#the-painters-apprentice
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is there a favorite halloween/full moon events you guys have gone thru? any fun monster forms?
[OOC] A few fun Scream Fortress designs!
…Rod doesn’t like Halloween.
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Hey it’s me El! I have an apprentice one shot for Aemond. The reader is the apprentice painter who paints the portraits for them. The reader just finds Aemond to be a masterpiece and paints them all day in the too they were given. Aemond gets the wrong impression of them looking at him constantly and goes into their room when they aren’t there but finds their paintings of him. She walks in and explains saying she thinks he’s her muse and he’s beautiful. He gets flustered and doesn’t know what to do. Awkward flirting happens cause she hasn’t done everyone’s paintings yet. He visits her while she’s doing aegons and he teases the two of them saying of just kiss or fuck and get it over with! And stuff like that. They get awkward but later aemond kisses her and they agree to court
This is super cuteeee, and I decided to go soft with this one!!! To give everyone a break from the smut XD
The Painter and her Muse
Aemond didn’t understand why the court painter’s apprentice kept staring at him. His portrait was one of the first to be finished, mainly because he was the only one that could sit still for that long. But no matter what, if she and him were in the same room together he would always catch her staring at him, almost observing him.
At first, he wondered if perhaps she was an assassin. Then she tripped on the edge of the rug and dropped all her paintbrushes, not managing to catch a single one. So, he ruled that theory out quite quickly.
He soon came to the conclusion that she found him revolting, and could not stop herself from gazing upon the horror that was his disfigured face. After he caught her watching him outside in the garden, her eyes trailing over his form, he’d had enough.
He stormed into the painting studio, ready for a fight.
“Lady y/n, you must cease your staring, it is an insult. If you wish to gawk at the misfortune of others, I suggest the depth of the Fleabottom.”
Instead of a stammering, frightened woman, he finds canvas after canvas of his face staring back at him.
He walks around the room slowly, admiring the time and detail put into each one.
The door swings open, and he hears a shocked, “my prince?”
You’ve walked in on your worst nightmare. Prince Aemond, in the painting studio, looking at the portraits you painted of him, without his knowledge. “I—I can explain.” You stuttered out, rushing to pull the drapes over the paintings.
Aemond grabs your elbow. “Explain then.”
You keep your eyes on the floor as you begin. “You have inspired me, your beauty has breathed new life into my art, I know I should have asked, but I could not waste this burst of inspiration.”
Aemond tilted your chin up with one bent finger. “Are you implying that I am your…muse?”
You forced yourself to meet his eyes. “Yes, my prince. I am so sorry, if I’ve offended you, I will cease at once.”
Aemond’s good eye narrowed for a moment before he released you. “No, I am flattered actually, you have done a wonderful job of capturing my likeness.”
You smile brightly at him. “Truly? I worried that perhaps I had not captured the sharpness of your cheekbones well enough.”
Aemond looked at the nearest painting, it was one of him reading in the library, a calm and contented expression on his face. “They look quite sharp to me.”
You were beaming, and he had a hard time keeping his own smile from emerging.
“And then I told her, she could keep the tunic if she wanted it so badly, but I wanted an extra round in return. She got angry and kicked me out of the brothel, I was not even able to retrieve my tunic.” Aegon groaned, recounting you with his latest adventures.
You giggled as you continued painting. Aegon was your third to last portrait after him, you needed to paint ones of his children.
“That sounds quite harrowing, my prince.” You said, leaning to the side to glance at him again.
“Brother—oh, and Lady y/n.” Aemond’s voice filled the room and you turned instantly.
“Yes, Aemond?” Aegon said, taking this chance to stretch his arms.
“I came to ask you when the twins will have their portraits done. Mother wishes to get them new garments beforehand.”
Aegon tilted his head towards you. “Ask the painter.”
Aemond looked to you.
“The children’s portraits will be done after I finish Prince Aegon’s.” You told him.
“Hear that? Now leave, you are distracting her from her work.” Aegon said, as he resumed the position they’d agreed on.
Aemond stepped closer to you, admiring your work. “For having such a difficult subject, you have managed to create something quite magnificent.”
