[00MS1] The Rising Moon

words: 4996
rate: PG13
(1st Cycle of the Mourning Song series.)


1st Cycle: The Rising Moon

The sun was slowly reaching higher in the pale autumn sky. The city of Seoul was bustling, indeed never quite as quiet as the country, bursting at the boundaries with life, vivacity and light. The September day was nippy, the chill seeping into one’s body and cooling the bones easily. The wind engulfed with icicle embraces, leaving cold kisses on reddened cheeks and noses. The cold was crisp, sharp and, yet, at the same time, it was also invigorating, filling one’s lungs and reminding a person that they were alive.

For one individual, however, he had only experienced the weather’s contradicting nature for only a brief moment, when he was briskly escorted to one of the family’s town cars and then when he was rushed from the town car to the company building. He had just a few seconds to see the pale fingers of light stretching through a sky of purest, palest blue; had just a few seconds to feel tips of cool wind; had just a few inhalations of the air that startlingly cleared the lungs.

It was on beautiful days like that, that he hated his life. Perhaps hate was a strong word. Dislike greatly, he decided upon then.

As the world was out in the sunshine and beautiful, albeit cold, day, he was inside a boardroom. The youngest present, he sat at one end of a long, oblong-shaped table, as other suited, distinguished men and women sat discussing the results of the company’s revenue from August and the plans for October. Dressed in all black – pants, blazer, shirt and tie – he sat, leaning back in his black-leather, office chair, arms folded about his torso and his dark eyes briefly settling on the current person speaking.

They had been there an hour already, monotonous voices droning on and on about numbers, rates and, in truth, everything he already knew. He had seen the numbers, had gone over weekly reports from the finance departments personally, but he remained a silent sceptre, monitoring the proceedings and giving an air of ignorance to the company’s previous numbers.

This particular boardroom was located on a high corner of the office building; indeed, two sides were made of pure glass looking out on Seoul. Unfortunately, when the meeting began, all the blinds and shades were closed to hide the beautiful scenery and sun. He briefly glanced to a small space between two lengths of shades that showed just an inch of the outside world, allowing a narrow beam of happy sunlight into the electrically-lit room. When he glanced back at the suit currently talking, he silently, cynically commented at how they took for granted the natural beauty found on the other side of those floor-to-ceiling windows.

When his gaze had moved, it caused a cascade of problems for him. Suddenly, his vision blurred, his head felt light and shaky. He momentarily tilted his face down, briefly closed his eyes as his they finished their bout with the shakes. He opened his eyes slowly, but as the room’s light hit his pupils, he felt a sharp pain in his head before his stomach began to roll.

Damn, he thought, I got at least four hours of sleep last night, why is this happening?

He had laid in bed for two hours before his body was lethargic enough to fall asleep on his own. He had slept four hours, the most in weeks. So, when he had awoken that morning, he was sure he wouldn’t be feeling the usual pains and ills of his body. He was sure he would be attentive and alert for that morning’s meeting. Indeed, he had felt fine on the drive from home to work and, thus far, had not felt any usual symptoms.

A slight brush at his shoulders had him raising his head and glancing to the side. Just in time, he saw a hand retracting away from a newly placed glass of water before him. He glanced over his shoulder at the man who stood just diagonally behind him. Dressed in black slacks and a white button-up, the man stood straight, eyes forward, focusing on nothing with his hands clasped behind him. As if sensing his curious stare, the man slowly met his gaze with a knowing one of his own. The man gestured to the glass of water with just eyes and eyebrows, a slight twitch of his facial muscles and he, in return, mouthed a silent thank you.

Turning back in his seat to the suits sitting around the table, he casually reached out for the glass and brought the cool surface to his lips. He sipped slowly, tentatively; sometimes, even water could cause his gastric contents to want to escape. The cool liquid splashed around his mouth for a minute, allowing the water to gently warm closer to his body’s temperature before he swallowed the small sip, feeling each drop slide down his throat. He paused, his eyes switching to the next person who was speaking as he waited for his stomach’s response. As it seemed to settle rather than rebel, he took another sip.

He tried desperately to remember when he didn’t have to be so cautious; he failed.

As his musings rolled around in his head, his attention wandered dangerously away from the business meeting. A subtle noise from behind his shoulder pulled him from his reverie, his gaze sweeping over the suits, silently startled to have all of their attention on him.

He cleared his throat as he put the glass down and sat forward in his seat, “I expect a copy of all of your presentations on my desk by tomorrow morning.” He stood from his seat, meaning to leave.

