[Minho / Taemin] 피리소릴 따라와

[quagmireisadora]

Rating: R
Warning: some gore, inaccurate history
Genre: robot au
Length: 5775


All the men scream.

It is hard to tell if they scream in glorious victory or horrified defeat. Saltpeter and ash showers their tongues. Clay sticks to the bottom of their robes and their sandals are crusted with blood. In the distance, an explosion jars the air and silences them for a moment, but soon their cries resume just as loud and formidable.

In the middle of the battlefield stands a man, his body on fire and his sword plunging into invisible enemies. The stench of singed grass and burning sandalwood emanates from him, along with large ominous puffs of smoke. The flames eat through cloth but crackle and splinter at his skin. His body remains upright, alert. His flesh glistens like boiling oil, his feet travel in patterns of dance, his arms are poised in defence, his back casts an indomitable shadow. In the middle of the battlefield, among the charred corpses and broken shields, a man is alight, waiting eagerly for the next volley.

Another man lifts himself from the ground some distance from the scene. His innards are spilling, his ankles are sliced open, his death is lurking just a few feet away. He walks past it, eyes trained at his burning comrade. “Water…” he tries but his voice is too weak, too quiet and coming from a parched place. “W-water, please…” he repeats, and it is softer than the first utterance. He moves, dragging himself forward pitifully slow. His topknot is untidy and his clothes are bloody, but the golden crest of the hwarang stands prominently on his chest.

The burning man loses an arm from the shoulder, yet his sword is unwavering. Its heated blade glimmers white hot, but he does not let go of it. He stops moving. Pieces of his hips start to melt, oozing and bubbling before they fall off like chunks of wax. The screaming dwindles but the sound of flames roars loud as thunder. He stops moving, but is weapon remains eternally raring to storm through the enemy lines.

“T-Tae…” the hwarang approaches him, tired and slashed arms outstretched. His steps squelch through the ground and his own damaged body. He stumbles and nearly falls, but catches himself. “Taemin ah, stop,” he says. “It’s ov-over. You can stop.” But the other does not listen, he does not stir. He does not even spare a glance for his companion.

The hwarang limps towards the burning man, and with only a few steps between them he lunges. His arms close around the flames, his robes billow in their force, his flesh immediately catches and starts to disintegrate. He envelopes the other in a hug that swallows them both whole. “It’s over, Tae,” he is heard whispering over the loud roar of the fire. “You can stop…”

No one screams now, and all eyes are on them.

He treads carefully.

The path is treacherous in the dark of the night, and one poorly aimed step could send him lurching off the edge of the cliff, to certain death. He gulps and keeps his eyes on the ground, his steps light and his gait short. The back of his neck hurts but he dares not take a moment to stretch. Streaks of sweat trickle under his overgrown hair and beard. The cloth covering his head is sodden, the jewels on his ears and neck clink, the fabric of his jacket is crumpled beyond its usual stateliness. Were he to make it out of this ordeal alive, the first thing he will do when his feet are planted firmly in the city will be-

To find a woman. He has not been satiated since he left Kaesong behind and the road since has been difficult, trying his intellect and patience in equal measure. Baekjae’s evening district is of much renown among his compatriots. He carries the memory of all their drunken nights, when one or the other men loudly fantasizes about short skirts and red lips. Yes, he will first have his fill of beautiful faces on beautiful bodies. Then, and only then, will he shave his face and head.

And that will be the ink to this story.

The streets of Wiryeseong are wide enough for 2 horsemen to ride together, side-by-side. They are paved and lined with stone, gutters running along their edges. Its people have built bridges across the narrower parts of the Han river-curved upwards at the middle, walls to both their edges. Like tunnels without their tops. These channels could convey what appears to be an incredible load between the two banks. Horses, mules, soldiers in full armour, traders from the dockyards, women from the flower quarters. It is unlike anything Minho had ever seen in Silla.

