This is the way the world ends/ Not with a bang but a whimper. – T.S. Eliot
The Town is at its most beautiful in the moments just before the sun rises over the mountains, as the first light paints the hushed valley gold in the morn. The murmuring brook softly hums the remnants of night's lullaby, a counterpoint to the roaring earth which trumpets morning's call. Few are privileged to witness its quiet magnificence and those who can guard it ever so jealously.
The boys are the first to stir, scrambling to their masters' shops. The girls follow, bustling about their mistresses' kitchens. Then, slowly, the Town awakens from its slumber to the sound of whirring gears and the smell of freshly baked bread.
He is already done tending to the forge when the Silversmith strides into the smithy.
(It's important, his father once told him, to appear diligent. No man wants a lazy apprentice. Or a lazy son, but that he does not say.)
The Smith walks towards the forge without sparing him a glance and calls for the older boys. They wheel out their master's greatest work to date: an intricate silver chalice adorned with a single angel. The cup is complete, save for the seraph's visage.
I cannot envision the perfection with which divinity must be blessed, laments the Silversmith, will I never do it justice?
The older boys nod sympathetically and offer to rework some of the finer details of the chalice but the Silversmith waves them off to fashion a pair of cufflinks for the Innkeeper. When the two older boys leave to gather the materials, the Smith glances at last in his direction.
You have no talent for the craft, states the Silversmith dismissively, I shan't have you wasting good silver. Go fetch the tapestries I requested from the Church. The Pastor is expecting you.
Right away sir, he answers, as politely as he could, and heads out the door.
The Church appears deserted when he pushes through the heavy oaken doors leading into the foyer; the Pastor must be in one of the many chambers sequestered from the main hall. He moves towards the chancel, hoping his footfalls will alert the Pastor of his presence. A rustle of fabrics off to the side freezes him mid-stride, and when no greeting seemed forthcoming, he walks briskly in the direction of the sound.
There he finds a boy, bundled in a potpourri of rags and rugs and blankets, huddling by one of the Church's grandiose marble pillars. The boy must not have been any older than twelve and malnourished enough to seem much smaller. Before he can venture a greeting, the boy speaks:
Hello there. What's your name?
It startles him enough that it takes him a moment to understand the question. How long has it been since someone has asked for his name? He has always been the Silversmith's apprentice, the Grocer's son, the Seamstress's little boy. The poor facsimile of his brother, the Knight.
(Your worth is in what you can do, the Silversmith once told him. And you cannot do much, but that he does not say.)
Minho, he replies.
The boy beams with the wan radiance of a setting sun, no title?
He shakes his head.
Taemin, the boy replies with a warmer, gentler smile, just Taemin.
And for the first time, he feels all right being just Minho.
The Silversmith instructs to him collect tapestries from the Church with alarming frequency as time proves the chalice more and more impossible to complete. And each visit, Taemin sits by the grandest pillar under a mountain of fabric, smiling gently at his arrival. Sometimes he walks over to the pillar and Taemin asks him about the smithy, his family, the Town.
When he asks Taemin, all the boy can say is I can't remember.
Sometimes he brings Taemin the filigree he has filched from the smithy and smiles as the boy's eyes widen in amazement at the intricacies of the silverwork. Sometimes Taemin hums softly the long forgotten hymns of the Lord. Sometimes he watches over Taemin as the boy stirs fitfully in his sleep.
Most of the time, they just huddle by the pillar, simply being Minho and Taemin.
One day, Taemin asks him, do you believe in God?
He wants to brush off the question with a jest about how denying God's existence in His own house is the highest form of blasphemy, but Taemin's smile is too earnest.
He remembers Grace at dinner, where food is plentiful and loved ones are near. He reminisces his happy boyhood when Easter brought sweets and Christmas brought gifts. He recalls Sundays where Mother would dress him in his best clothes and gather the whole family for Mass. He remembers all of his good
fortune and happiness, grateful that he is so blessed. But he also sees the fraying edges of Taemin's thinning blanket; he sees the sharp definitions of Taemin's cheek bones, too sharp for a boy of such a tender age; he sees the loneliness and fear that is too much for one person to bear, and despite it all, he sees the most beautiful person he has ever known. He is suddenly angry at his own blessings as he knows himself to be undeserving, especially in face of the pure good Taemin is. And he thinks, no, there must not be a God for He would not stand for such injustice.
