[EARLY ACCESS] Painter Of Time: Chapter 4

Chapter 4: Blurred Identities

A man in a woman’s hanbok.

A man in a courtesan’s skirts and drapes was blatantly dancing before them, delicate and light-footed as a phantom, and not one soul around batted an eye, fully bewitched by this intricate deception.

Except for Yoongi.

Would you have noticed the difference if you hadn’t crossed paths with him before? A voice at the back of his mind wondered whilst Yoongi’s eyes followed the dancer’s sweep of the arms, every sure-footed leap, the arch of his back just as fluid as any trained gisaeng’s. But since when were men even permitted to parade around as one?

He dug his memory for any previous recollection of male troupe clowns and dancers performing in such fashion, but none surfaced. Of all of Min Yun’s twenty-one years, he had only ever seen men in men’s garb, and women in women’s skirts. Never the other way round. To do so would be—

“Shameless,” Yoongi muttered, jaw tightening.

Who was this scandalous, unnamed man, and how many names did he go by? How many alter egos? If Yoongi were to stomp down right now, interrupt this performance and disrobe the young man—

He stopped short and cleared his throat. How could he think of disrobing another man?

Only men like… like Jang Bong-man would.

Pulse skyrocketing, Yoongi schooled his thoughts in a different direction. He ought not to have such barbaric thoughts during an auspicious banquet. Averting his gaze for the rest of the performance, he focused on the platter of fruits on the table and only looked up when the music faded into the night, signaling the end of the banquet’s festivities.

When the King started applauding, the rest of the court officials and the internal court members followed suit. The entertainment was over, and the feasting would begin. As performers streamed out of the courtyard, Yoongi peered out discreetly, trying to spot the crane dancer in flowing drapes.

But he had already vanished. Yoongi frowned. How quick.

“That final solo performance was breathtaking,” Songhwa gusheed next to him, clutching her chest with a blissful expression. “I would like to dance like Lady Aeshin, too.”

“Lady Aeshin, my foot,” Yoongi grumbled.

“What?”

“I said, ‘Ah, you frivolous youth’.” Yoongi stood and dusted his robes off.

“Hey, where are you going?” Songhwa called out after him. “Orabeoni!”

Yoongi didn’t respond, brisk-walking out of the palace courtyard to follow the direction the performers went.

Crossdressing was unfathomable. He must meet this conman and unveil the truth before it’s too late. Perhaps a solid round of flogging would teach him not to tinker with the boundaries confining Joseon society.

Just when he was about to turn left with the crowd, a solitary flash of pearly white silks caught the corner of his eye. Yoongi turned to the opposite direction, away from the fading laughter of the court dancers and musicians, to a path half draped in shadows.

Trusting his gut, he crept along that way. So deeply engrossed in his own chase was he that he barely clocked another voice calling for his name—

“Prince Yun!” A hand clamped down his shoulder.

Yoongi jumped with a startled gasp.

Hoseok grinned at him, relieved of his guard shift now that the banquet is over. “Daegam, mind your steps.” He gestured to a puddle of stillwater before where Yoongi stood. “Where’s your head at?”

Yoongi blinked, thoughts churning. “Seok-ah, lend me your sword.” If Master Kim turns out to be a threat, he should be dealt with accordingly. Lying alone was enough cause for treason.

“This?” Hoseok hesitated, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “I’m not sure...”

“Just for half an hour. I’ll return it shortly.” Yoongi glanced at the corner where ‘Lady Aeshin’ had gone. “Hurry.”

Hoseok regarded him carefully, but relented without further questions. “If I get in trouble for this...” He passed his scabbard to Yoongi.

“Thanks. Drinks on me at Chwiseonru later!” Without a moment’s hesitation, Yoongi took off running into the night. Away from the banquet hall to catch an intruding mouse. He recalled his last encounter with Master-Kim-or-Lady-Aeshin-whatever-his-name is, and reminded himself this man could fight, if their little sword-and-fan face-off was anything to go by. The humiliation of having been pinned to a wall and defeated by a mere peasant sat sour on his tongue still.

With only the moonlight as his guide, Yoongi rushed through the palace’s different halls and pavilions, pillar after pillar whizzing past his vision. Good thing he had the layout memorized by heart or it would’ve been tough to navigate—

There. Yoongi’s heart leapt. He slowed to a stop, making sure to keep his footfalls muted. Like a phantom decked in white, ‘Lady Aeshin’ glided around the perimeter of the Secretariat Hall, where the Royal Archive of Records was headquartered. Hands clasped behind his back, he craned his neck up at the hall’s closed doors as though in a thoughtful trance, back to Yoongi.

Yoongi inched towards him soundlessly, hand resting on his sword’s hilt. Once he was a meter away from the court dancer, Yoongi raised his arm to press the tip of his sword against the nape of the dancer’s neck—

The dancer spun, lightning-quick, and used the featherlight drapes of his costume to lock Yoongi’s arms to his sides. In a flash of pearly silk, the sword dropped unceremoniously from Yoongi’s grip. His breath caught.