“This… this is fantastic!” Jonghyun exclaims beside him, his face in open shock. “It is as if we were taken to a glorious future!”

“This is the future-” Jinki replies with a smile in his tone, his mount several steps behind them. “Baekjae is our gateway to the West.”

The West: Minho grew up hearing tell of a thousand mysteries that lay in the unknown world of the West. Empires of jade, kingdoms of gold, mountains that stood higher than the clouds and valleys that dug deeper than the ocean; and people very different from those of the Three Kingdoms. People who sung around fires, people who rode strange animals with long noses, people who spoke in odd tongues, people who could see the unseen. To the east is a barren sea of salt and misery, but to the West…

King Jabi had grown up with the same stories, it seems, for his interest in an alliance with Baekjae grows stronger by the day. Three of his strongest and most beautiful hwarang he sends with words of peace, (not the customary five, for that would seem too aggressive) but back home where commoners and gentry alike would hurriedly clear the way for men of their stature, in Wiryeseong no one so much as stirs. Minho has spent several nights pondering the purpose of their errand, thinking over the reason for a nation as great as Silla to offer an arm and a leg to an insignificant trading port. But the wonders that greet him in its capital quell all his unanswered doubts.

The marketplace is bursting with men in the finest robes of silk, women with hair braided intricately, children that look like young lords and ladies. Nowhere in sight is the poverty that is so easily found in every dusty alleyway of Gyeongju, only a few steps away from the palaces. The commoners here sport jewels, hold lace parasols, paint their faces bright and beautiful, wear jade on their fingers. Even the soldiers look like nobility with their polished helms and chivalrous smiles.

For a moment Minho wonders if this is all an elaborate performance for their arrival, but then curbs the thought. Three unknown men hold no rank in a city where everyone lives like a king.

“Look, over there!” Jonghyun excitedly points towards a wide embankment. A man stands on a pedestal and calmly preaches to the people, his clothes dyed a deep red and his head completely shaven. Below him an array of scribes, similarly dressed, hurriedly imprint the message on long scrolls and throw it into the river. “What are those men doing?!”

“Travelling monks, they are,” a woman answers from the ground, her eyes remaining on the task of arranging her wares for display. “Come to tell us of a new god-Buddha, they call him, I think.” She gestures at the scribes with a jerk of her chin. “That lot puts all of it down on paper and the river takes it away. To other lands, they say.”

“How strange!” Jonghyun claps with eagerness. “I must go hear what they have to say! Men, you will come, no?” he stops his horse and turns to them, his hazel eyes glinting like those of a child about to be gifted with sweets.

Jinki raises a hand. “I must go look for a medicine man,” he grins apologetically. “Perhaps Minho can offer you the company…?”

Minho simply looks ahead and continues riding, to Jonghyun’s very vocal dismay.

“Wait, you-! Ah, there you go again, off to brood by yourself!”

Minho’s steed takes him farther and farther from the bustling riverbanks, and he does not notice until the sound of clanging swords assails his ears.

When he looks up from his thoughts the road ahead is empty. Dark trees line the sides of a hoof-beaten path, and between them all the front yards are enclosed by low brick walls. The houses are large, but quiet. Maids beat rugs on washing lines and children run in circular games on the grass. Another group of bald men walks past him, chanting under their breaths with every step. Minho bows his head in respect at them, an action that takes him by surprise. He hurries along.

When the sound of swords reaches him a second time, it is closer. He searches for it, and a third clang gives him direction.

The house of a shaman stands among the rest of the buildings. Raised off the ground with firewood and large red lamps on display, it is oddly familiar to Minho in this foreign land. A pair of mats lie across each other, between them a low table with two cups of steaming barley tea. On the walls are several charms and inscriptions in elegant script. Wicker baskets hang from nails near the ceiling, and bound rolls of hay line the underside of the awning. He dismounts, leading his horse towards it. The closer he steps, the more it reminds him of his own home, and of the scent of wet earth.

