#a fragment of a still incomplete fanfiction of mine

[perlen-gold]

Storm Night

“I am not good at talking about how I feel.” said Fenris once.

Ordinarily it is not the rain that arouses Hawke. He was not awake to witness the birth of the storm, far away from the shallow piers of Kirkwall, across the heaving and hungry sea. After hours of silent hunting, dark and looming clouds have entrapped the aspiring stone buildings of men.

The rain gushes down in endless silvery streams, chasing any four-legged or upright stranglers mercilessly into desperate shelter. Violently, a myriad of furious drops besiege the quivering glass in the windows, its irate cadence ceaselessly drowning out the occasional crackling of the fireplace. For a brief moment the bed room is plunged in an uncanny flash of dazzling light. The columns of the four-poster bed flinch, ghosts briefly awaken upon the seashell white bed sheet. Above gloomy curtains shudder in trepidation as the searing white lightning strikes once, twice, thrice. The skies over Kirkwall are illuminated in wraithlike shadows full of clouded hunters and rumbling beasts, washed over by the piercing of light, and felled in forlorn battle by thunder and bolt.

In the blink of an eye, Hawke’s eye, amber-colored and wide awake, the short-tempered light disperses into the night.

The smell of fresh, hard rain mixed with the herb burn of the dance in the fireside that shelters the bedroom under-fire from the feud outside is nearly palpable. Once more the keen blade of light strikes and transforms the hunters into warriors and the warriors into tombs for the fallen and demised, cleaving through the stormy night.

That which usually rudely awakes Hawke from sleep is neither hunter nor tomb; a kick, unexpected and painful in the lulling reverie of slumber; a sudden stroke hitting some uncovered part of his body that leaves his knee, his thigh, his shoulder, his ribs a bruised mark as purple as ripe plums; an entangling wrench yanking imprisoning feather and fabric away; and sounds, sounds, sounds, muffled, leashed, involuntary, sounds seared in Hawke’s mind.

This night is different, though.

When he wakes up, thunder forces his eyelids fly open. He lies still and he knows something is wrong.

He looks around, searches. That which wakes him this night is the slashing of the relentless rain and the cold spot on the soft mattress beside Hawke.

After a short moment of blessed silence as the storm outside gathers its strength for the next oncoming assault, Hawke sits up and swings his feet to the dry carpeted floor. It is this bare patch on the bed beside him, bereft of any body’s warmth, that has imprinted itself upon his dormant consciousness.

On bare feet he walks out of the room, along the ghostly dark corridor. ��Beyond the stalwart stone walls of the Amell estate dark and light continue to lash out at each other as sundered lovers. Listening to the weeping skies Hawke remembers Carver’s wide-stricken eyes and how he swallowed his own boyhood tears for his brother’s and sister’s sake during a similar night. So big a house sunken in a darkness so impenetrable, it is impossible for Hawke to judge whether he has been roused in the middle of the night or at the cusp of dawn and day.

Wrapped in the clattering sound of the endless rain he passes the stairs, two closed doors, the kitchen till a flicker of faintly orange light piques his interest hidden amidst shelves of books.

In bad nights, Hawke will resolutely grip Fenris shoulders in order to shake him awake from his violent thrashing. In good nights, observing his twitching jaw muscles, Hawke wraps his arms around Fenris’waist, cradling him, bringing him close to his chest so he can breath softly into his ear, easing him out of his sleep just to the verge of awakening.

On those nights that are worst, Hawke will wake to a cold bed and find Fenris swigging down abundant-flavored wine from dark bottles. During these nights, Hawke joins him. They drink, they talk about other things while Hawke laughs and smiles and mounts guard over the distant look in Fenris’ wakeful eyes. Then, occasionally, out of the blue, Fenris might blurt out some mutinous memento, granted by his former life under the unyielding Tevinter sun, that leaves Hawke unsmiling and Fenris with bitterness or – worse still – with a callous shrug.

“And here I thought you hated reading.”

In this particular night Hawke finds Fenris hunched over a book in the lone flame of a single candle. He could illume the lamps and torches in the library without so much as a flicker of his fingers but he refrains from doing so. Instead, he pulls up a plain wooden chair and sits opposite Fenris, elbow on the abraded tabletop, one side of his scratchy face in his hand.

