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He left the mountain at the summons of his father. Undoubtedly, this had to do with Borsi and Lord Kwang. Another excuse to chastise.
She smiled when she saw him off. Not polite or sly or to stand on ceremony. She was uncouth. There wasn’t a hidden agenda to it. It was simply a smile.
In the hall of his ancestral home, where his brothers sat down perfectly lined in attention, backs straight, he found the entire thing tedious and dull. When someone talked, there were meanings in what was said and unsaid. Most important was how much the silence spoke. Twice, a low cunning hint went into his marital status and shut-in lifestyle. He kept the reason hidden from them, making no response then or now. However, the inevitable happened: each of them got in a sly remark on why he hadn’t slain Gumiho yet. He didn’t know for sure if the knowledge of her theft of his soul, part of it, remained secret from them.
In silence, he watched, looking for signs that any of them knew of that bit.
The only part he allowed them to be aware of was that she attempted the theft, and that he’d sealed it away to prevent such a case. The second half, only his youngest brother was told. From previous experience, he couldn’t trust his older brothers with sensitive information. Now, he tested his youngest brother.
Thus far, that much remained unknown to the rest of them.
They droned on about their own skirmishes. The Kurai clans they locked horns with, the toll they claimed to have lost. The state of their houses and ongoing of court. What tactic ought to be used to stave off what clan. Repetitive.
Every one of them had perfect manners and a double-edged smile.
His mind began to wander. Back to that sincere smile. The one that didn’t ask anything of him, or try to make some small quip at his expense. She was a strange thing. Careful, though sometimes clumsy, and completely unaware of herself. He found it irritating at first. Then amusing. And now, surrounded by his kin with their perfected façades, he missed it.
He lingered on the thought of how her face twisted, and her tongue stuck out as she practiced her brush strokes. There wasn’t a Juneun or noble spirit who would allow their expression to be anything but serene, alone or in company.
She couldn’t conceal her feelings, much as she might try. Fearfulness, sadness, joy... as obvious as a red streak of paint on a white canvas. The musing Syaoran said came back to him.
The tiger’s fur is orange and black, against a forest of green. It walks through proud, yet remains unseen.
Not quite a poem.
Too much like courtly life. Nothing like her.
She was a magpie in the summer gardens. Surrounded by all the colors of the world, and standing out in both sight and sound. The other birds tuck themselves in the thick of the bush, or hide among the boughs of the trees. But she is obvious wherever there is sunlight.
“What say you to that, Lord Kwan?” his father put an emphasis on his title, implying he noticed a complete lack of attention.
“I think discussions are better held when speaking plainly and not on ceremony,” said Kwan, unbothered.
“You had the chance to slay Gumiho when Borsi betrayed us,” said his brother Beom. He’d taken to be direct without much prompting, and tried to mask a smugness in his statement.
“I did,” said Kwan.
“What delayed you?” pressed Beom.
“Borsi,” replied Kwan, keeping a tone of disinterest.
Before Kwang could speak up, their father interrupted. “You lost control.”
“I had distractions.”
“Borsi should’ve been easy to deal with,” said his father, pointed as he narrowed his eyes. “It serves us right, trusting that a Kurai could change their ways. Change their own nature.”
“Borsi didn’t willingly betray us,” said Kwang, sounding fed up at last with being overruled and ignored. “My lord father, it was fox magic. And our brother snuffed out the source.”
“Snuffed it too late,” said Seong. His face worked hard to keep off a grin, though some of it still shone through. “What was this great fox magic that you couldn’t free Borsi, and had to slay him—?”
“They stole his soul,” said Kwan, if for nothing more than to silence his battle-hungry brother. Of all of them, Seong reveled most in the thrill of fighting. And he hated his brother for it. There was nothing noble or glorious about warfare. Always, it was a tragedy. So much life lost while those in power were infatuated with the idea, and treated it like a game to be continued until all the pieces were gone.
“And how do you know this?” asked Beom, a hint of interest.
Kwan took his time to answer, making them wait only to irritate. “Because I saw it in his eyes.”
Objections took place, growing into an uproar. Kwan stayed silent, watching the masks, the perfectly curated image of each of them, slip out of their control for an extended moment.
“So now we have proof of our suspicion,” said Kwan, just as the men of his family began to compose themselves again. “When a powerful Kurai has a soul in their clutch, they become the puppet master.”
“It’s one of a few suspicions,” said Kwang, agreeing but resigned to want to deny it.
“The stories had to come from somewhere,” said Kwan.