“I welcome you, stranger,” a woman steps forth from the house. She wears the red and yellow robes of a shaman, her hair in a tight bun and her eyes whispering secrets. On the middle of her forehead is a pendant that spits light with every movement. She is adorned in feathers and strings of colourful beads that dangle on the sides of her face. Her glance is ringed with black lines and yet a bright centre shines from them. “I welcome you,” she repeats. “What is the answer you are searching for?”

Minho cannot affirm or decline. As men of the sword they are trained to be certain, for an unsure heart is swallowed whole on the battlefield. The military world is black and white, with no room for grey. But the world of spirits is unclear, undefined. It has no boundaries and no reasoning. As Minho stands there undecided, and the shaman studies him with mild interest, he is suddenly transported to his boyhood; when his sweaty little palms lost grip of the practice sword and his master dismissed him with no more than a disdainful look.

“Come now,” she urges gently. “Your face bears questions your tongue may not yet taste. But they do breed in your mind. Ask them of me, stranger. I will hear them.”

He blinks. “They speak of new gods by the river,” he says. “Yet you remain here with your old tricks. Why?”

She nods appreciatively. “Gods are but travellers. They camp by this river today, another tomorrow,” she holds her arms out at her sides, indicating the ground they stand on. “But spirits are rooted to the soil they were made from. My body will rot and disappear but my spirit will stay here, waiting for a new home, for a new form. The water will fill the pot, and take its shape.”

“And what if the pot were to break?” Minho tests, although his words are vague even to his ears.

“Then the earth will be fed,” the shaman readily explains. “Life is held by no restraints, much like love.”

He frowns at the addition. “What mean you-?”

“Yes,” the shaman interrupts him. “You are a strong man, for I see love in you. A grain of love already sown, awaiting its first drop of rain. You search for it when you bow to your king, when you march for your country, when you keep watch in the long night, when you touch your weapon before a duel.” She brings her hand to cup his face, he steps out of her reach. She does not advance on him, instead smiling kindly and turning to disappear into her home again. “You look for it when you knot your hair and tie silk around your waist,” she calls out. “You seek love where there is none to be found, and it abounds in you. Spills out of your bones. Let it remain so, stranger,” she solemnly adds before she is gone, and the sound of clashing metal resumes.

For only a heartbeat, Minho is tempted to follow her.

If Wiryeseong is a jewel in Baekjae’s crown, Minho expected the court of King Gaero to be the gold holding it within itself. Yet the atmosphere in the palace is as grim and cheerless as a funeral pyre.

“But my lord,” Jinki reasons with the minister. “We have ridden for moons bearing the flag of our kingdom, so we may officiate this treaty. And here you say the king will not meet with us?” Minho feels the tension in the air when he breathes it in. “Were we wrong to heed tales of your king’s hospitality, his generosity?”

The minister takes no offence to the question. He bows humbly to them. “Perhaps the tales were true when you set forth from Gyeongju. Things are very different now…” he shakes his head sadly. “Last night His Majesty lost a portion of his northern territories to a round of baduk. This… this is not the first time the treasury has taken injury from his nightly games.” The man looks at them with tired eyes. “No, he will not take my advice, nor that of his queens. He locks himself in his chambers daily now, refusing the food and drink we serve.”

Jinki shares a troubled glance with the other two, and Minho looks down at his feet, feeling embarrassed for the minister.

“We were once a brave nation, our reach as far as Piarna. But now our enemies are countless, and our defences small,” the man continues, voice seeped in desperation. “This alliance would have saved us, but I fear it will never come to be. My friends… I fear Goguryeo is victorious without lifting a finger against us.”

“This game,” Minho speaks, for a moment to the floor, then addressing the room. “Who does the king play against? Who is he losing to?”

“There is a monk,” the minister replies. “A Buddhist monk, come from Liaoxi. Dorim, they call him.”