“Why?” Fenris retorts brusquely.

Hawke cannot help but smile in remembrance.

“Because last time I tried to teach you, you ended up flinging my poor book aside with the result that it was crouching in a corner quivering from spine to edge. I have not seen it since. It is probably in hiding by now.”

Fenris’ even brow patterns into struggling concentration.

“It is easy enough for you to taunt. I expected you were going to teach me reading but the sole thing you do is unnerve me with your constant correcting and scoffing.”

“And here I thought you liked my dallying.”

On other nights Fenris might look at him, his eyes alight with that dark spring green glare that there dwells perpetually, till a sudden smile flickers across his curling lips. Tonight, he does not give in to his bait, though. There is an edge in Fenris’ voice that is not often prevalent, not when they are quite alone like this. Hawke strains towards it without Fenris’ notice.

The drum of tempest-tossed rain falls upon their ears. Hawke feels his smile grow softer.  

“Maybe you are just a dreadful student.”

“Maybe you are just a dreadful teacher, Hawke.”

A chuckle rises from Hawke’s chest, light and amused.

“I probably am.”

He can see Fenris’ skin is still damp on the undersides of his arms and the nape of his neck.

The deluging torrent is not as loud here but its unyielding tremor splashing the rooftop unforgettable.

Fenris leans back, his elbows raised, his hands abruptly restless on his thighs. With a sweep of the flickering candle flame all his riposting ire seems gone all of a sudden.

“I was a fool to believe I could learn a skill like this.”

Fenris does not raise his gaze when Hawke stands and comes round the table. He draws his chair to Fenris’ side, sitting next to him. Thunder anew rumbles in the invisible night as Hawke clasps Fenris’ right hand. He does so gingerly, with the slightest hint of tarrying deference just before their fingers touch as if to see whether Fenris’ hand will move away, ever so slightly.

After dipping it into blue-black ink he threads a gray-blue quill between Fenris’ almond-colored fingers (a griffon plume, ostensible, when it was actually taken out of a phoenix’ reluctant plumage.)

With great care, slowly, deliberately, the feather tip scratches in high curves and narrow prongs over the mottled sheet of parchment. The scraping sound seems to echo among the endless shelves of books even under the voices of the thunderstorm. Long after the scratching has stopped Fenris keeps staring at the straight arcs and meandering lines in blue-black colors. Brows lowered in reflective toil his fingertips brush over the barely dried lines, smearing them at the outer edges.

“What does it say?” requests he.

Indicatively Hawke’s index finger passes from inky character to character, pronouncing each consonant and vowel with great care. Once he has reached the final letter, the last shred of reluctance is brushed away of Fenris’ expression.  Superseded by a diffident smile that he is not yet poised to evince.

“Show me yours.” he asks, half plea, half demand.

Once more Hawke guides his hand over the torn piece of parchment, tip grazing, ink fanning out as a peacock indigo feathers.

“H,” he pronounces softly but sumptuously, “A. W …”

Again, Fenris gazes at the finished name for quite a long time before he begins writing it down slowly, painstakingly, yet perfectly, unaided. Twice he then writes his own name before switching the quill from his right to his left hand. Gradually, the letters, first bristle, become more fluid with increasing pace.

Arms folded, Hawke leans back and watches Fenris practice. First copying down the portrait of their names, secondly each letter individually, then rearranging them hesitantly and strained-eyed until new words are being born, the characters pronounced meaning suddenly becoming easier with each line. Soon there is not an inch of crammed parchment left to pen on and Hawke produces a whole new sheet from his writing desk while the storm outside howls and prowls with strenuous menace.

Quite abruptly the ink-gleaming letters, bearing a childlike quality, loose their fierce focus. The subsequent line swerves out of line, then steadies, but the next does, too, and the one after that. Then the trembling begins.

At first it is only his hand, though Fenris keeps writing, writing their names, teeth gritted.

Mere seconds later the shaking has befallen his fingers, his legs, his shoulders hunched into his chest. His whole frame shudders under the shivering grip, as iron as his own grip on the quill.

Hawke has stood up.

Soon Fenris’ clammy hand cannot clutch the quill anymore. It falls, twisting itself out of his quavering grasp, dark spots of ink spraying everyway.

