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Summary: Some loves you never lose. Some things are just meant to be.
PORCELAIN
II.
He sits there for one long moment, a still silhouette through the glass windows of his private workshop. Outside, the silence of the night cocoons him, letting him focus on the beating of his heart in his ears. This can no longer be denied. It is not inspiration that moves him, nor is it the desire to improve himself. This is urgency spilling over, a gravity that he cannot resist. If anything, he feels this is obsession. Sometimes he wonders if he has lost his mind.
Placing his hands on the clay, he lets its coolness seep into his overheated skin, takes a deep breath and begins to spin the wheel. He knows once he starts, he will not stop until the vase becomes reality. In his mind's eye, he can see it already. Gleaming white and blue, pure perfection and inside, a secret that hangs tantalisingly out of reach. Carefully, he slides his hands against the spinning clay, hollowing out the insides. He is extremely particular about the proportion of the body and the neck; it must be accurate down to a hair's breadth.
Today his father has informed him of his engagement to a girl he knows of but does not know. He always knew this day would come but foreknowledge is not a cure for dread. The news made his gut clench and the hollow feeling he has lived with for as long as he remembers is growing wider. Quickly he realises his wrist is exerting too much pressure and he relaxes it before any damage is done. Collecting his thoughts, he focuses on the task at hand. Although he is compelled to do this, it helps him to forget, becomes a sanctuary of sorts against this troubled day.
He must have peonies. They rest in a vase, tall, slender, heavy with their pale pink and crimson silken petals, filling the air with their fragrance. For some reason, he has always thought she would like peonies. He smiles ruefully. His friends would laugh themselves into fits if they realised that he, the biggest playboy of the group, had remained faithful to a crush he had developed at the age of six. When he had first seen her, he had been so awestruck he had nothing to say. On knees that shook slightly and with eyes that never wavered, he approached. She was so beautiful, her eyes cast down slightly as she studied the fishes that had risen to the surface, as though they too had come to gaze at her. Her skirts were gathered carefully around her, her hair like dark liquid silk against the bejewelled jade pin in her hair. His heart raced and his palms turned sweaty. And then someone stepped in his way, blocking his view of the painting.
Quickly and skilfully, flowers blossom on clay as he carves into the night. The Joseon princess is his secret, something he has never told anyone about before. His father had worried that instead of pursuing pottery, in which his son had already shown a great deal of promise, the boy would become a painter instead. Until the exhibition was over, he had visited the museum everyday just to look at her and ostensibly, the rest of the art works as well. He had learnt very quickly to hide the things he cared about so that no one would take them away or even if they were gone, that no one would see his pain. When his older brother ran away from home to escape the crushing weight of his inheritance, Yi Jeong did not shed a tear although inside, he felt ripped apart. This was what happened when one loved. So at fifteen he closed his heart as best he could.
His phone buzzes before he leaves the room but he doesn't bother to check it. It won't be his friends; they've given up asking him to go out for consolation binges on his impending nuptials. His fiancée does not seem to understand that he doesn't want anything to do with her or the wedding. She's pretty enough but she is not his type. Woo Bin once remarked that there was a pattern to Yi Jeong's women; they even looked vaguely alike. Sometimes he wonders if there is something deeply wrong with him. He is looking for the ghost of a princess laid to rest five hundred years ago in the faces and bodies of the women who throw themselves at him. Dawn though, always leaves him unsatisfied and the doppelganger in tears. Setting his tools down on the table, he turns the vase and begins to carve the last of the images: carp beneath flowers that weep their petals into an endless stream.
The vase makes its debut along with others in his white and blue porcelain collection at the family museum. Just in time to drum up more publicity for the wedding, his father pronounces with satisfaction. Yi Jeong looks at the shadow of a woman called his mother and knows that she will not speak up for him. She stopped years ago. Besides, there is nothing to complain about. The girl is from a family that equals his in wealth and status, he has no plans to stop womanising and once he sires an heir, he can set her aside and life as he knows it will more or less go on. Still, he feels like he has been auctioned off and resentment bubbles violently to the surface as he struggles to press it down. Quickly, he leaves the room but cannot erase the memory of his father's slight but triumphant smirk.
Days before his marriage, he steps into the cool semi-darkness of the museum in a bid to escape from it all. Between his family and hers, everything has been settled and all that is left is for him to show up and perform his duties. Not for the first time does he think of his Joseon princess and he finds his feet have taken him down a path to his collection. That vase was created with her in mind, in truth, for her and for some time it gave him a shred of serenity to cling to.
Yi Jeong finds that he is not alone. He is surprised. The museum will close in five minutes and he thinks that perhaps the woman does not know. He tilts his head slightly; even with her back to him, there is something familiar about her. And like him, she has come to see the vase. Then she turns slightly, suddenly aware of his presence and Yi Jeong feels shock plough through him, knocking the breath from his body.
For one moment the bounds of reality blur. He can smell fresh grass and a whiff of peonies. The sound of running water is crystal clear, as is his voice on the wind.
Don't go. Stay.
Instead of intricate braids which are pinned up, her hair is unbound and slides over her shoulders as she bows slightly, giving him a small embarrassed smile. Instead of flowing robes she is wearing a pale pink chiffon blouse, a black pencil skirt and carrying a smart looking leather briefcase. But this is his princess, warm and alive, here in the now and in the flesh instead of a haunting enigma trapped in an abyss of paper and ink.
Disconcerted by his silent staring, her smile drops and she takes a step back. "Don't go. Stay," he rushes out the words. "Please." His heart is racing, his palms are sweating and in that moment, Yi Jeong knows again what the years have never quite dimmed, what he knew at six years of age.
This woman belongs to him, and he loves her. He always has.