Too bad Min Yun had never been the sort to admit defeat so easily. With a scoff, he dropped to a squat and swiped one leg outwards, knocking the dancer off balance, but the drapes around his arms only yanked them both forward. He tumbled into the dancer’s chest. They fell and rolled to the ground with a grunt, the force of the collapse knocking the wind out of Yoongi’s lungs. The dancer thrashed his arms and legs to throw Yoongi’s weight off his body, one hand seeming to reach for the folds of his hanbok.

Yoongi narrowed his eyes, predicting his opponent’s next move, and before the court dancer could wield a small dagger, Yoongi wrestled it out of his hand. He stabbed the dagger’s tip through the dancer’s loose, disheveled collar without grazing skin, effectively pinning him to the ground.

“I know your tricks by now,” Yoongi chuckled roughly under his breath, panting as he straddled his quarry. “Lady Aeshin. Or should I say, Master Kim?”

He watched with grim satisfaction as the court dancer’s kohl-limned eyes flash with sudden recognition. “You.” He tried to crane his head away for a better look but was met with resistance, so his eyes darted to their position, noting the dagger trapping him via clothing. One eyebrow quirked. “Touche.”

“Mmm. Fancy meeting you again.”

The dancer threw him off-guard by laughing, soft and startling. “Why, I’m almost impressed.”

In this position, Yoongi could feel every reverberation of the young man’s chest. He ignored the warmth of the dancer’s skin seeping through the soft fabric of his clothes. “I’m a quick learner.”

“I thought I said we should never cross paths again.”

“Agreed,” Yoongi deadpanned, pressing the dagger next to his throat. “Yet here you are.”

“Here I am, indeed.” The dancer grinned sweetly, as though Yoongi wasn’t holding a weapon against his pulse. “Hello.”

How infuriating. “Start speaking, or face the consequences.”

“You should know I hardly care about that. I must ask, why is it that every time we meet, you are threatening to cut my life short?”

“Do not ignore me,” growls Yoongi, patience thinning. “Who are you? Speak.”

“You must value life so loosely that it’s easy for you to point your blade at a lowly court dancer’s neck,” the man purrs.

“We both know you are not some lowly court dancer.”

“And we both know you’ve developed a secret passion for lewd books under the guise of scholarly pursuits.”

Yoongi’s grip faltered. “That’s not- you are making wrong assumptions.” That was his cousin’s interest, not Yoongi’s! He couldn’t even sit through the entire book!

“Am I?” the dancer drawled, eyes glittering in the moonlight. “Because with all due respect, I’m not the one making threats left and right here. Also, it’s rather uncomfortable to make introductions like this, no?”

Yoongi glanced down at their positions and blinked, a twinge of shame pinching at him.

“Perhaps if you get off of me, I’d be more inclined to speak.”

“Perhaps if you tell me your name first, I can be convinced to do so,” Yoongi fired back, yanking and dropping the dagger to the ground but not getting up.

A teasing smile played at the corners of the dancer’s mouth. “But you already know, do you not? Lady Aeshin.”

Yoongi pressed his lips to a thin line. “Do not mock me. As it is, I already find it hard to trust anything you say.” He looked away, face warming for some reason.

The dancer made no response to that, but Yoongi could feel a burning gaze boring holes into him. He kept his expression stoic, too stubborn to budge, and continued to stare at some concrete stairs a few yards away. Silence engulfed them. Then:

“Park Jimin.”

Yoongi pauses. The nighttime air around them swelled with a chorus of leaves and cicadas. Summer was almost here. With a gust of wind, the faint scent of women’s powder and orange blossoms wafted to Yoongi’s nose, pulling his gaze down to the man beneath him. In the silver moonlight he almost looked... soft. Like a porcelain doll, lips glazed in rouge.

“That is my name,” spoke the dancer, eyelids lowering as though embarrassed.

“Park Jimin.” Yoongi tested the name’s texture against his tongue. A first taste. The syllables rolled off smoothly.

“Yes, now will you please”—the dancer squirmed and kicked—“remove yourself from me? Your weight is crushing me.”

Right. Yoongi scrambled to his feet, and almost made the foolish move of offering his hand to help the other man stand. Pull yourself together, Yun. “So what brings you here? Obviously, you are no peasant bookseller.”

“And neither are you a mere commoner.” Park Jimin dusted his muddied hanbok off, a scowl twisting his lips at the stains. “But it seems I’m not the only one with a double identity here.” He surveyed Yoongi’s cobalt-and-scarlet nobleman’s robes—a formal attire for Surit-nal—and snapped his fingers. “Ha. I’ve figured you out.”

“Have you, now?” Yoongi quizzed, eyeing him back warily.

“You’re a yangban, probably from a family closely tied to the royals. Judging from your attire...” Jimin tipped his head to one side. “Aha! A palace official.”

Yoongi arched his brow. “In a manner of speaking, I suppose.”

“I’m certain.” Jimin nodded as though assuring himself. “You can’t possibly be a prince, because I’ve heard the royal family members are sheltered, milquetoast people of the palace, and you fight good, so.”

Yoongi coughed to hide his amusement. “Is that so?”

Jimin nodded again, chin raised high. “So, which noble clan is it? Andong Kim? Pyungyang Jo? Or the militia, Jinju Kang?”

“Yeoheung Min,” Yoongi answered quietly, never taking his eyes off the dancer.