Next to him, Minho imagines hearing a ping in Jonghyun’s head as he starts to think as fast as a chariot. He gives the man time, continuing his own inquiry. “What does a monk do with all his winnings?” he muses. “One who is vowed to cast his worldly possessions aside… what does a man such as that have to gain from gambling so?”

The minister holds his empty hands out. “He says they are a reward from the Buddha… a-a shower of blessings for his devotion.”

“This Dorim,” Jonghyun asks after an uncharacteristically long bout of silence. “He is skilled at baduk?”

“I…” the minister shifts uncomfortably. “I would say it to be so to uphold His Majesty’s honor.”

“And the king’s disposition,” Jonghyun fires without pause. “Would you say it begun its turn for the sour soon after the monk presented himself?”

Minho grits his teeth silently as he catches on.

“His Majesty has always been a most pleasant and amicable man-”

“My lord,” Jinki takes his turn to interject. “What my dear friend here means to say is,” a smile grows on his lips, a smile reflected on Jonghyun’s countenance. In his place, Minho clenches his fist, hoping their strategy works. An arm stretches to twine around the minister’s shoulders. “When a hwarang is not whetting his sword, he is whetting his mind at the chessboard.”

“This is so,” Jonghyun agrees. “We take much delight in our games.”

“And we have travelled so far for days with nothing to entertain us, no women for our eyes and no music for our ears. It has been absolutely dreary, my lord,” Jinki adds coal to the growing fire.

“Such truth you speak!” Jonghyun declares. “We are parched for the culture your great city has to offer!”

“So,” Jinki takes hold of the yarn and spins it one ri long. “My lord, we humbly make our final request before we take your leave for the night. Would the king not be so kind as to honor us with a game of baduk?”

There is much to be said and done.

King Gaero is older than Minho had imagined. The stubbornness and reticence as narrated by his minister painted a picture of youthful arrogance. It seems, however, that the wisdom of old age has simply not blessed the king yet. It surely does not seem to reside in the wrinkles of his face or the sag of his skin. They bow to him, regardless, offering the good wishes of their liege and his new friend, King Jabi. He expresses his surprise at that, at their presence. But he offers nothing more than a few token words of welcome.

There is some mistrust in his gaze. “Do you come in peace or as a threat?” he questions wearily.

There is much to be said and done.

He is impelled to win a total of four times before any mention of the proposed alliance makes its appearance between them. It proves to be no easy task, as they find out over the course of their afternoon playing in the main courtyard of the palace. A large fountain nearby spreads its cool air, and marble tiles dampen the heat of a summer sun. Their seats are well-cushioned. Their mouths are plied with wine. No more than four attendants are allowed in their vicinity, lingering with food and refreshments for the players. It relaxes the three emissaries into smiling and joking; Minho feels ease slip through his tense muscles at the cordiality they are afforded.

But their host is restless. His hands fidget, his eyes shift, his foot bounces impatiently. His pallor makes apparent the misery of previous losses. It takes Jinki’s deliberate losing and Jonghyun’s silver-tongued encouragements to raise the king to his four incontestable wins. In the first round Jinki sacrifices seventeen of his pieces, in the second he plays black and loses several more. An offer for a fifth game despite the long hours they have been engaged in this farce is enough reassurance for them to breach the subject of politics. The shine King Gaero’s face regains after a single victory is pitiable to Minho’s eyes, but he finds himself caring more intensely about securing the future of his own homeland.

There is much to be said and done.

But when their host decisively places his seal on the scroll Minho presents him with, the tightness in his gut alleviates. A bond between Baekjae and Silla has been forged in iron by the merit of three unassuming hwarang. Word spreads like wildfire from there, and soon the festivities from the rest of Wiryeseong pour in through the palace gates. They spill on the floor with makgeolli. They splatter the walls with laughter and color and music. They ring through the halls and courtyards with merriment. Were King Jangsu a spectator that night, he would surely boil over with rage at the spectacle of his neighbours celebrating in unity. There is much to be said and done, and Minho would like to say and do all of it. But Jinki guffaws at the court jester as he dances and sings among the guests. Jonghyun grins with a pair of gisaeng as they tell him coarse stories he will repeat to them one night while they are riding, no doubt. So Minho holds his tongue and holds a cup of rice wine, sipping occasionally from it whenever someone approaches him and attempts hollow conversation. Several courtiers take turns to shower the king with their compliments, to sing his praises in full court. So Minho says nothing and does nothing while the celebration sways from side to side.