“Young Master,” one suit spoke up, “About the plans for next month –”

He raised a single brow, “Did none of you check your inboxes prior to attending? I’ve already sent out a copy of my advised plans for next month.”

As lips slowly parted in awe and jaws physically dropped in shock, the Young Master, as he was known to all outside of his family, slipped away from his chair and exited the boardroom, the other man just steps behind him.

The Young Master walked steadily towards the location of his office, the familiar sound of echoing footsteps just seconds after his own, a body that was never more than two feet away from his own while he was working. The other man was his personal assistant.

“Is your head hurting?” The words were light, casual, inviting no curiosity from anyone they passed by.

“How did you know it was hurting?” The Young Master inquired,

“You tilted your head down,” the Assistant replied simply as if it were the most obvious answer in the world; “You only do that when you’re head is hurting.” As the Young Master digested that acute, correct observation, the other man prompted, “Did the water help?”

“Some,” he conceded; “Is there any –”

“There’s tea in your room waiting for you. If it’s not warm enough, I can heat it for you,” the Assistant interjected immediately, “I know you prefer cold drinks, but if you have a headache, then perhaps something warmer would help.”

The Young Master merely nodded. His assistant was a godsend, hired by his parents when they moved to Seoul the year before. One of the only reasons he made it through each day was because his assistant was there facilitating most aspects of his day, not to mention he made a great buffer between himself and his father.

When they reached the Young Master’s office, the Assistant gestured him towards his desk. The Young Master went to his desk and practically collapsed in his chair as the Assistant moved to retrieve a mug of the cooled tea. It was moments like these when his head was pounding and he felt ready to drop when he appreciated that his office was in the centre of the second-from-the-top floor of the company building. Without windows, he had one lamp on in the room as he laid his head on his desktop, allowing the wooden surface to cool his heated skin.

Damn it, he thought, Don’t tell me I’m getting sick again.

A soft thud landed near his head. He opened his eyes weakly as he saw a ceramic mug just inches from his nose. He slowly sat up as he pulled the mug to his lips. The sweet smell of the tea filled his nostrils. He brought the rim to his lips and sipped almost greedily, the delicious liquid filling his mouth, his taste buds rejoicing. He swallowed deep gulps of the tea and before long he realized he had finished his mug. His stomach settled even more so and his entire body seemed to relax.

He replaced the mug on the table as he sighed with relief, “That really hits the spot, Mijoon, thank you.”

“Of course,” His assistant smiled as he gracefully sat in one of the chairs before his desk, “Now, shall I call the town car to pick you up at the front of the building?”

“What?”

“You are not fit to remain at work any longer,” Mijoon stated simply, “You have a headache and that’s usually a precursor to you getting sick. It’s better for you to be sick at home than sick at work.”

“I can’t leave –”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Mijoon waved away his words as he took out a cellular phone, “You’ve given me this speech before, Young Master.”

“And it is because I’m that, that I can’t go home,” He stressed, his palms slamming on the top of the desk; “It’s bad enough I’m the damn heir to this entire company, but it’s hard enough to gain any respect when my father cuts me down every chance he gets!”

“That’s not true, I do believe he gave you a nod just last week,” Mijoon insisted as he began to dial a number, “And you said your mother buffers him at home.”

“That’s easy considering he’s hardly home. He practically lives here,” Young Master hissed, “And he just loves to rub it in that I don’t, that he’s here almost double the amount of hours I am. Damn it, if I could be, I would be!”

Mijoon’s thumb hovered over the ‘call’ button. He glanced at the Young Master and raised a single brow, “I know that all already, so why are you yelling at me?”

“I’m not yelling at you, I’m yelling in your direction,” Young Master muttered before sighing heavily, “They’re two different things.”

“Look, you’re getting sick and you’re even looking paler than when you first came in this morning,” Mijoon stated matter-of-factly, “You’re going to be under the weather until your next transfusion.”

“Not like those damn things work for long,” He said angrily, “Is it any wonder that they stopped testing me? Now they’re just giving me transfusions to keep me alive a little bit longer, but we both know I’m dying.”

Mijoon slowly dropped his phone to his lap, his eyes wide and reflecting what the other could only see as pity. “S-Sir…”

“Don’t call me that,” he practically spat, “That’s what they call my father.” He spun his chair around, giving the back to his assistant, “Call for the car… I’m going home.”

He could hear Mijoon’s soft murmur. He stifled a sigh as he dropped his head into his hands. He didn’t mean to upset the other man, didn’t mean to yell, but lately, he just couldn’t seem to find any joy in life anymore.