Few futile attempts later he stops altogether.

Hawke is standing behind his chair when it starts. With slow movements he wraps his arms loosely around his shoulders. He does not count the minutes, muss less the seconds.

Somewhen and somewhere Hawke feels Fenris startlingly cold hand on the side of his face, fingers cradling his charcoal black beard.

Rivulets of time run by.

Then Fenris picks the quill up again.

Leaning into the gentle touch Hawke lowers his weary head and rests his chin atop the crown of Fenris’ head, char stubbles shaving ebony shocks of white hair. By experience, Hawke knows better than to waste any words on that which has just happened.

So silence remains.

As Fenris finishes his next word it gives the impression of an even more childish scrawling.

Softly Hawke reads the letters aloud, feeling the fine strands of pearly white hair rubbing between his beard. “Garrett” Then, quieter, “where did you pick that one up?”

“It was stitched onto the insides of one of your shirts you gave me.”

Hawke feels a smile capturing his lips, first small, then warm and filling.

“Fenris?”

“Yes.”

“Come”, he whispers and takes his hand into his, the one that has the scarlet scarf slung about its wrist, leading him back to the warm shelter of the room of their bedroom.

Beyond the drop-gleaming windows the undying rain has lost its edge and grown somewhat quieter, enough to transmute into a deceiving semblance of repose. Back in the wide four-poster bed  they arrange for sleep in the same fashion they adopt each evening, night after night. Hawke lies on his back in the not-so-exact middle of the soft mattress, Fenris at his side, half-spread, half-outflung across Hawke’s chest, one long sharp-ended ear bedded against Hawke’s shoulder, collarbone, heart. As twisted as they might move during sleep – entangled into the warm blankets so one of them has to yank it back from under the other’s body – warped and tousled, on their sides, backs, sprawled on their stomachs – Hawke’s nose may be pitched by Fenris adamant fingers to stop his occasional but insistent snoring, his limps loose with sleep – however slumber may let them wander apart, this is the irrevocable way they settle for sleep.

Fenris’ ear near Hawke’s heart where he can harken its steady, willful beat.

Hawke knows Fenris can hear its wordless, confessing avowals for he can hear Fenris’ equally, a little  arrhythmic heartbeat through his hand on the elf’s back, the answer creeping up the arm he has slung around him.

“I am not good at talking about how I feel.” said Fenris once.

This ineptness is an inevitable part of the man beside him as is the color of his eye or skin and Fenris can no more shed it than he could change the length of his limps or stop the breathing in his lungs.

“I like this.”

“What? This?” Hawke pulls him closer in merriment.

“I like this kind of weather.”

Astonished Hawke listens to the rataplan of the rain. No lightening forks the dark martial skies outside anymore save for a distant rumbling afar.

“Bethany,” Hawke remembers, still startled, “liked storms, too.”

Suddenly, Fenris straightens up and with one swift, vigorous motion he pulls Hawke out of the sheets intentionally.

Out of the bedroom into the hall he is dragged by the elf whose strength is as unsettling as ever. Hawke, no weakling himself and impressively built, once probed the silver-bladed sword (Fenris cherished nearly as much as Varric did Bianca) for several minutes and strained to fathom how Fenris could bear running around with it all day long without having his tendons and ligaments reattached afterwards. How he commiserates and dotes on this brutality of his.

“Oh,” Hawke groans, irony and grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, “I am not going to like this.”

Down the shadowy stairs, through the unlit foyer, up to the storm-pondered font gate and, in an instant, gushes of rain and wind wash over their faces.  

The moment they leave the safety of the house Fenris opens his grasp on Hawke’s hand but the impulse of his powerful motion propels Hawke forward right into the battle ground of the storm. Before he can blink he is soaked to the skin.

Side by side they stand in the sheath of glassy rain, barefooted, barely closed.

Before them the skies are ashore with waves of gloomy clouds. The ever-raging warrior thunder, lightening his merciless blazing blade, is aloud with booming vengeance here and fighting the skies and the earths alike.

A stroke of electrifying light from afar paints the streets and walls of Kirkwall in sharp relieve, a miniscule, insignificant thorp cowering at the feet of blue and gray and black mountains awash by breaking, spuming , spraying waves of stormy sea.