“Ah. You must be one of the chief ministers’ sons,” Jimin mused out loud.

Yoongi considered correcting him, but a bigger part of him felt compelled to let Jimin speculate theories out of thin air like a yarnspinner. Just because. It was fascinating to watch someone be so confident and yet so wrong.

“You know,” Jimin continueD, “in the third edition, Master Kim penned a short story about the Chief State Councillor’s son and his tutor.”

Yoongi choked on his own spit and fell into a coughing fit. He keeled over, nearly losing his balance. “You- that cursed book—“

“Aha! So you’ve read it!” Jimin exclaimed as though he’d made a victorious feat. “So, tell me. How do you find it?”

“I did not read it.” Yoongi clears his throat.

Jimin’s hearty cackle filled the air as he leaned back against a nearby pillar, one leg hiked against it with his arms folded. “Did you not find it enjoyable, my lord?”

Yoongi shook his head vehemently, feeling flames fanning out across his cheeks. He marched over to his fallen sword to pick it up. “I do not wish to dabble in such debauchery.”

“All right, then I can always bring you a copy of the third and fourth edition,” Jimin proclaimed, smiling wide and oh, Yoongi’s pulse must be spiking at the sight of that smile only because the man was currently disguised like an attractive gisaeng, right?

“Fourth edition,” Yoongi echoed weakly.

“Yes. This one is about a shy palace historian and the Minister of Finance’s eldest son—“

“Stop, stop,” Yoongi sputtered, raising his sword defensively. He need not imagine Kim Namjoon’s face pressed close to a fictional historian’s right now. “Fine, do as you please, but do not involve me.”

Laughter trilled in the air once more, softening the shadows on the palace grounds. Although summertime was upon them, Yoongi’s blood thrummed as though spring had just begun blooming in his veins. He watched, eyes narrowed warily, at the way unadulterated happiness relaxed the dancer’s painted face, then gripped his sword very, very tightly.

This was absurd. That Min Yun should feel so dizzy in the presence of this menace was completely ridiculous. He has never once felt this simmering sensation around other court ladies before, so why should a man parading around as a courtesan rile him so? “W-Why have you dressed as a woman?”

The laughter in Jimin’s eyes dimmed into something more somber.

“Is... is this a pastime for you? A gross habit?” Yoongi rambled, fighting the heat from creeping up his neck. “A man should not dress as a woman, a gisaeng no less—“

“The real Lady Aeshin has eloped with her lover.”

Yoongi’s words scuttled back into his throat, leaving him open-mouthed.

Jimin dropped his arms to his sides and paced about in slow, short steps. “She is a good friend of mine from Aseowon, and we would often practice her dances and rituals for fun.”

“Still, why would she run away...”

“The man is a Sungkyunkwan aristocrat.”

Yoongi fell quiet.

“Tell me—which yangban ever married a gisaeng without falling into disgrace?” Jimin’s eyes waver with defiance. “What gisaeng is allowed to be more than a lowly concubine?”

“Then they cannot be.”

“Hence why they would elope. Love recognizes no class boundaries.”

Yoongi would beg to disagree, but he found he could not voice this. To elope was to defect. To defect was to betray one’s clan. “You understand you are playing with fire here. If word gets out that she has disappeared—”

Jimin waved a dismissive hand in the air. “It is alright. I’m only impersonating her tonight. They already had plans of escaping the capital when she was suddenly assigned to dance for the banquet.”

Yoongi’s eyes darted left and right, checking for eavesdroppers. He didn’t understand why he felt protective of this dancer already; technically Jimin was doing something covert and unthinkable, but he did not quite want to see such a strong spirit get prosecuted for helping a friend.

“After tonight, ‘Lady Aeshin’ is gone for good,” Jimin said. His eyes found Yoongi’s, unwavering in the dim light. “You may turn me in and report me for treason, but know that if you do, you have acted against the name of love.”

Yoongi rolled his eyes. “Love is not politics. Love doles out no punishments.”

His words were met with a sardonic smirk. “My lord,” Jimin spoke, voice silken and maddeningly smooth, “love is the punishment.”

“Why would you do this?” Yoongi asked in a low voice. “Put yourself at risk just to help another?”

A soft expression crossed Jimin’s eyes. Smoothing out his skirts, he murmured. “Why do anything at all, if not for compassion? I help whoever needs me.”

Compassion. Passion. Jimin would get along with Songhwa.

“So you like to feel like a saint,” Yoongi concluded.

Jimin snorted. “Ah. Well. You’d say otherwise once you find out how much I was paid for this.”

Yoongi frowned. “Paid?”

“Park Jimin, best errand boy of Hanyang!” Jimin imitated an announcement. “Will do anything for a fee.”

So much for helping a friend out. Yoongi emitted a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, rolling his eyes. On second thought—Songhwa would never get along with someone whose morals were as skewed as Park Jimin’s. “You get paid to run errands.”

“It’s called a hustle, my lord. Survival tactics.”

But of course. Truly there was nothing money could buy in this land. “Most interesting. And I suppose you would flock to whoever pays you a lofty enough price and do their bidding?”

Jimin beamed. “I do odd jobs. Menial tasks, really.”

“Like a dog.”