Somewhere, in the shadows of all the lights and sounds, a traveling monk from Liaoxi steals away in silence.

On the side of a dangerous precipice is a cave, dug into soil and baring old roots. Wind howls and swings nature around in a mad dance, a dance to its own wailing tune. There are a few minutes between each howl but each minute brings with it the anticipation of a storm.

Death takes many forms to do its reaping in these hills, sometimes wolf sometimes man. Today it sleeps in its worn midnight robes. The man waits for the weather to pass, his form frail and his hairless pate covered in cloth as a meagre disguise. He feels in one moment like a weak old man, and in another a wild being racing out the jaws of hell itself.

The wind has taken five trees for itself outside. On his way here, he picks up a few bird chicks that had fallen off swaying branches, straight to their untimely demise. Their death had allowed him to simply scoop their carcasses in his palm, open a knot in his red robes, and then roast them over a fire. His stomach rumbles no more, from either hunger or anxiety.

The snap of a twig nearby alerts him. A collection of eyes draw into the mouth of the cave. His fire crackles, throwing a light some meters away, and the silhouette of a familiar body hunches together for its warmth. He would never harm an interloper, but an assailant from another kingdom is another matter altogether.

“Dorim ah,” the newcomer croaks.

The bald man jolts up at the sound of his name. “Wh-who…?”

“You served us well,” the voice replies. “But you are no longer useful to the king.” Death shifts in its obsidian robes then, and a keen sword slices an unsuspecting neck.

Minho did not expect to see the shaman again, but her reappearance does not breed surprise. He acknowledges her, and she nods to him in response. “I have been waiting to speak with you again, stranger,” she reveals.

They are sitting in a circle. It makes Jonghyun snort from the paradox, perhaps because it is something expected of shamans-chanting heated incantations and swaying in unison within their ring of magic. Instead it is ministers and swordsmen discussing matters of state amongst themselves. And Minho thinks perhaps they are no different from shamans, for government affairs are no more than magic performed behind closed curtains, away from the eyes of the audience. Their little world of gold and jewels is but a stage, one that Minho recognizes as shallow and yet endures to protect. The imminent threat to the north would allow it to fall apart and that is reason enough for him to persevere.

“Destiny has answered my wishes and crossed our paths once more,” the woman continues.

Jonghyun snorts again to his side, because they are not shamans who ponder on destiny. They are mere soldiers who bump shoulders with each other around a table.

Jinki glares at him from across the circle, looking like he’s going to reprimand the other for breaking the peace of the situation. But after a short glowering match they look away, their eyes watering. Minho weighs this for a minute- yes. Maybe they are still drunk. If not on the rice wine from the celebrations last night, then perchance from the power and the glory and the fame that swells around them. Perchance they are drunk on themselves and the heights they’ve climbed to as visitors from a neighbouring kingdom.

The commander of Baekjae’s armies is at their table. He is a lithe, humourless, cunning looking man with eyes like those of a fox. “Lord Kibum,” the minister addresses him. “I have invited the wise shaman to address our congregation,” he informs. She respectfully bows to the room in response. “It is about the matter you mentioned to me this morning, ah… I trust you remember?”

“You do a disservice to our honoured guests from Silla,” the commander retorts. “They are our brothers in arms. They deserve to know.” He looks at the hwarang in turn, before addressing them. “This treaty between us… it asks for our defences to join yours in driving back the Goguryeo forces. In this our king makes an astute choice.” Minho can clearly hear the hesitation at the end of the statement. He looks to Jinki, and is answered with a patient nod. Lord Kibum goes on. “Nevertheless His Majesty forgets the might of his enemies. We cannot fight if we have no men to fight for us.”