Discussion resumed, with the elder brothers set on not hearing more from firsthand accounts. For the best. Being ignored gave him time to contemplate.
How would he bring an end to Gumiho’s reign of terror?
He remembered that smile, from when they were children. It’d looked so genuine then. Long ago, he truly believed there was no difference between them. That it was a choice.
He was disturbed from his thoughts again when Kwang insisted on his accepting of an invitation, and the rest of the family dispersed. The youngest brother would host the Mokryon.
“I know you dislike to host, but consider joining. Get out of your house for leisure. Not just for Kurai or because father summons us. And there will be the biggest assortment of lovely girls. It would make one less thing for any of them to say about either of us.”
“I can’t,” said Kwan.
His brother, undeterred, pestered him on the matter.
It brought an idea to the forefront of his mind. Word of his coming to an event after fifty years shut-in would spread faster than fire across dried grass. Among Juneun, yes. And among Kurai also. He could lure her out.
He agreed, but didn’t smile. He continued to appear reluctant, disguising his plan in a façade of his own.
****
Word did spread. Exactly as anticipated.
Kwan had no intention of actually attending, even as he sent a letter back to his house stating otherwise. Walking the grounds of his family home, he found it difficult the dig up the happier memories. It now felt unwelcoming, as though he were a stranger.
“You don’t smile anymore.”
He tore his gaze from the courtyard and pond garden beyond. His sister Sara walked up, poised, refined—a proper lady. At her approach, he said nothing, keeping his watch on her. When she stopped beside him, expectant, he answered her. “I have a lot to consider.”
“No, it’s different from that.”
Kwan stared at her a moment, reading her perfect composure, hunting for wordless clues. A small grunt leaving him, he slowly pulled his eyes back to the scenery.
“Ever since that confrontation with Gumiho. You started to smile less. Now, you don’t smile at all.” She pressed her brow together, mimicking concern. What she wanted, he knew, was some slip of information to play with. “It changed you.”
He let the statement linger, choosing what words to sharpen for this battle. “You changed too.”
Her imitated expression went slack, reforming a second later.
“Jiana died. And you no longer had someone to mirror. You had the chance to be yourself. Instead, you deny all truth, and became this.”
She gave up on looking sympathetic, her face taking to stone. “I don’t expect you to understand what it is to be a woman in this world. Let alone the last daughter in this family.”
“And yet, you pester me with your woes as if I could understand it.”
“Pester?” snapped Sara. “You lost one sister. I lost three. Jiana was all I had!”
He kept silent, refusing to acknowledge.
“Every day you let Gumiho live, I’m kept a prisoner here. I paint because that’s what I’m supposed to do, and smile because it’s expected. I compose poetry, because there’s not an acceptable way for a lady to express herself otherwise, and even then I have to conceal some things. I play whatever instrument on whatever day because father commanded it for his guests. And when they speak it makes my skin crawl and I’m expected to never notice they said a thing.”
“Dreadful,” said Kwan, disinterested.
“It’s a beautiful cage,” said Sara. “But it’s still a cage.”
“Maybe you should smile,” said Kwan, finally looking at his sister again.
Her face turned ugly, showing her true feeling for the first time in over half a century. It surprised him, yet he stayed still in his posture, staring.
She leered at him, giving up when he remained unchanged—opposite to what she’d grown used to with servants. She inhaled deep, composing herself again. “I wonder if you even remember how to smile. You may want to practice for Mokryon. That cold face of yours will scare away every prospect.” She pushed back her long hair with a flick of her wrist.
He said nothing, not caring to indulge her quips.
“Remember me when you’re dancing with a beauty, brother. For I will be in my prison and unable to witness.” She walked back the way she came, confirming that her purpose was to pry at him, and not a stop along her route.
He watched her leave, every step smooth to make her appear weightless. His mind reclaimed the image of her scowl, the first piece of honesty from his sister in many years. Then the memory of a twisted face with a tongue sticking out came up to compare. A true opposite. He thought about the perfect pace of Sara’s walk, and the stumbling jog of a human carrying salt. The genteel and the boorish.
****
He waited days and nights. If she didn’t come, he would go home. On the chance that she did, he’d take the chance to end things once and for all.
Keeping unseen and silent, he lurked in the wilds. If the hope was to lay an assault on his return, that worked just as well. The assumption of spent energy would be her downfall.
When she finally made her move, that seemed the case. She planned on giving him no reprieve on his return. The smell of fox hung thick in the air.