“What?” Jimin’s grin fell.

“You pledge loyalty to whoever feeds you the way a dog follows its master,” Yoongi analyzed, clasping his hands behind his back thoughtfully. “And you like to help the needy, who are like the dregs of tea at the bottom of a cup. Indeed, like does attract like—“

Slap.

Yoongi reeled back, clutching his face in surprise. The sound of being slapped had taken him aback more than the sting of it.

Jimin pulled his right hand back slowly, massaging his wrist while examining it. “Ah. Silly of me. How could I think a privileged aristocrat like you could ever understand?”

“How dare you raise a hand against—“

“I admit, it’s an eloquent way of ridiculing the majority of Hanyang’s population. But when you’re a bottom-feeder, you swim to catch even a dollop of sunlight. Though of course a man like you, who stands so close to the Sun*, shall never understand.” The night was so deep that darkness seemed to swallow this side of the palace, but even so, Jimin’s eyes glistened fiercely.

(*King)

Yoongi could hear his heart thundering against his chest for all the wrong reasons. He might have upset the man, but he said nothing untruthful, had he?

“You may feel free to think what you want. Call us small. Call us desperate,” Jimin sniffed, swallowing visibly. “And we, in turn, will call you silver spoon bastards incapable without your wealth.”

Yoongi blinked.

“Now if you would excuse me, my lord, I will now remove myself from your great presence.”Jimin feigned a bow, but maintained his curt, icy stare, leaving Yoongi stupefied beyond words. Only after he disappeared from Yoongi’s sight did Yoongi realize he never asked why Jimin had strayed from the banquet courtyard in the first place.

Not that it mattered anymore.

“I’m not as close to His Majesty as he thinks,” Yoongi grumbled under his breath much later, as he busied himself with some late-night calligraphy to soothe his mind. “What a scoundrel.”

“Who? Me?” Songhwa asked across the table, busy with a blank canvas and an array of paintbrushes.

Yoongi sighed and looked out the window. “Just an insufferable person who confuses me.”

“Nothing is confusing, Orabeoni,” Songhwa said, humming nonchalantly. “People are just complicated creatures. Either you have a lack of understanding, or something does not want to be understood by you.”

“You just made it sound even more convoluted, Songhwa.”

“You know, brother, for a Sungkyunkwan scholar you can be impossibly foolish,” Songhwa said matter-of-factly. “Why don’t you try painting to develop your intelligence?”

“Why, you little minx—“

His sister giggled softly and gestured to her work. “Look!”

Yoongi glanced at the canvas Songhwa was working on, where a small blue orchid was beginning to take form. “I thought you wanted to paint Yeol.”

“This is practice. I will clear my head before diving into the object of my desire.”

Yoongi cut his sister a glance, the hand holding his calligraphy brush stopping short. Droplets of ink dotted his parchment. “Desire?”

“Yes,” Songhwa answered primly, gazing at him with a deadpan face. “Desire.” She made no further explanation, leaving Yoongi more baffled than before.

He looked at his sister’s painting again. “You mean to say, your painting is a manifestation of your desires.”

Songhwa nodded casually. “Artists depict what they like. I like this flower.”

“And you like...” Yoongi licked his lower lip, heart rate speeding in alarm. “Yeol?”

Songhwa’s eyes flickered up to him, wide and earnest. “Is that wrong?”

Yoongi’s eyes widened. “Is that not a”—he gulped and leaned forward to lower his voice to a hush—“a crime?”

“I ask again, is it wrong?”

“It’s a crime,” Yoongi repeated dumbly, feeling even more foolish in front of his much-younger sister. It astounded him so, how he could find no further defense rather than the illegality of what Songhwa was alluding to. He swallowed his discomfort, forcing himself to appear calm.

“Are all crimes true wrongs?” asked his sister.

“Watch your mouth. I fear for the words you speak, sister,” Yoongi interjected curtly, a similar kind of fear swelling in him, but not for his sister—for himself. “You could be branded a criminal if you dare say this to anyone aside from me.”

Songhwa’s lower lip trembled. “You wound me.”

“I do not wish you see you hurt, is all.” Yoongi reached out to pinch his sister’s cheek. “Not my baby sister, not our Songhwa.”

Songhwa grimaced and squirmed away from his touch. “If you love me, truly, then you must accept all that it is of me. Including my heart.”

Again, Yoongi was left speechless. Songhwa was glaring at him with a headstrong, defiant gaze that looked so similar to the way someone else had looked at him, hours earlier. It sent Yoongi’s thoughts spinning, the idea that he might not be as clever as he thought he was.

Yoongi pointed at her canvas. “Teach me.”

The sudden request broke Songhwa’s heated glower. She blinked owlishly up at Yoongi, brows rising. “How to paint?”

Not only how to paint, but other… beliefs... as well. Yoongi ached to understand. He cracked the barest of smiles. “Let me join your classes with Tutor Jeon.”

__________________________________

Unlike what Yoongi anticipated, Tutor Jeon was a young man—a boy really—who couldn’t possibly be beyond his teenage years. Despite towering over Yoongi, his twinkling round eyes & even rounder cheeks belied his youth; not a day older than seventeen, perhaps.  Rumor had it that the boy was an art genius, hence his qualifications. Yoongi had glimpsed some of his landscapes and portraits, which Her Majesty the Queen had taken a liking to and paid him handsomely for. They hung in Daejojeon Hall, admired for their artistic value.