Water streams down the sides of Hawke’s face, filling the tiny spaces between his seeping beard stubbles. Angry winds gush and billow.

Endless rivulets of rain, sapid with the aroma of the wounded skies, flow in streams along the inside of Hawke’s palms, cascade forward from his slack fingertips.  

Hawke closes his eyes.

In he breathes the taste of the thunder and the light, inhaling the raining waters.

All four of their naked, bare feet are engulfed by ankle-deep flows of water.

“Maker’s breath,” Hawke exclaims in a sudden mad fit of laughter, “how can you stand this all day long?”

Since there is no answer, lost in the grace of nature, Hawke finally opens his eyes.

Fenris’ face is only a blur in the embrace of the rains. Winds tear at the strangely pearly white hair glued to his cheeks. Innumerable drops of gleaming water are falling upon the cobbled streets from his naked arms, his pointed ears, the tip of his nose.

So fierce are the winds that their sheer physical strength all but overthrows them – even so, Fenris’ slender shape towers among them indomitable.  His elven face may be blurred by the spray of the gush and rain, his deep green emerald eyes, however, glitter with the rage of the roaring warrior and his blazing blade.

Once again the skies are cast alight and Fenris face flashed, his eyes lit as by a fire within.

Sometimes Hawke wishes he would simply start crying.

He is stepping towards Hawke.

Hawke is giving him a wet smile that he cannot hear through the chaos. His eyes are fixed with studying one single silver bead among a plethora which is running down along his curved neck and disperses wetly into his the well of his collarbone.

“We will both be stone-cold dead by the end of the night.”  

Thirst-ridden Fenris’ eyes blazing virid eyes find his, and his hard mouth, arms entwining around Hawke’s neck, finds his and is pressing against his lips tasting of rain and the aroma of his caramel-shaded skin. Hawke grasps him, savors him not heeding the chatty gossip that might burst from a prying eye behind the dark rain-stained windows around them – who would anyway?

“I am not good at talking about how I feel.” said Fenris once.

In the peach-colored rays of morning light when the horizon will be skewed with skeins of tangerine, Hawke will sleepily wave away Orana’s considerate knock at the door and her regardful eyes peering from behind the bedroom door announcing that breakfast is ready, and Hawke will feel inclined, as ever, to cover Fenris’ long elven ears lest he might give him that glare that brings Hawke to consider a tremendous pay raise each time he does so. Soon, Orana will be wealthier than half of his Hightown neighbors.

For now, however, they trip and splash back inside leaving wet footmarks all over the floor and carpets. Long after drying each other with nowhere near enough towels, the window aglow with firelight reviving honey and daffodil and gold beads, they fall back to sleep, hearts pounding, skins resting, as they always do.

There might and will be many a nightmare in the gloomy nights to come.

But for now, for the remaining fragment of this one short, storm-shaken night, Fenris eases peacefully in his arms.

[ichigo-daifuku]

Once Upon A Dream

Mystic Messenger Fanfiction [Read on AO3]

V (Kim Jihyun)/OC

Angst with a happy ending for @photoproses.

Word Count: 3k~

"All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream." ― Edgar Allan Poe, A Dream Within A Dream

I know him, I walked with him once upon a dream.

I have always believed that only a fine line set dreams and reality apart. It was in the midst of slumber that it was most difficult to distinguish what was real and what wasn't.

But at that time, I knew I was in a dream.

In the middle of a glade in a forest, I stood surrounded by different kinds of trees. The sunlight filled the gaps of the leaves that covered the branches and its yellow glow overlaid the short blades of the grass. This place reminded me of Namiseom in the summer, only it wasn't crowded and even a tenfold more beautiful.

The pathway seemed to never end and I began to wander around without a clear destination in mind. As I went further, there was an unexpected sight of a picnic table in the middle of the empty forest. No one else was around and neither refreshments nor a plaid tablecloth was set on top of it.

It wasn’t until I got close enough that I realized that it wasn’t bare; scattered all over the wooden rectangle were jigsaw puzzle pieces.

I picked up the nearest piece and felt the glossy texture on one side and the plain one on the opposite. When I flipped it between my fingers, I couldn't help but flip it back in confusion.

How strange. They were both white.

I sat down. Was I supposed to solve the puzzle?