“What mean you, my lord?” Jinki prompts.

“We hold our faces in shame, my friend,” the commander says, worriedly rubbing his forehead. “I order but a fraction of the men who march for Silla and I fear our help in this alliance will leave no more than a scratch.”

“Quell your fears, great leader of armies,” the shaman replies. “There may yet be a resolution to this obstacle.”

Lord Kibum scowls. “I do not trust these… necromancers,” he grunts. “Must I question my trust in you too, lord minister?”

“No, my lord,” the other maintains. “There is a reason for us to be patient with the woman.”

The shaman resumes with a clap of her hands. Behind her, through the doorway into the room, half a dozen figures march in. The sound of their feet is thunderous as they line up on display for the others. They wear no more than loincloths, emblazoned with the seal of Baekjae. In each one’s hold is a weapon-spears, swords, bows, daggers, staffs, and axes of all sizes.

Minho expels himself from his chair in shock. He is not the only one to do so. “Wh-what…? What are they?!” he demands.

“They are my soldiers,” the shaman defends.

At the click of fingers, each figure poses a salutation with unearthly synchronisation. Each figure stands to attention before them, stance ready for battle. Each figure is sturdy, like a warrior. Each figure moves with fluid grace and silent menace.

Each figure is as lifeless as a statue.

There are more than half a dozen of them, and Minho balks at the sheer numbers.

“This is witchcraft…” Lord Kibum exclaims. His disbelief is mirrored by the rest of them. “You say His Majesty holds knowledge of this… this vile-”

“Do not call them vile,” the shaman disapproves of their words. “They are pure souls, unfettered by greed and vanity. They are incorruptible additions to your legion, they will never desert your battles nor abandon your wars. They will not lie to you, nor keep secrets from you. Tell me: how many of your men can swear to being just as invaluable?” she challenges.

The commander shrinks away.

Minho shakes his head in mistrust. “Say what you may, they are not human…” he mutters.

“Did you forget, stranger,” she reproduces her melancholy smile. “Water fills the pot, and take its shape. Life fills their bodies, just as it swills in yours. They are alive, they are no different from you.”

“Answer me this, then…” Minho dares. “Do they breathe?” he glares at the woman. “Do they eat? Or sleep? Do they feel pain? Do they tire and grow old? Does death come to them like it comes for us? Do they… do they even speak?! How are they no different from me in this?”

“They fight for the same thing you do,” the woman says.

Minho’s disquiet stills a moment at that. He studies the statues gathered before them. Two hundred all together, and each one armed for combat. He studies their unblinking eyes, their motionless chests, their wordless mouths. Each one sports a face of its own, each wooden soldier is carved differently. Each one has a different square chest, a different length of torso. He walks along a line of them, the hues and textures of wood changing with every body. He stops at the end of the row and studies the last figure. Its face is too refined to belong to a fighter; an angular oval, its brow a soft slope, its eyes like those of a peacock, its nose sharp, its lips set below a square cleft, its chin round and delicate.

“Are they trained to fight?” he asks, remembering the sound of clashing swords on a quiet day among quiet homes.

The shaman follows his gaze. “He may look temperate, but that is a deception.” She rests a hand on its shoulder. “Of all my work, he is the brightest star.”

“What is…?” Minho sniffs the air between them. He frowns. “What is that perfume?”

“Sandalwood,” she explains. “He is come from a tree far away from this land. From the land of Buddha, they say. They all come from somewhere, they all cost some gold. But the captain who carried them here… he paid with a whole ship to bring this one to our shores.”

“Why were they made?”

“Is that the answer you are searching for, then, young stranger?”

Minho glowers at her. “Your riddles are meaningless. These… dead shells,” he gestures. “They are meaningless, also. If they cannot fight, then tare of no use to us.” He turns to walk away from there, walk away from this frightful spectacle, walk away from the madness of it all.

