. He is still then, as he watches the snow drift onto the gardens, feels the freezing cold against his exposed hands and face. Chanshik knows very well what he is supposed to do, but also feels his whole heart refusing what is his obligation and duty. He watches his breath condense in front of him, and maybe it is the cold, and maybe it was spreading up from his fingertips, right to his heart. Maybe that is why he felt completely numb as he unfolded the letter and allowed his eyes to befall Lady Jinri’s elegant handwriting.
The snow keeps piling up.
He is polite to Jinri, he has learnt his lessons in etiquette well, and applying the skills may well be second nature. Chanshik begins to grow wary of his tutor’s heavy gaze when the messenger arrives and the intake of breath the entire household seems to have when another letter from Jinri arrives. He is on first-name terms with her now, and it has not yet been half a year.
He imagines one night, of the news creeping up to the capital, and he imagines the chain of events that will inevitably proceed soon after.
The empress arrives in late spring, and Chanshik is proven correct.
It disgusts him that he does not lift a finger to alter his own fate. He sits and listens as the empress and her consultants express their anticipation for this marriage. He hears sums abstract figures, nothing he will ever touch himself, and of various names which he cannot attach to a face. They discuss Jinri, but all Chanshik can think of is Soojung. It makes him feel a failure, a pawn of a great game he had once admired, but now - it is his slow awakening to a despicable reality. They ask him to sign, a mere formality they claim. Whether this is true of not, Chanshik cannot bring himself to care. He signs half his life away without so much a second of hesitation, and allows the ministers to bundle up their various belongings and leave him be.
The empress lingers for a moment longer, and Chanshik can tell that she is debating whether or not to stay. She leaves.
And Chanshik sits still deep into the night, drowning in silent rage and frustration beating down on him like the July rain.
He leaves in May, when the clouds are starting to creep overhead. He leaves, and he places his name on another document of his own preparation. It does not alter his own fate, but it does change hers.
When he arrives at the palace and meets Jinri for the first time, he spots her at her right-hand side. Just as he had intended. He purposefully arranges his gaze to focus on Jinri. She has remarkable features, so carefully arranged and delicate, like a doll, he cannot help think. She is charming, as she always was. He eyes are warm, he can see in them, an uncertainty similar to his own. He feels his heart twist and lurch from guilt, as he wonders if there is anything he can do to soothe her.
And he knows, as he bids Jinri farewell to retire to his new rooms, that Soojung’s eyes have not left him since his arrival.
In July, he spends every day thinking about Soojung. She becomes synonymous with the rain. Jinri is by his side often, and indeed, she is to some degree, a welcome individual. Nevertheless, she is still a source of his suffering, so Chanshik cannot help but feel a gaping chasm between them. Chanshik insists that they sit on the balcony often, and Jinri has suffered two colds thanks to him. Instead of withdrawing his demands, he enforces them, and decides that he may well wrap his arm around her shoulder, and give him a fraction of what love she is seeking for.
They both know she has not found it in him.
They watch the rain and murmur meaningful things to one another. Chanshik wonders if she is falling in love, because he isn’t. At least, not with her. He falls in love with the rain that reminds him always of Soojung.
One of the ministers - one of the younger ones, only seven years his senior, suggests Chanshik write to Jinri to express his love. Let it simply be something to fill up the gaps in their lives. He weighs his options, but realises that this is something that Jinri would want. He allows himself to be considerate to her, and he writes.
His poetry, he writes thinking of Soojung, but he dedicates to Jinri.
The next day, he does not leave his chambers, and apologises to the rain.
They marry in late August, when the sky is clearing up and the air is cooling. Chanshik chooses the flowers that go into Soojung’s hair and after the vows, he takes Jinri’s hand and apologises to her.
“For what?”
“Because I am not who you are looking for.” And you are not who I want.
She kisses him away from the rest of the palace inhabitants, beneath an ancient willow tree, and Chanshik feels his lips burn.
The next year, Chanshik writes another poem to Soojung and gives it to Jinri. And he secretly wonders - hopes - that perhaps Jinri will read it out to Soojung one evening. Perhaps.