“I love you too, Aemond.” Aegon called, sticking his tongue out at him.
“The prince is not ugly, so it was not difficult.” You said.
Aegon let out a victorious laugh. “Perhaps she can paint you with both eyes. We’ll send that out and lure a bride here with it.”
You felt Aemond stiffen behind you.
“I think Prince Aemond is already very handsome with one eye, if he had two we might all die from the radiance of his beauty.” You said without thinking, cheeks heating up as the words slipped out.
“That’s very kind Lady y/n, especially from someone so beautiful herself.”
Aegon groaned. “Just fuck already, I do not wish to hear this drivel.”
You stepped away from Aemond, and he did the same. “My—my prince, it is not like that, I can assure you.” You said quickly, already fearing that rumors would spread. This was the death sentence of any court painter. Once you have been accused of an affair, your career was over.
“Aegon that is not the language to use in front of a lady.” Aemond chastised.
“So you do wish to fuck her?” Aegon prodded.
“No, because I am a man of honor who is able to curb his desires, unlike you.” Aemond shot back.
You didn’t let the thought of he did not say he would not bed you if honor was not an obstacle, linger in your mind. “Prince Aegon, please cease talking, I must finish this painting, and you move your whole body when you speak.”
Aegon did as you asked, but shot Aemond one more teasing look.
“I will leave you to your work then.” Aemond said, before leaving the room.
You bid him goodbye, and continued painting, your stomach in knots.
Later, you rushed to your door to answer the frantic knocking. Swinging it open, you took a step back in surprise to see Aemond standing before you.
“Prince Aemond?” You asked.
Aemond said nothing, his eye roaming your face.
“Is everything alright?” You tried again, hand still on the doorknob.
In a swift motion, Aemond bent down, cupped your face and kissed you. It was a staggering kiss, all your thoughts derailed as your senses focused in on him. Your hand gripped his tunic, using it and the door for support when he pulled away and brushed the pad of his thumb along your bottom lips.
“There are no rules that say a muse cannot kiss his artist, are there?”
You shook your head, stunned.
He chuckled and released your chin. “I wish to court you.”
“Okay…” You said, still returning to reality, the smell of parchment and leather still overwhelming your senses.
“Unless that is not your wish?” He asked hesitantly.
That brought you back into your body. “No, no, it is my wish, I would be honored if you were to court me. I would…very much like that.”
Aemond gave you one of his rare, true smiles. “Then I shall come collect you after breakfast?”
“That would be nice.” You said, still gripping his tunic.
“I shall see you then.” He said, as he gently unfurled your fingers and pressed a kiss to each one before he disappeared into the shadows. Leaving you standing there breathless and giddy.
Tag list: @nyctophilic0vitnir, @svtansdaddyx, @fan-goddess, @dc-marvel-girl96, @shintax-error, @bellameshipper, @the141bandicoot, @the-phantom-of-arda, @haydee5010
#aemond x reader#aemond x y/n#aemond x you#prince aemond x reader#aemond targaryen fanfiction#meg's writing#mail from el#apprentice!reader#thanks for the request!#I hope you like it!!!#aemond targaryen#aemond targaryen imagine#aemond targaryen x reader#painter!reader#anon request
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Paintings by court painter A. Chuck Wagon
All paintings commissioned by my ladylord and patron and her betrothed, Sir William.
@lady-lord-cornbury @william-the-ladyfinger
Student and partner of @anthonis-van-dyck
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my tf2 ocs
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I started playing One thousand year old vampire, a solo journaling rpg to scratch the writing itch when it's too quiet over there and boiiiii the OC is cooking !
#He's a Florentine apprentice painter in the Renaissance and the first prompt had him kill his painting Master smh 🤦#Then he went through a Louis de Pointe du Lac era going through depression and eating rats.... Bro already going through hell#Domenico you are already my blorbo and I love you we'll get through this#ooc;
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Lucinder Pheonox is the leader of the Grand Plamarius Salon. He has been abundantly supportive of artists, young and old, and of all mediums. A master painter and sculptor, he is also a keen advocate for improving Plamarius as a whole, but the Salon oftentimes lacks the political power to rival the mega corporations that rule Plamarius. He takes a liking to Alex and willingly offers them his masterful advice.