Taemin's eyes are so hopeful that he almost blurts yes but all he can really offer is I'm sorry, Taemin; I don't.
Oh, Taemin coughs, a little sadly, it would have been nice. To know that someone is watching over you. To know that someone loves you.
I do, he wants to tell Taemin but the words are stuck in his throat.
He tries to bring Taemin spare blankets from his home but his family does not have much to spare. Taemin smiles away his fumbling apologies and tugs him closer.
You know, I used to be sad that I can't remember anything, Taemin whispers, but now I don't mind as much. I don't think I've ever been as happy as I am with Minho. So thank you. Thank you so much.
And in that moment, Taemin looks breathtakingly ethereal – a halo of light adorning his form as a plethora of color waltzes across the hall. He knows it is only the midmorning sun passing through the stained glass but, all the same, Taemin is radiant and he thinks, this, this is the face of divinity.
He works tirelessly on a simple steel plate for weeks, trying to capture that moment – that glorious, divine moment – under the stained glass. He folds and stamps and melts until the metal is more fluid than it is solid, until day blends with the night, until his hands are raw and his heart rawer still.
Until the visage gleaming back is as perfect as the boy by whom it is inspired.
When he shows the Silversmith his metal plate that is no longer a plate, the Smith quietly takes it and holds it to the light. There is a breathless silence; then, the Silversmith turns to him with the first expressions of recognition and the slightest bit of awe.
You made this, boy, asks the Silversmith, disbelieving.
Yes sir. A beat. For your chalice, sir.
He expects the Silversmith to scoff at his presumption but the Silversmith simply continues to gaze upon the face he has engraved into steel, as if in a reverie. Finally, the Smith says, you have two weeks. Don't disappoint me.
I wouldn't dream of it, sir.
The Silversmith showers him with praise as he finishes the last details of the chalice. The other boys in the shop gather around to admire his handiwork and congratulate his achievement. Even his father stops by, upon the Silversmith's request, offering him a rare nod of approval.
This boy, the Silversmith lauds, has talent beyond his years. Why in three Springs' time, he could very well take over my smithy! You must be terribly proud of him, sir.
I am, his father replies with the barest hints of a smile tugging at his lips.
He receives a real workbench in the smithy upon the Silversmith's insistence. He gets the best pick of silver from the stock and the tools from the Smith's own kit. The other boys in the shop now deign to speak with him and even ask him for advice. The startling contrast is slightly disconcerting and he finds himself missing the quiet company of Taemin.
The Church appears deserted when he enters, reminiscent of the day he met Taemin. There is silence save for the muffled shuffling from the hidden chambers. There is however, a conspicuous lack of fabric by the pillars.
Taemin, he calls out. And again. And again to no avail.
Amidst his cries, the Pastor emerges from the archway, who are you looking for, son?
The boy, he explains, trying to keep the frantic edge off his voice, the boy who sits by the pillars.
My condolences, the Pastor informs him, he passed away not two nights ago. It was very peaceful. Silence. If you want to see him, I can...
He nods numbly as the Pastor turns to lead him to the morgue. There, on the dais, lies Taemin paler than he has ever seen, though even Death cannot mar the kindness in the boy's features. There is a sick irony in the pristine white that covers the corpse, likening it to a sleeping angel, when throughout Taemin's life there were nothing but grimy rags hanging from his form. He tentatively reaches out to hold onto Taemin's uncovered hand, forcing back the urge to flinch when flesh meets unmoving flesh; it's so unbelievably wrong for Taemin to be anything but warmth.
It's truly unfortunate, says the Pastor, when a child as young as he dies alone. We can only pray that somewhere in this world, someone loves and misses them.
I do, he tells Taemin, the words finally free only to fall upon deaf ears.