My fingers began to interlock the oddly-shaped pieces together. The fact that there was no picture, just a blank slate, made it quite difficult to assemble.

Time passed, I couldn’t be too sure how much, and I set the last puzzle piece on the jigsaw only to find the space beside it unfilled. Nothing was more frustrating than working hard to solve a puzzle only to find out it was incomplete all along. My brows furrowed in concentration as I tried to look for the missing piece. Where was it?

It was then that a voice spoke. "White puzzles… I was wondering where I left it.”

A man reached out to the table. He set the final piece on the sole empty space and completed the puzzle.

“Who are you?” No matter how much I tried to remember the response the man gave me, or if he even did, I couldn’t.

“Is this yours?” I remember that I asked him that question.

“I can’t be too sure as well.”

“Then, you have one of these?” The idea that someone owned this kind of puzzle surprised me.

He nodded. “Yes.”

Out of curiosity, I couldn’t help but voice out the question that burned in my mind, “Why is the jigsaw puzzle white?”

He paused in deep thought. “The purer something is, the easier it can be tainted with other colors.”

“What?” I didn't quite understand.

I shifted my gaze to the completed puzzle. Instead of the distinctive white fragments, there was an image of a flower depicted in it. A lotus. The unmistakable stroke of a paintbrush in the colors across the tessellated pieces made me stare in wonder.

It was unlike anything else. Strange, but beautiful.

When I looked up to the mysterious man, I realized his attention wasn’t on the painted puzzle like I had. He stared intently at the tree which stood tallest among the others.

"That tree... how rich and abundant it is... I wonder how old it is..." he whispered.

It was true. That particular tree looked so strong, as if it had withstood a lot of storms and seasons.

“Do you think a place like this exists in real life?” I asked him.

“It does,” he replied. It was then that I understood. The sadness in his eyes led me to believe that this vision, whatever this dream was, it was his. “I don’t remember it much but I guess dreams have a way of filling in the details I’ve forgotten,” he added, eyes still trained on the tree.

Thoughtful at his statement, “Right now… I am also dreaming…” I told him, all the while confused. Why was I in a vision that belonged to him?

His eyes held surprise as he looked back to where I was.  His smile was kind.

“Why don’t we take a walk around? It’s been a long time since I’ve been here too," he suggested and reached a hand out.

I couldn't explain why but I took his hand. After I stood up and reached his side, I let go. The warmth of his palm lingered, a faint sensation on my skin.

Our footsteps made a dull sound, still audible in the tranquil forest, as we walked beside each other. From time to time, I couldn’t help but steal glances at the man who kept me company. There was a gentle smile in his face. Perhaps, he was reminiscing about his memories of the place. He was calm, his movement collected. His silence told me that maybe, he was a reserved person. At one point, he noticed my glances and asked, “What is it?”

“Your hair…” I could only say response.

I remember how his hand reached to touch his turquoise locks. His eyes crinkled as he said, "So it's true.... that my hair color is... unique."

“Your eyes too.” It was true. At that moment, under the light of the sun, his turquoise irises shone brighter.

“Thank you,” he spoke with laugh and looked away, bashful.

We made small talk here and there and continued to walk around the forest. I couldn’t remember how much time passed but after a while, we stumbled upon a small field of flowers.

“This place…” I said in a whisper.

The expression in his face told me that he understood. This vision, whatever this dream was, it wasn’t just his.

I turned to him. “Beautiful, isn’t it? I come to this place a lot.”

“Yes,” he muttered as he admired the place.

“There is a big rock somewhere in the middle we can sit on,” I told him. “The view there is the best.”

We walked towards the field, careful not to step on the dandelions. My curiosity burned brighter as I wondered why my safe haven was in this vision. With each step I took, my heart began to pound faster that I felt every beat in my chest. His eyes were trained on my every move and the gentleness in his expression gave me comfort.

I stopped in my tracks when we reached the area where the rock was supposed to be. In place of it was something more familiar… No, something that was once familiar. I could only gaze at the sight in shock.

The stems of the dandelions were twisted like vines around the half-moon silhouette. It was reminiscent of how I had held it in my arms whenever it would rain and I forgot to bring an umbrella. Back then, I thought it was fine for my clothes to get soaked, or even if I catch a little cold, if it meant it would be safe.