“Ah, I’ve made a mistake,” Songhwa lamented sullenly, shaking her head at the accidental stroke of ink smeared across her canvas. “Yeol, my sweet, would you fetch me a new canvas?”

“You may still cover it up,” Tutor Jeon said, seated across the table from her and Yoongi. His, eyes were trained on the princess’ canvas. “With paint.”

“Is that so? Show me.”

“Like this.” Tutor Jeon dipped his paintbrush into a wooden palette and swirled until the paint matched the canvas’ original hue. “Best not waste materials.”

Standing next to them, Yeol let out an admiring noise of approval, nodding to herself. Songhwa eyed the tutor warily, then exchanged a look with Yoongi.

“I am most curious about you,” she said, dipping her own paintbrush into a jar of clear water. “How old are you?”

Tutor Jeon cast his eyes to the wooden floor of the open-air pavilion they’re sitting in. “I turned seventeen last autumn, gongju-nim.”

“And your full name is?”

“Jeon Jungkook, of the Damyang Jeon clan.”

Damyang Jeon. A clan famous for spurning a bloodline of skilled poets and martial artists. Yoongi let out a hum as he imitated the patterns that Jungkook was creating on his own canvas. “I wouldn’t suppose your Jeon Deukshi was one of your ancestors?”

“Oh?” Tutor Jeon’s gaze lifted to meet his, eyes round as honey biscuits, and something in Yoongi softened at his innocence in his expression. “How did you…?”

Yoongi glanced at him and gave a tight-lipped smile. “And do you perhaps have an older brother at Sungkwunkwan?”

“Yes, his name is Jeon Kihyun. I hope to soon join him after I am eligible to take the next civil state examinations.”

“You are taking the gwageo?” Yoongi frowned. “Will you not pursue art?”

Jungkook shook his head. “It does not behoove a scholar to pursue mindless passions that will not produce greatness, Your Highness.”

“But is it your decision to become an official, or is that simply the path carved out for you?” Songhwa wondered aloud. Yoongi nudged her, and she poked her tongue out at him in retaliation.

Jungkook’s cheeks were splotching with pink as he dipped his paintbrush in clear water. “I am grateful enough to be able to indulge in this practice, for now, in the presence of such important members of the palace. In another life, perhaps.”

Such a well-mannered boy. Yoongi decided he liked Jungkook. “Then, feel free to tutor us to your heart’s content, while you are here. It is a royal order.”

Jungkook looked up at him with big, wet eyes, a thankful smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“Hmmpf,” Songhwa snarked, clicking her tongue.

Yoongi glanced at his sister. “What?”

“Nothing, really. It merely astounds me how you men like to deprive yourselves so much to preserve some semblance of dignity,” Songhwa commented airily, busy with her paintbrush.

Jungkook blinked owlishly. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

Songhwa paused, and her gaze flickered from one man to the other. “Art. Embroidery. Tailoring. Is it truly that shameful to like them, as men?”

Yoongi and Jungkook exchanged looks of surprise. Because those are women’s pastimes.

“I’ve seen the embroidery our Orabeoni’s handkerchiefs, and they’re lovely. Why hide such aptitude?”

Yoongi answered with stubborn silence. Jungkook studied Songhwa as though she were a preacher explaining the nuances of poetry, his own paintbrush paused in the air as he considered her words.

Finally, Yoongi remarked quietly, “We cannot simply do everything—“

“If you like something, do it. If you want something, go after it,” Songhwa said.

How naive she was. How young. Yoongi could only wish he could see the world from Min Songhwa’s eyes, understand her simplistic perspective.

He opened his mouth to reproach his sister, but their session was cut short by Hoseok’s appearance outside the pavilion’s steps. “Your presence is being summoned, Your Highness.”

Yoongi’s hand paused above his... well, non-existent artwork, seeing as he’d barely made five strokes of black ink over his canvas, let alone a shape worthy of artistic interpretation. “Where to? And by who?”

Hoseok’s eyes flickered with a foreign look for someone usually so confident—uneasiness. “The Royal Council Hall. The King and his ministers are waiting.”

Yoongi’s head jerked up, his pulse quickening. His father seldom called for him. Or ever, at all. He dropped the paintbrush and scrambled to his feet right away. “Very well. Let’s go.”

Hoseok hesitated. “The Princess is summoned as well.”

Songhwa pointed at herself. “Me? Why?”

When Hoseok offered no explanation, Yoongi all but commanded gently, “Let’s make haste, Songhwa.” This must be an important call. To Jungkook, he nodded in acknowledgment. “We shall continue another day.”

__________________________________________

Yoongi still found it difficult to believe that his father had become a stout, bearded man with trembling, rough hands that complemented his unstable temper. It was like looking at a different person from the man who’d given him such fond childhood memories. Even now, as the King’s gaze landed upon Yoongi, it was hard to ignore his bloodshot eyes—remnants of a weak ruler who dethroned the previous king via a government coup d’état.