Kwan kept to the shadows, moving expertly, sword drawn. He saw her, red painted on her lips and eyes and pinking her cheeks. A lovely visage. That’s what he would’ve thought so long ago. She’d painted her nails black, likely lacing them with venom. Her ears and tails highlighted her power, a warning to onlookers, giving no doubt as to who their queen was.
He could do it. He was so close to her now. His sword raised. Pointed. Silent. She hadn’t spotted him. One fell strike. That’s all it would take.
He set his feet.
Fast as lightning, he launched himself into a sprint. Gumiho turned, a look of horror, seeing it was too late. His blade thrust, plunging deep into her chest.
Then, laughter. Echoing around him.
“I didn’t think you had it in you, Kwan.”
He looked around, seeing a sea of copies. Gumiho, an ocean of rouge pained faces, red dressings, and smokey, dark, ginger hair. An illusion. All of it. He folded a hand, arcing his arm to dispel the images.
“How like you to go straight for my heart,” taunted Gumiho, voice coming from every direction.
His eyes searched, sword held to parry.
“But I’m afraid you’re losing your touch!”
A shadow, and arm—a claw—leapt at him; violet eyes behind it. He swung. She yelped. His feet moved, closing the distance between him and those violet eyes.
Teeth snapped. He swung again. Fire flew at him, and he turned on his heel, dodging, sword defending. He charged her again. She blocked with a knife, the claws of her free hand swiping at him. His spell of white threads holding her off, buying a breath of time for him to swing at her again. She broke free.
Other Kurai gathered, hastily put together and rushing towards the sound of combat. One pressed in, his neck met with the slash of Kwan’s blade.
He twisted himself back, holding off Gumiho from an opportunistic stab. A cut made it to his foot from elsewhere. He pushed off, casting his spell of lighting to give himself space, a barrier to buy precious seconds. Mind reeling, eyes counting, and breath held steady.
Muttering his spell, he poured magic into his sword.
An ambush attack.
He swung, slicing the very air and cutting them down. Hot blood sprayed, forcing him blind as he raised a sleeve to shield himself. Gumiho struck, her knife going deep into his gut. His magic failing to shield him from her own, steeling his mind from her illusions, he needed to act. Grabbing fast to her, fighting the shock and the pain, he brought around his sword. She slipped from him, escaping a fatal blow, but not before taking a deep wound herself.
The others closed in.
He couldn’t hold them off. Not like this. And the darkness took his senses once more.
In the dark, he remembered a voice: are you scared too?
He regained himself for a moment, realizing where he was on his mountain. The upper river.
Darkness.
His senses freed another second, enough to see he’d jumped the walls.
Darkness.
That voice. His senses returned a moment, his arms pulled taut and his mouth gaged. She sat down, a soft smile, and went on to speak gently. This time, she didn’t tremble. Rather, she appeared perfectly at ease, as if he were himself and sharing tea.
Darkness.
He could hear humming, but his sight didn’t return to find the source. They were odd songs, and off key, but sincerely bittersweet.
When he awoke, the night had not ended. He’d managed to come directly home, and already calmed enough to regain himself.
The girl lay on the floor, asleep. Even in slumber, she wasn’t a graceful thing. Drool pooled beside her mouth, snores leaving her due to a crooked neck.
What was it about the humans—about this human—that dispersed his reckless fury? They were strange things. Ordinary things. Humans. No culture to them compared to a Juneun. Even the noble society of them was poor imitation.
He called to her, giving his command. It was safe. He wasn’t a danger to his household. She worked prompt at her task, without question or hesitation. His eyes struggled to stay open, and his legs strained in trying to stay up. In his first step free, he fell. The floor wasn’t hard. A warm breath caressed his neck.
He quickly made sense of it, angry with himself, and tried to stand. She scrambled out from under him, a hare running from the bite of a tiger.
Someone carried him, though he didn’t recognize who in his bleary state. His eyes closed.
When he woke again, he was in his bed. The room well lit, and the smell of persimmon wine gone, and the haze of incents beginning. Looking over, his sore muscles urged him to stay still. The girl was there, asleep against the wall. Steam rose from the spout of the teapot.
She’d stayed beside him, performing her duty. He hadn’t dismissed her, though she could’ve assumed it. But she didn’t. A kindness?
He thought of the bird she fostered. Promising to look after it until it was well to fly.
Loyalty.
No, that wasn’t the right word.
She had nothing to gain from continuing on. She had nothing to lose in going to her bed. The choice was an easy one for a lady. For a servant. Yet, she stayed to the end.
Dutiful.
Compassionate.