“Then challenge one to a duel,” she forces him back without touching him.

Blade cracks blade. Cross-guard hits cross-guard and sparks are born between the two folds of steel. Their sound is deafening in the hall of thousand mirrors. Minho grits his teeth against its shrill drag over his ears but it pierces through his every sense and leaves him disabled. He plants his feet against the grain of wooden floors but the force of their collision reduces him to a feather riding a zephyr. Minho has fought many swordsman, some larger than him, others stronger or faster. He has fought better men than he, and has lived to tell the tale of having beaten them all.

Yet this lifeless wooden soldier uproots him like a boy plucking flowers in the garden. He feels overwhelmed, overpowered. His palms are sweaty, his arms tire, his chest turns unruly, he cannot hold his balance.

They reach a deadlock, then. He thinks to ease up on the other and breathe a little, but his opponent changes stance and suddenly Minho feels the need to fly backwards lest he lose his neck. The wooden soldier shadows his every move and flies with him. Minho cannot deny feeling the waves of danger rippling towards him in that moment. His steps grow uncertain, his mouth falls dry, his breath quickens. The absurdity of being beaten by a doll, a figurine, strikes him then. He admonishes himself and blinks, once, twice. It steadies him in time to counter a charge at his legs. He jumps, raising his sword high above them, ready to cut his opponent down.

The figure is faster. It hacks its weapon at the air between them, narrowly missing Minho and almost disembowelling him. They spin, skin sweeping against wood, warm grazing over cold. The hwarang brushes his long hair out of his eyes in frustration.

“What is this trickery?” he yells over the sound of their bout.

"Taemin," the shaman's voice comes to him from some steps away. "I will call him Taemin, in your honor."

He parries each hit with all his might but he is cornered time and again, no matter how swiftly he moves. It is as if the other can read his mind and counter them with the speed of thought itself. They face each other no matter how he twists or turns, they crash and ram with their back and their knees and their thighs. They punch and kick like reflections of one another. They jump and slide like two beings of one awareness.

When he spies a last resort in spinning by his heel to corner the other and regain the upper hand, Minho hurries to take the chance. He ducks against a close slice by his ear and turns, his foot gliding in an arc. Their swords miss each other by a hair’s breadth and when he is almost upright again he quietly rejoices his regained influence over the course of their fight.

He does not foresee the wooden man winding to meet his blow before he so much as thinks of making it. The smell of sandalwood fills his concentration. He feels imprisoned by it, limbs brought to a halt by its heady scent. His opponent moves as if in a dream, arms sinuous, legs nimble, face tranquil. This fight is no longer a fight, but a dance of two bodies connected by the twelve silk strings of a zither. They move like each other, they bend and fold in unison, they give and they receive in equal measure.

A strong and heavy arm elbows Minho under the ribs and makes him jump back in pain. He keels and scrunches his eyes shut at the sharpness of it.

Silver sheets of filigree pile around him like soft mountains, glimmering unclear shapes on the ceiling like water in a pond. Above him, his opponent holds a stretch of the delicate cloth up by one hand and smiles down at Minho. His face is no longer stagnant wood-flesh and muscle shape it. His body is just as solid and sculpted but tied together by bone and blood. Another palm coils around Minho’s face to caress it like a gentle lover. His lips move in amused, soundless words and he bends down as if for a kiss.

Minho’s eyes open just in time to counter a charging wooden soldier. As he evades a heavy blow to his side, he knows his mind has already been caught in a web. He is bewitched, like a snake at the sight of a charmer’s pipe, like a child hypnotized by the quick, reedy notes of a flute. He knows a spell has been cast to cover him like a second skin. He knows the images that flow in his mind will live there until he admits defeat to them and surrenders his sanity to the fantasy of a wooden soldier coming to life.

When their swords meet a second time, Minho knows he has already lost the duel.