It had taken years for Yoongi to realize that he no longer knew what it was like to love the man who bore him, or to be loved in return. To the King, they were hardly father and son, but master and servant. The only silver lining in the throne hall was Crown Prince Sohyeon, sitting at King’s right hand, whose smile settled the dull unease in Yoongi’s stomach. Kneeling beside him on the floor, Songhwa stayed quiet as a mouse. No doubt she harbored the same gnawing dread as he. Rarely were the children of the First Concubine ever summoned to official gatherings.

“Brother,” Sohyeon’s voice rang loud but warm in the Council Hall, more regal than his father had ever been. “It is so good to see you. Have you been well?”

Yoongi bowed his head. “Yes, Highness.”

“Your Majesty,” a raspy drawl rose from the rows and rows of the court of officials standing before the king—it was Yoongi’s uncle, the Minister of War. He sported a greying beard over his jowled face. “The Qing has received the invitation and has sent a reply.”

“Is that so?” A rumbling laugh bubbled from the King’s belly. “Wonderful. Do tell us.”

A royal messenger shuffled forward and unrolled a parchment to read aloud:

“The Qing Empire is pleased to attend the Royal Banquet to celebrate the Joseon King’s fortieth birthday.”

Gaze downcast, Yoongi fought off a mystified frown. Why were they being informed of this, and how was any of this relevant to him? Surely this would be no different from any other banquet that they customarily attended.

“It is with great honor and hope that the Emperor of Qing sends his most trusted envoys to forge a stronger alliance with the nation of Joseon.”

“Do you hear that, Yun?” the King asked, a pleased smile gracing his face. “It is time; you are old enough to choose a wife.”

Yoongi’s breath caught in his throat. A muffled gasp escaped Songhwa, and Yoongi stifled the urge to reach out and comfort her. “I see.” Dread punctured its claws into his lungs, and he struggled to phrase his next words politely. “However, Your Majesty, I—“

He paused, realizing he has no words to better articulate any form of refusal. Who was he to decline? To marry was a duty all children of the Sun eventually carried out.

“You are what?” Crown Prince Sohyeon prodded slowly, eyes kind. “Speak, brother, and you shall be heard.”

Would it matter what he said, though? Yoongi swallowed to force down the heaviness in his chest. “I...”

“I have spoiled you too much, now look at you,” grumbled the King. “Stuttering. Weak.”

Yoongi let out a slow, quiet breath, schooling his features into a look of calm. He raised his head and spoke in as even a voice as he could muster. “I have not yet graduated from my studies at Sungkyunkwan, Your Majesty. I am afraid to taint the nation’s name, should the Emperor of Qing be dissatisfied with my lack of scholarly knowledge.”

Inwardly, Yoongi fought back a shudder at the mere idea of having to pick a wife. A woman to regard as his other half, to love and to bed. He tried to fathom it, but all thoughts of women lead to one image in his mind: a court dancer mid-leap, drapes billowing around his arms. Goosebumps erupted down his skin.

Stroking his beard, the King shifted his gaze to Songhwa instead. “Then shall I propose the Princess’ hand in matrimony, instead?”

Yoongi’s eyes blew wide. Songhwa let out a sharp cry of dismay, unable to conceal herself. “Father, please, I—“

“It’s either you or your brother,” said the Minister of War, gaze cutting from one sibling to the other. “The Qing would accept no lesser disrespect.”

It all clicked in Yoongi’s head, then, why he and Songhwa were summoned to court. With the Crown Prince already bethrothed to the Crown Princess, the throne was left with no other pawn pieces for political maneuvering... except for Yoongi and Songhwa, children of his First Consort. Ten hells. It was almost hilarious, how not even an hour earlier he’d been so inclined to believe Songhwa’s endless optimism. To believe that he’d be free to follow his heart’s wishes. Desire was a concept he will never understand.

Yoongi clenched and unclenched his hands. “I accept.”

“Orabeoni!” Songhwa cried, but her voice fell to deaf ears in a courtroom full of powerful men only looking to serve themselves.

Yoongi’s eyes closed, defeat curling his shoulders inward. Do you see, now? Do you see how children of the throne will never be truly free?

“Good,” said the King. “That leaves our little Princess free to entertain our most treasured guests.”

Yoongi looked up, stricken. What…?

“The Qing are avid lovers of culture and celebration,” supplied one of the court officials. “They’ve requested a round of song and dance with the women of the palace.”

Songhwa took in a quivering inhale. Yoongi’s jaw tightened. Neither uttered a word.

“This banquet will be a festival,” declared the Minister of Culture.

“We shall open our doors to our valued neighbors,” added the Minister of Foreign Affairs. “And grace them with an exchange of cultures and practices!”

“But I cannot dance,” protested Songhwa.

At this, Crown Prince Sohyeon raised a hand. At once, a hush dampened the courtroom’s excited chatter.

“Which is why we have invited the best dancer of Joseon to personally come and teach you,” said the Crown Prince.

Songhwa’s brow furrowed. “Who?”

“The dancer from Surit-nal, Lady Aeshin.”

Aeshin? Yoongi could hear the rush of blood in his ears, and he rubbed clammy hands against his robes. Didn’t Jimin say that gisaeng had already gone and eloped with her lover?

