Silk and Wool: Prologue
A/N: This was a request wanting Chansung as an Englishman of sorts? It'll be another series, and for anyone going OMGMORECHANSUNG!11!ONE! ...um...he's being requested people, lol. I linked my twitter. I linked my formspring. So...get to requesting! If you've requested something, I am working on it or getting at it, don't worry. :) I am having writer's block on two stories right now, but ALL SHALL BE DONE. Okay...enough of that. On to the story. Also, the title is from an lj community in the spotlight...and it just seemed to fit to me.
Two young men stood in front of the magistrate, the first with a bloodied lip and the other with swollen knuckles. He questioned the latter first, seeing him more often than not in his drawing room.
"Mr. Hwang, besides the fact that your mother will probably just pay your way out of this, how do you expect to explain yourself today? It seems almost daily that you're in here for one fight or another. Why shouldn't I just let you stay a few nights to rot with some of these other belligerent pains in my backside?"
The other young man kept his eyes averted and his head down. He constantly licked and touched at his lip to keep the blood away. He was sniffling and blinked cautiously as his eye began to swell. On the other hand, Hwang Chansung stood with his head erect and forward. His hands were clasped behind his back, but he kept them tight. It became habit to keep such a stance when he meant each fight he was in.
"Mr. Hwang...don't mock me. Answer the question."
"I did nothing wrong," he replied.
He stared the boy down before swiveling his eyes to the other and addressed him.
"You may go."
The other young man ran out with his head down, leaving the others in silence.
"Now...Chansung..."
The magistrate rose from his seat, belly paunch and gold-gilded rings on his fingers. He ran a thumb over one and felt the solidness of it.
"My boy...she wasn't worth the time." A hand went to pat Chansung's shoulder. "You think you're defending a woman's honor, but all you're doing is shaming your mother's name. ...the girl is a commoner. In a few years time, she'll be on her back in the back of a brothel. Let these boys have their fun, lest you come across one that has enough funds to keep you here."
The hand slid off Chansung's shoulder as the magistrate walked to the door.
"One more time boy. One more and I don't know if I can cover for you. ...I like you, but you need to be aware of where your loyalties lie."
Chansung finally turned from the spot he was rooted and approached the magistrate. The official was opening the door for him.
"It's wrong sir," Chansung whispered, eyes piercing the older man's. "Do you not find anything wrong with not showing some semblance of mercy, pity...even love for what even we call lesser human beings? She is just like you or I-"
"She is not!" he barked.
It made Chansung shut his mouth, lips perting in frustration.
"Excuse me my boy," the man continued, calming himself, "but she is not. You need to understand this. Our class system was made to keep order. We keep order. I will have order, boy. Leave me now. And pay heed to your mother. She's an upstanding woman, and I won't tolerate this much more. You of all people should consider how such news of her son disturbing the peace is becoming detrimental to her health, should you not?"
Chansung left, feeling the heel of his boot click along the cobbled road. He continued to walk and straightened his collar. Patting at his hair, he put it back into the neat appearance his mother taught him to keep at all times. His gloves were pulled from his coat. One was fingered on and the other was at his fingertips, but he saw his knuckles again. He didn't understand his life. Constant training of how to act in polite society only led him so far. Along the way, he'd reached adolescence...then adulthood, gaining his own ideas on how the world should work.
On his first visit to the magistrate, he learned it was frowned upon to hand a beggar food.
"It is their fault that they fell to that position, my boy. Someone is feeding them, for they are there each day!" the magistrate would bellow, chuckling as his stomach bounced.
He was a few years older when he began defending others from the bullying his wealthy classmates set upon them. After a few events, he began staring the belittled wretches in their eyes, something flaring in him whenever his friends carried on laughing. It led to more visits to and from the magistrate. Chansung was chided and set free, only to go into a continual cycle of the same thing.
He knew he was different, and as he brewed in his walk home, he continued stretching and flexing his fingers. The pain felt worth it; it felt just. He finally set the last hand in the glove, letting it seethe as it's engorged form forced itself in.
Despite all he was taught until then, something in him knew better; and like the end of every other fight, he didn't regret what he'd just done.
Two young men stood in front of the magistrate, the first with a bloodied lip and the other with swollen knuckles. He questioned the latter first, seeing him more often than not in his drawing room.
"Mr. Hwang, besides the fact that your mother will probably just pay your way out of this, how do you expect to explain yourself today? It seems almost daily that you're in here for one fight or another. Why shouldn't I just let you stay a few nights to rot with some of these other belligerent pains in my backside?"
The other young man kept his eyes averted and his head down. He constantly licked and touched at his lip to keep the blood away. He was sniffling and blinked cautiously as his eye began to swell. On the other hand, Hwang Chansung stood with his head erect and forward. His hands were clasped behind his back, but he kept them tight. It became habit to keep such a stance when he meant each fight he was in.
"Mr. Hwang...don't mock me. Answer the question."
"I did nothing wrong," he replied.
He stared the boy down before swiveling his eyes to the other and addressed him.
"You may go."
The other young man ran out with his head down, leaving the others in silence.
"Now...Chansung..."
The magistrate rose from his seat, belly paunch and gold-gilded rings on his fingers. He ran a thumb over one and felt the solidness of it.
"My boy...she wasn't worth the time." A hand went to pat Chansung's shoulder. "You think you're defending a woman's honor, but all you're doing is shaming your mother's name. ...the girl is a commoner. In a few years time, she'll be on her back in the back of a brothel. Let these boys have their fun, lest you come across one that has enough funds to keep you here."
The hand slid off Chansung's shoulder as the magistrate walked to the door.
"One more time boy. One more and I don't know if I can cover for you. ...I like you, but you need to be aware of where your loyalties lie."
Chansung finally turned from the spot he was rooted and approached the magistrate. The official was opening the door for him.
"It's wrong sir," Chansung whispered, eyes piercing the older man's. "Do you not find anything wrong with not showing some semblance of mercy, pity...even love for what even we call lesser human beings? She is just like you or I-"
"She is not!" he barked.
It made Chansung shut his mouth, lips perting in frustration.
"Excuse me my boy," the man continued, calming himself, "but she is not. You need to understand this. Our class system was made to keep order. We keep order. I will have order, boy. Leave me now. And pay heed to your mother. She's an upstanding woman, and I won't tolerate this much more. You of all people should consider how such news of her son disturbing the peace is becoming detrimental to her health, should you not?"
Chansung left, feeling the heel of his boot click along the cobbled road. He continued to walk and straightened his collar. Patting at his hair, he put it back into the neat appearance his mother taught him to keep at all times. His gloves were pulled from his coat. One was fingered on and the other was at his fingertips, but he saw his knuckles again. He didn't understand his life. Constant training of how to act in polite society only led him so far. Along the way, he'd reached adolescence...then adulthood, gaining his own ideas on how the world should work.
On his first visit to the magistrate, he learned it was frowned upon to hand a beggar food.
"It is their fault that they fell to that position, my boy. Someone is feeding them, for they are there each day!" the magistrate would bellow, chuckling as his stomach bounced.
He was a few years older when he began defending others from the bullying his wealthy classmates set upon them. After a few events, he began staring the belittled wretches in their eyes, something flaring in him whenever his friends carried on laughing. It led to more visits to and from the magistrate. Chansung was chided and set free, only to go into a continual cycle of the same thing.
He knew he was different, and as he brewed in his walk home, he continued stretching and flexing his fingers. The pain felt worth it; it felt just. He finally set the last hand in the glove, letting it seethe as it's engorged form forced itself in.
Despite all he was taught until then, something in him knew better; and like the end of every other fight, he didn't regret what he'd just done.