…

The darkness of his room soothed his pounding head. The town car had arrived promptly at the back of the company building, not wanting the off-chance his father would peer out and see him escaping work early. He had walked quickly to the car, slipped in and said not a word to Mijoon even as his assistant murmured a quiet, soft goodbye to him. Now, in the solace of his bedroom, he reflected on his final moments with Mijoon and he felt a pain seize his heart. He shook the thoughts from his head as he walked over to his media centre, turned on the CD player and headed towards his bed.

The darkened room was filed with the slow, soft melody of an acoustic guitar, the chords sweet and warm to his ears. He unconsciously began to sway slightly in his steps as he began to tug at his tie and unbutton his suit’s blazer.

I was hurt so bad
by a pain I’ve never felt before.
I collapsed to the ground
And it was solid
And it was warm
And it was safe.

His lids shut, his head slightly rocking left and right as he tossed his tie and blazer somewhere in the dark. He slowly began to unbutton his shirt, the singer’s soft voice starting out quiet, pained and somehow, he just knew, knew how the singer felt as she sang the song. The words flowed through him, and he understood, completely empathized with the lyrics. There were times when he had fallen and it felt better, safer just to stay down. There were so many times when he wished he didn’t have to get up again.

But you came along
And you made me move,
You made me move.
You took my hand,
You took my hand,
And led me away.

As he turned and allowed himself to fall backward onto his king-sized bed, he sighed heavily. He wished he could stay in bed some days. Indeed, he wished he could just stay away, erase reality, escape the truth and just… be. He didn’t want to face the truth, didn’t see the point of it when… he was dying.

The rain came down,
but you only held my hand tighter.
The rain came down,
but you just gave me your sweater.
The rain came down,
And you took me home.

He had come to terms with it, had accepted his fate. Even though everyone else around him denied it, even though his parents refused to admit it, he knew he was dying. The disease had already affected his brain, causing him to be photophobic more often than not and the transference of his short-term memory to long-term memory was skewered. Not to mention he was anaemic, malnourished and… Young Master sighed again. He was a shell of degenerative disease and yet, everyone around him wanted him to act as if nothing was wrong.

I wanted to run away,
get away from all my
millions of problems,
And you nodded.
And you squeezed my hand.
And you understood.

There were times when he had someone, anyone, who understood him, who understood his need for truth, for acknowledging the unavoidable. He thought briefly to his parents, to the servants and suits that filled his life. They were all so uniform, so bland and all fought against the obviousness of his sickness. No one commented on his reoccurring fevers. No one commented on his unsteadiness at times. No one commented on his numerous sick days. He hated them all for their silence.

But you came along
And you made me move,
You made me move.
You took my hand,
You took my hand,
And led me away.

Mijoon. He wasn’t silent. He addressed the illness, was the only one to call him on it. Mijoon kept his schedule, made sure he was never late for an appointment, never forgot a transfusion date. And, he admitted belatedly, Mijoon was always there. This older man, who had only been there for a year, was suddenly the one person who was present in most aspects of his life, indeed, present during his most intimate of times.

The rain came down,
but you only held my hand tighter.
The rain came down,
but you just gave me your sweater.
The rain came down,
And you took me home.

Mijoon could spot his fever a mile away, rushing him home before he could make any protests; even if he did, he was sure Mijoon would overrule him. Mijoon was constantly at his side, stabilizing his unbalanced steps with a quick and sure hand before pulling away like he hadn’t done anything. Mijoon was the reason for his sick days, sending him home, refusing to let him leave the house. Mijoon was far from silent and, yet, he lashed out at him for it.

You were the one who took my hand,
You were the one who made me stand,
You were the one, always the one.

He wasn’t sure what it was about Mijoon, but he constantly found himself getting angry with the older man. There were times when he felt like he could be friends with the older man, like he could let the older man in, like he could… But then there were times when he felt like that was impossible, like he couldn’t let himself, like he couldn’t let his… heart.

The rain came down,
but you only held my hand tighter.
The rain came down,
but you just gave me your sweater.
The rain came down,
And you took me home.
And you took me home.
You were my home.

The Young Master sighed when a soft knock at the door interrupted his haven just as the words echoed away and the single guitar’s notes dissipated into silence. He threw a forearm over his eyes as he called out,

“Yes?”

“You were only at work a few hours,” His mother’s voice penetrated the thick wood of the door, “Are you okay?”

“Just feeling a bit sick,” he admitted reluctantly. He knew his mother cared, but she only showed this side when his father was gone. When his father was around, he’d be berated, scolded and she would leave the room instead of protecting him. He felt bittersweet towards his mother and that alone made him hate his life a little more. This was his mother; his feelings for her should be straightforward and positive.