Songhwa’s face brightened. “The talented Lady Aeshin?”

“She has accepted, and will be staying in the palace until the banquet.”

Yoongi’s eyes nearly bulged out of his head. He ducked his face low to hide his expression. How? How could a vanished woman accept the palace’s summon? Unless it wasn’t actually Lady Aeshin herself...

His eyes narrowed. He looked up and cleared his throat. “How long until then?”

”Two moons. The banquet shall commence at the summer solstice.”

So Yoongi had two months left until he married, but until then he would devote himself to weeding out little liars who intend to deceive the throne, and more importantly, his own sister. Liars like ‘Lady Aeshin’.

Yoongi arranged his expression into a neutral one and gave a firm bow. “Understood.”

_____________________________________________

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Yoongi looked up from his scrolls of texts, most of which he’d glossed over with unreading eyes anyway. Kim Namjoon was peering at him like he was a formula to solve, a riddle without an answer. He’d come by the palace to visit and study with Yoongi.

They’d only started growing closer due to them both being scholars of the academy, but already Yoongi felt at ease with the man. Unlike his arrogant father, Kim Namjoon exuded a quiet confidence in his abilities, layered with an easygoing charm. He showed a genuine interest in Yoongi’s opinions, and never overstepped boundaries despite his inquisitive nature.

Yoongi mumbled, “I am to marry in two months.”

Namjoon hummed noncommittaly. “To a woman you love? My my, should I feel slighted that you’ve never shared this with me before?”

Yoongi chortled. “You speak of love like it’s easy to find. No, I will serve as a vessel to strengthen alliances with the Qing. End of the story.”

“And how does that make you feel?”

Yoongi ground his teeth. Outraged. Hopeless. Lower than a pig. “I’m somewhat relieved to be useful to my king.”

Namjoom muffled a snort, shooting him a look as if to say, That’s just pretentious.

“I am also hurt.”

Namjoon nodded, swirling his calligraphy brush into a parchment paper. “Go on.”

The thing is, Yoongi had never been a dreamer like Songhwa, nor an ambitious man like his older brother. He had always leaned towards pragmatism. And to be fair, the court’s decision was born out of logic and necessity. He didn’t have any grand delusions about exploring a world outside the palace, either. It was just matrimony. So why did Yoongi feel like his wings had just been clipped?

He shrugged and opened another textbook. “I just do. But what I feel does not matter, anyway.”

Namjoon sighed, giving him a plaintive stare. “I hope the person you will love would someday teach you otherwise.”

Yoongi snorted. Fat chance, that. “I can teach myself everything I need to know.”

“Right.”

___________________________________________

And so, his own secret investigation began.

A few days following the dramatic court announcement, Songhwa dragged Yoongi out of his quarters and into the Lotus Pavilion so that he would ‘stop moping around like a widow’ or whatnot. Unbeknownst to her, this was exactly what Yoongi hoped for. He seized the opportunity to ask—

“Have your lessons with Lady Aeshin commenced yet?”

“Just about.” Songhwa’s eyes crinkled with merriment as she set down her teacup. “You know, at first I really dreaded the idea of having to perform for foreigners, but now I realize the opportunity to learn an exciting art. It is not so bad.”

“Let us hope not,” said Yoongi. “When will your first lesson be?”

“She is finally to enter the palace today, thank the Jade Emperor, after a few days’ delay to make arrangements for an extended stay. I am no dancer, so I fear she will struggle.”

Oh, he was going to struggle all right. Yoongi would make sure of that. “Would you mind if I sat in for your first lesson today?”

Songhwa shot him an odd look. “Why in the heavens’ name should you want to?”

Yoongi racked his brain for a reason. “I’ve become rather interested in, uh, the art of dance.”

“Oh, my.” Songhwa clutched her chest, gawking pointedly at Yoongi. “Orabeoni, you haven’t even married yet but here you are, already a changed man. Color me impressed. Would you like to learn to dance, too?”

“No!” Yoongi denied. Songhwa’s smile dipped. “I mean, I would prefer to simply observe first.”

She giggled and shook her head. “No need to be so shy around me! But very well. You may join us this afternoon.”

Yoongi cracked a smile. “Marvelous.”

Afternoon could not come fast enough. By noon Yoongi’s nerves had turned into jitters, like a bucket of butterflies set free. He’d already set a plan of action. The moment he saw Park Jimin—if the commissioned dancer happened to be him, that was—Yoongi would calmly walk to him and return the one thing he never should have deigned to touch in the first place: Master Kim’s unholy scriptures. Such an abomination.

And then... and then what? Yoongi told himself he’d improvise on the spot what to do next afterwards. He couldn’t launch an interrogation so blatantly in the presence of his sister and other ladies-in-waiting. The priority was to return the cursed book, and later confront Jimin for crossdressing so shamelessly.

The dance lessons were to be held at the Lotus Pavilion, bridged across a pond.

Yoongi trailed a few steps behind Songhwa, unable to get a word between her animated conversation with her lady-in-waiting, Yeol. The two had always been like sisters—Yoongi never would’ve imagined Songhwa would regard her as anything more. Not that it was any of his business.