My hands shook as I knelt down and moved closer towards it. Fingers closed in on the handle, I began to set it free from the stems that chained it. It took a few attempts until I released a deep breath I didn’t realize I was holding when I finally succeeded.

It dawned to me that I didn’t know what to do as I continued to kneel on the ground. I could only stare blankly at the sight before me.

There was a shuffling sound. The man knelt from across. I was about to apologize when he said, “Why don’t you open it?”

I opened my mouth to speak but no sound came out. The past haunted me in many ways.

But in this beautiful dream… Maybe, I could be happy in a dream?

My hands began to feel steady. At that time, a bittersweet feeling washed over me as I undid the latches that sealed the fiberglass shell. It held the passion I've always had but had grown to neglect. After I set both sides on the ground, my fingers glided across the velvet interior, the texture foreign yet still familiar. I reached out to move the cloth that protected the instrument with the fear that I would find it broken the way I did a long time ago.

It wasn’t. The hollow was filled, my violin cradled safely inside it.

“You were right,” I told him, “Dreams have a way of filling in the details we’ve forgotten.”

He smiled. “I guess it is special to you.”

“It… It is.” I nodded.

“If it’s alright, may I hear you play?” he requested, his expression hopeful.

It has been long since somebody asked me that question.

As I pondered how to respond, a pair of hands held mine. The man in front of me held between his fingers a white handkerchief that was now soiled by my hands as he gently wiped them. In my struggle to free the violin case from where it was, I failed to noticed how my hands were dirtied. But now, as I gaze at the earthy contrast against his pure white cloth, I realized he was right once again with one more thing.

The purer something is, the easier it can be tainted with other colors.

He was kind. I felt I didn’t deserve his kindness.

“You don’t have to but thank you,” I told him. I wanted him know that I was grateful.

“It’s okay. I wanted to.”

When he let go of my hands, I carefully removed the bow from one side and the violin on the other. I looked over everything and in that dream, it was in perfect condition, a stark contrast to how it was supposed to be in real life. After I made sure it was tuned well, I stood up and nestled the instrument under my chin.

The man stood. “If it’s too much, you don’t have to.”

“It’s okay. I want to,” I smiled as I reassured him.

A gust of wind made the dandelion flowers dance around our feet. I closed my eyes and began to play. The melody of an old lullaby from a fairy tale I loved as a child echoed through the serenity of the forest. A surge of memories filled my senses as the bow met the strings through my movements. Instead of pushing it away, I welcomed it, reveled in it even. It was like I caught up with an old friend I haven't seen many years. The leaves rustled as they swayed with the gentle breeze and for a moment, I imagined they danced to the rhythm of the music I played.

Before I knew it, it was over. The sight of the man with his eyes closed as he exhaled a deep breath tugged at my heartstrings.

“That was beautiful,” he said and his turquoise eyes fluttered open.

“Thank you,” was the only thing I could say. I couldn’t believe the happiness that welled up inside me from what just transpired.

“Have you been playing for a long time?”

“I haven’t played in a long time.”

“But that was…” He began and trailed off in thought. “Why?”

“Because I… I’m not good enough,” I said, “I’ll never be good enough.” I bent down to move both the bow and violin to back its place and left the case open as I stood up.

“You already are,” he spoke. “I hope the day will come where you realize that.”

The sincerity in the way he looked into my eyes as he said the words I didn’t know I needed reached the depths of my heart. For the second time, there was nothing I could say but my words of gratitude and the words, “I hope so too.”

The wind blew. Some of the yellowed leaves from the distant trees rained down on us. I reached out and opened my palm to catch one and the man beside me did the same, but what his hands grasped weren’t leaves but two pieces of paper.

He looked at them both for a long time. His face was a neutral mask but from the way he stiffened and his eyes shone, there was an internal turmoil he faced.

After a moment, his voice broke the silence. “Do you… want to see them?” he said, the slight tremble in his voice betrayed his calm demeanor.

“Yes. May I?”

There was a bittersweet smile on his face as he reached for a hand on my side and put the papers on my palm. I couldn’t understand why but I felt nervous.