“Take your medicine and then go back to sleep, then,” his mother tentatively instructed. She paused and then asked, “You still have some right? If not, I can call your doctor…”

Which doctor? I have about a dozen, he thought cynically as he said aloud, “I have plenty left.”

He paused, barely moved, barely breathed as he waited. He heard the hesitance in her steps before slowly, eventually, his mother walked away. He let out a slow, silent breath. He rarely did take his medicine. He understood the rationale behind it, but more often than not, they made him feel worse than before. And, morbidly, he knew he was going to die anyway. Why prolong it?

He slowly dragged himself into a sitting position. He grabbed his television remote from the ground where he had kicked it during the night. He turned on the large, flat-screen television and aimlessly began to flick through the different channels. It was barely noon, there was nothing he’d find anything interesting to – wait.

He sat straighter, his eyes focused on the screen. The voice had been light and soft and shot straight to his heart. There on his screen sitting beside a host of some show, was his favourite singer. Her voice had caught his attention, captured it and locked it in place. He knew that voice immediately, without effort could recognize it. He knew all her songs, had all of her CDs and, even if he had friends, he wouldn’t hide his almost obsessive fanaticism for the popular, acoustic singer.

Idly, he increased the volume on the television.

“One of the reasons that your songs are so popular, is the personal feel the lyrics give listeners,” the interviewer stated,

“All my lyrics are written by me. In regards to the music itself, I’m not the one writing it most of the time, but I do talk with the composer and explain to them the feel I want. If a composer disagrees with what I want, then I move on. My lyrics give off a personal feel because they are personal, they’re very personal. So, if a composer can’t help me convey the feelings of the lyrics, then I have to move on because I feel it won’t give justice to the message I’m giving,” the singer explained.

“All your songs are slow ballads, but the lyrics range from happy to sad. At the same time, you still manage to convey this sad feeling through it all,” the interviewer commented, “Is there a reason for it?”

The Young Master suddenly focused even more so on the television. His entire body seemed to tense, all of his muscles contracting, ready and alert. He was clutching the controller so tightly, he distantly wondered if the plastic would crack in his grasp. He had ceased breathing, indeed, he wondered if his heart had ceased beating as well.

The singer blinked at the interviewer once, twice. A pale pink suffused her milky cheeks, then she slightly lowered her eyes as she demurely admitted, “My lyrics are personal because they’re all inspired by my real life.” She hesitated just a moment before adding, “By one person.”

The camera zoomed in on her hands, loosely clasped in her lap. Her right hand had been tucked beneath her left. However, as if sensing the focused attention on her hands, the singer slipped her left hand beneath her right. She gently, subtly cleared her throat to get the interviewer’s attention and, hopefully, draw the cameras away from her hands.

“You say your lyrics are inspired by one person, they suggest you’re calling to them, sometimes waiting for them,” the interviewer prompted,

The singer hesitated for a heartbeat before she raised her eyes, her almond-shaped eyes gazing directly to the camera as she said simply, “Maybe I am.”

His heart beat then, contracted almost painfully. Her eyes seemed to stare right at him, her gaze piercing straight to his soul. He felt a chill sweep through him, goose bumps raising his skin, the hair at the back of his neck raising. He swallowed the hard lump that had risen to clot his throat, practically suffocating him. With a shaking hand, he turned off the television, dousing him once more in darkness. He sat there silent, still, the only sound penetrating his darkened room was his heavy breathing and, he was sure, his heart still pounding in his chest.

…

The Young Master sighed as he glanced at the time once more on his cellular phone’s screen. He slipped the device into his pocket as he stood from his bed. He had slept for most of the day. That’s how he had been since his sickness had gotten worse. He felt lethargic for almost the entire day, but at night, he as never able to sleep. He wasn’t sure if it was because of the quiet or the darkness or the impending fears that night could bring to a child, all he knew was that his sleeping patterns were even more sporadic than before.

When he had awoken just hours ago, he was surprised that he slept so solidly. He hadn’t slept for more than four hours in months and, even then, those hours were spent tossing and turning. This time, however, he felt rested, he felt sated.

In the darkness of his room, he walked to his closet and changed. He hated wearing suits, hated that he did so day-to-day to please his father, to prove himself to the people at work who only looked down at him. Pulling on a pair of black jogging pants and a white hooded sweater, he grabbed a notebook from his desk and slipped out of his room.