Lotus Pavilion soon came into view. Yoongi stopped and squinted. A woman clad in a plain cream-and-brown hanbok rose to a bow as Songhwa climbed the wooden steps leading up into the pavilion. With the dancer’s back to Yoongi, he couldn’t check for facial features.

But then Songhwa mouthed something and pointed to Yoongi, and the dancer turned to look.

And—sure enough, Yoongi’s vision was flooded with Park Jimin’s unmistakably soft face, clear and unobscured with his hair up in a bun. Yoongi would recognize those eyes anywhere, no matter how far. To his surprise, his heart started hammering wildly without his consent. It beat so violently that Yoongi’s chest burned, so he doubled over and spun away, unwilling to attract attention or let anyone see him in such a state.

Unacceptable. He had never felt this way before. Clutching his heart, Yoongi dashed in the opposite direction, away from Lotus Pavilion.

“Oh?” He heard Songhwa’s surprised voice. “Orabeoni! Where are you going?”

Yoongi didn’t have it in him to respond. His face wason flames, and so was his neck, his ears. He should be able to control such a sensation, but it felt so visceral, like a wildfire spread too wide. He staggered back to his residential quarters, panting, feeling dazed as though a haze had just enveloped his vision. From somewhere seemingly far away, he feels strong arms gripping him, followed by a familiar voice—Hoseok perhaps—asking if he is all right.

Yoongi nodded, citing a need for some water.

Hoseok’s eyebrows were furrowed in deep concern. “I’ll ask the servants to bring you a fresh pitcher from the wells. Is there anything else you need?”

Still shaken, Yoongi dropped to the floor and crawled to his low-lying wooden table. “That dancer.”

“Eh? You are into dancers now?”

Yoongi rested his forehead on the table. He needed some time to gather his wits, be more alert. Maybe a cup of tea to calm himself, too. Under his breath, he muttered, “After Songhwa’s lesson ends, bring that dancer to my quarters. I would speak to... her… in private.”

If Hoseok was bewildered by his request, he did not show it. “Will do.”

After Hoeok’s departure, Yoongi slowly slid out the cursed book from the inner pockets of his robes and placed it on his table. Then he hugged his knees and rocks back and forth, gnawing on his nails.

He ought not to keep losing his cool like this. Whereas he thought he’d be unfazed at the sight of Park Jimin again, he’d actually experienced every other emotion under the sun but calmness. The deep pools of Jimin’s sharp gaze never fail to mesmerize. Yoongi attributed his reaction to the fact that Jimin looks too beautiful, breaching the boundaries between man and woman.

On top of that came the wave relentless remorse and shame crashing out of nowhere, flooding Yoongi and reminding him of all the uncouth words he’d spoken to Jimin the night of Surit-nal. Looking back, Yoongi understood now how spewing such nonsense made him come across as stuck-up.

This couldn’t be happening. He needed some fresh air to cleanse the negativity from his troubled mind.

So Yoongi pushed open the windows in his quarters, closing his eyes as he let a summer songbird soothe his inexplicable jitters.

After a few moments, he took out a parchment and dipped a brush in ink. He didn’t know why he was doing this, but for once Yoongi didn’t follow or question his logical mind. Instead he allowed his gut instinct to take control as he gingerly, with slow brushstrokes, spelled out the hanja characters comprising “Park Jimin”.

All things considered, it was a lovely name befitting a lovely face. Over and over he wrote the same characters until they filled every inch of the parchment paper.

“Your Highness,” Hoseok’s voice rang from outside Yoongi’s doors. “Lady Aeshin is here, as requested.”

Yoongi nearly jumped out of his skin. The calligraphy brush clattered to the table as he scrambled to hide away every remnant of his writings, tidying his table. He adjusted his gat and tried to smoothen every crease in his robes before straightening his spine and clearing his throat.

“Let her in.”

The doors slid open, and Park Jimin was waved inside in all his skirted hanbok glory. His footfalls hardly made noise as he glided in, head bowed deeply to avoid eye contact with Yoongi.

“Your Highness,” Jimin greeted, eyes trained on the floor.

Yoongi pursed his lips, steadying his heartbeat. “Raise your head.”

Jimin’s shoulders rose, taut with tension. “Grand Prince Min Yun, I am humbled to be summoned by you. How may I be of use?”

His voice is trembling, Yoongi notices. His eyes widened. Jimin didn’t know who he was. But why? Did he perhaps not recognize the timbre of Yoongi’s voice?

“I said, raise your head and look at me, Park Jimin.”

Jimin’s spine went rigid. Yoongi almost smiled to himself. There—that should do the trick.

Slowly, as though afraid to disturb the currents moving through the very air they breathe, Jimin lifted his head. Loose strands of hair framed the sides of his face.

Their eyes met. As soon as recognition crossed Jimin’s eyes, his face morphs into a rhapsody of shock, confusion and apprehension.

“You’re familiar,” Yoongi drawled, smirking. He leaned his chin on one palm. “Have we met before?”

“Aren’t you... a palace official?” Jimin managed, tilting his head in a birdlike manner.

“I am.” Yoongi beamed at him. “As the Grand Prince.”

[A/N: Thank you, Noemi, for the wonderful art of Prince Min Yun! <3 Go check out her work on her Twitter, @itsnoemyg!!!]