The first paper was an illustration from a child’s hand. The page was already yellowed and although the colors were faded, the gifted talent in the way the picture was drawn was still evident. The page depicted a detailed urban cityscape, much like Seoul. I smiled at the fact that, like any child, the sun was drawn on top of the paper, a circular figure with rays.

I moved to set the child’s drawing under the next paper and froze.

This was a work of an artist. A beautiful work that conveyed emotion with every stroke of color and yet…

A huge tear marred the artwork in the middle. From the way the edges were unevenly curved, it was intentional. The two sides barely held on together, the crumpled texture made by the two hands which tore them apart irreversible.

Droplets of tears made fresh round marks on the paper, replacing the faded ones.

“What… is this….?” I choked out a sob. “Why?”

I felt the stream of wetness on my cheeks. Why would someone do that? Why was I so sad? I wasn't sure of what I felt or what I wanted to say.

“It’s one of the things I regret the most in my life,” he shared. “I was always thinking about the future that I forgot the present.” He walked a few steps closer and said, “Please don’t cry. Don’t cry for me.”

How can someone so kind, be so broken?

“One day, I hope you can forgive yourself,” I began. “I hope you can find the courage in you to move forward and live in the present.”

A gust of wind. Yellow petals and white fluffs set adrift into the air.

“Do you think we’ll forget when we wake up?” he asked.

He was right. It was a dream. “I don’t know,” I replied in all honesty. “But I don’t want to forget,” I blinked back the tears and closed my eyes.

I felt his gentle fingers on my cheeks as he wiped the tears that managed to escape anyway.

“Who are you?” I heard him whisper.

A stillness took hold and I felt my surroundings disappear into it, until everything faded into the darkness.

I opened my eyes. I was in my bedroom, my cheeks damp and heartbeat fast. It took a few moments for my vision to focus. A glance to the window told me that dawn would break soon.

The clock was ticking. I didn’t want to forget. My blanket tossed aside, I went to the study table.

I found an old diary and flipped it open. I began to write down everything I could remember.

Trees. White puzzle pieces. Dandelions. Violin. Artworks. Him.

I tried my best to put into words the hazy image in my mind but my shaky hands could only accomplish so much. It wasn’t enough. Like my memory, my vision began to blur and more tears ran down my face in frustration.

It was then that I realized I couldn’t remember what he looked like. No matter how much I tried to, I couldn’t.

A blur of vibrant color flashed in my mind. The uniqueness in his hair and his kind eyes.

In haste, I pulled the drawer open and shuffled the things inside it for the colored pencils I had but never found the need to use. In an unlined page of the diary, I scribbled the turquoise pencil all over. The messy scrawl tainted the white page as a reminder.

From that day on, I pondered from time to time about the reality of dreams. How they could be a reflection of a person's desires. How, at times, they could even be memories of one's waking life. How some dreams recur, others forgotten. Ever since I had that dream, there was a lot for me to think about.

I didn’t have the same dream twice. Until now, I struggled to grasp for its meaning. But after that night, I began to come back to the dandelion field more than ever. When I mustered up the courage to purchase a new violin, it was in that safe haven that I played for the first time in a long time. Just like in that dream.

The happiness I felt granted me the courage to pursue my passion.

A good year passed and now, I am in an art gallery in Seoul to perform as a representative of OO School of Music. As I walk around the venue, a particular section catches my eye and I make my way towards it, having a hard time believing what I am seeing.

The first painting, taller and narrower compared to the others, was depicted as if the viewer is the one standing in the forest and looking up at the tall trees and blue summer sky.

Right beside it was a different piece. A landscape artwork of a dandelion field where a girl stands in the middle, playing the violin. Her hair and the skirt of the white dress she wore seem billowed by the wind as shades of white and yellow float all around her.

I close my eyes as I was taken back to those places. The fragments of the blurry memory of that dream click into place as the paintings fill in the details I’ve forgotten.

“It's you,” I hear a voice behind say.

A year ago, I told myself that if he exists and in any circumstance I see him, I will definitely know. I will definitely remember. At least, I hoped I will.

I turn around and gaze at the man standing before me. He is dressed in a beige coat and a black turtleneck underneath. His hair is still as unique, the gleam in his turquoise eyes still so familiar.

“Jihyun.”

I know him, I walked with him once upon a dream.

This work was inspired by V's CGs and spaceship reveals in Another Story.