He walked through the dim corridors of the large house he and his parents inhabited. Since it was just past midnight, he knew his parents would be fast asleep in their wing of the excessive mansion. It was nights like these, when he wished to escape, that he was grateful that he had an entire wing to himself. His footsteps were light on the carpet runner that ran down the halls and wooden stairs. His sneakers softly squeaked as he crossed the tiles from the foot of the main staircase to the front door. As he approached, a figured stepped out of the shadows,

“It’s getting cold these nights, Young Master,” the head butler droned even as he opened the front door for him,

“And that’s why I’m wearing a sweater. If you remember correctly, last time I just had on a t-shirt,” the Young Master piped,

“Indeed, Young Master, your foresight gets better everyday,” the head butler replied, his words flat.

The Young Master paused at the doorstep and looked back at the butler, “You know, you remind me of someone.”

The head butler raised a brow, “Indeed? And who might that be?”

The Young Master peered at the butler a moment before shrugging and jogging down the few steps to the ground, “I’m not sure, but once I figure it out, you’ll be the first one to know.”

“I wait with bated breath, Young Master,” the head butler called as he shut the door firmly closed.

He jogged through the cold night, his only light the full moon and the sparkling stars. The wind was crisp still, perhaps colder, crueller than during the day. He jogged steadily, allowing the cold air to fill his lungs, penetrate his entire body. He knew he was probably making matters worse dressed in only sweats and a sweater, but the cold, the piercing, bitter cold, was one of the few things that reminded him, indeed, gave him proof, that he was alive. Still.

It was odd how invigorated he felt after a full, restful sleep; finally. His body felt stronger than before and, for once, he wasn’t wary of his steps as he jogged steadily block after block. He had jogged for close to a quarter of an hour before he slowed, reaching his destination.

The playground was empty as expected at such a late hour. However, the wind rustled fallen leaves, tossed the woodchips covering the ground and pushed the chain swings. Slowly, clutching his notebook to his side, he headed over to the dome-shaped jungle gym created by metal bars forming adjacent triangles. With one hand gripping the cold metal and another securing his notebook, he gingerly made his way up and on top of the dome. At the top, he carefully adjusted his body and limbs so that he sat balanced on the connected vertices of six triangles.

Propping his notebook in his lap, he flipped it open, pulled out a pencil and slowly, carefully, began sketching in the moonlight. It was hard, his strokes barely visible on the page and yet, he could see each line, each mark in his mind. He could see the edges of a defined jaw, the ridge of a straight nose, eyes that seemed to smile and a smile that was perpetual.

For three years now, he dreamt of that face. It haunted his nightlife, haunted him in the day. It followed him everywhere like a spectre, like a thread hanging in midair waiting to be pulled closer, tighter, brought into focus. The face was so familiar to him that, when he was at work, he would aimlessly begin to draw it before he realized what he was doing, only to quickly stash it away when Mijoon walked in without knocking, as he was prone to do.

He paused, his hand still, the tip of his pencil just hovering above the page. The wind whirled around him as he glanced over his shoulder, his eyes scanning the sparse trees that surrounded the playground. All he saw were shadows, but nothing moved and he scolded himself a fool. He pulled out his cellular that he had earlier transferred from his slacks to his sweats. It was closing in on one in the morning and he was beginning to become numbed from the cold.

He glanced down at his drawing, the form of a face somehow familiar and yet, not, slowly coming together. He closed his notebook, pocketed his phone and pencil and slowly made his way down from the jungle gym. His sneakers hit the woodchips with a stifled thud. Pausing to look around him once more, he brought out into a slow but steady jog out of the park, ready to return home and the reality of his life.

As his retreating footsteps faded into the wind, a lone figure slowly shifted their position, pushing away from the tree from where they had hidden. The wind grew fierce and they rubbed their covered arms, pulling the halves of their jacket closer together. Finally, they turned and walked away from the playground and the scene they witnessed, had witnessed many times.

A few minutes later, they came to the street and the black car parked at the curb. Opening the back door, the person slipped into the heated car’s backseat, closing the door firmly behind them. As the car pulled away from the curb and began driving from the edges of Seoul right into its heart, the person pulled out a small notepad from their pocket and began writing down words, a soft melody hummed from their lips.

“Where to, ma’am? Back to the house?” The driver inquired politely,

The person paused, her pen poised just above the paper of her notepad. Then, she began to write again, “No, I won’t be going to the house for the weekend again.”

“Then the other place?”

“Yes,” she replied, her voice soft, warm and melodious, “Bring me home… to Shim Jang Academy.”

The rain came down,
but you only held my hand tighter.
The rain came down,
but you just gave me your sweater.
The rain came down,
And you took me home.
And you took me home.
You were my home.


-----------

(2nd Cycle: Fading Light)


A/N: Yes, this is exactly what you think it is.