Art by Mathew Valle
#2d animation#animation#animated#anime#indie animation#original character#art#furry anthro#master and apprentice#bird art#sculptor#painting#painter#oc
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1 and 23 for the book worm asks?
Thank you for the questions!
1. Name the best book you've read so far this year
Yumi and the Nightmare Painter by Brandon Sanderson, hands down. This is the only book I've cried at reaching the end of, because I loved the characters and the world and I didn't want to leave it without knowing how the two main characters made it out! I needed to know there would be a happy ending and I needed to know how their lives would...restart essentially. It was so good!
23. Favourite heist story book.
I don't read a lot of heist books, but the one that came to my mind immediately is a book called The Collector's Apprentice by B.A. Shapiro. A girl's father is swindled out of his art collection and she sets out to get it back. It was one I enjoyed and I remember.
Ask me more book worm questions!
#ask game#questions answered#booklr#book worm#book wyrm#book talk#yumi and the nightmare painter#brandon sanderson#the collector's apprentice#b.a. shapiro#books
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Kaili Wynmaer
A dryad character from a story I might be writing in the near future. She lives near a human village and is a close friend of the main protagonist, Jhin Cloudhopper. She's a very creative soul. Carries her paints wherever she goes and uses them to paint 3D paintings in the air. Usually, she's the one who sees beauty in pretty much everything but prefers a slower and peaceful life, in contrast to Jhin, who loves adventures and getting into trouble. He usually ends up dragging her along anyway.
#my art#KailiWynmaer#Kaili#Wynmaer#original character#character sheet#digital art#fantasy#drawing#artists on tumblr#fantasy characters#art#character design#reference sheet#apprentice#dryad#druid#artist#painter#spells
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i want to talk about real life villains
Not someone who mugs you, or kills someone while driving drunk, those are just criminals. I mean VILLAINS.
Not like trump or musk, who are... cartoonishly evil. And not sexy villains, not grandiose villains, not even satisfyingly two dimensional villains it is easy to hate unconditionally. The real villains.
I had a client who was a retired executive for one of the big oil companies, i think it was Shell or Chevron. Had a home just outside of San Francisco that was wall to wall floor to ceiling full of expensive art. Literally. I once accidentally knocked a painting off the wall because it was hanging at knee height at the corner of the stairs, and it had a little brass plaque on it, and i looked up the name of the artist and it was Monet's apprentice and son-in-law, who was apparently also a famous painter. He had an original Andy Warhol, which should have been a prize piece for anyone to showcase -- it was hanging in the bathroom. I swear to god this guy was using a Chihuly (famous glass sculptor) as a fruit bowl. And he was like, "idk my wife was the one who liked art"
I was intrigued by this guy, because in the circles i run this dude is The Enemy. right? Wealthy oil executive? But as my client, he was... like a sweet grandpa. A poor widower, a nice old man, anyone who knew him would have called him a sweetheart. He had a slightly bewildered air, a sort of gentle bumbling nature.
And the fact that he was both of these things, a Sweet Little Old Man and The Enemy, at the same time, seemed important and fascinating to me.
He reminded me of some antagonist from fiction, but i couldn't put my finger on who. And when i did it all made sense.
John Hammond.
probably one of the most realistic bad guys ever written.
If you've only ever seen the movie, this will need some explaining.
Michael Crichton wrote Jurassic Park in 1990, and i read it shortly thereafter. In the movie, the dinosaurs are the antagonists, which imo erases 50% of the point of the story.
book spoilers below.
In the book, John Hammond is the villain but it takes the reader like half the book to figure that out. Just like my client, John is a sweet old man who wants lovely things for people. He's a very sympathetic character. But as the book progresses, you start to see something about him.
He has an idea, and he's sure it's a good one. When someone else dies in pursuit of his dream, he doesn't think anything of it. When other people turn out to care about that, he brings in experts to evaluate the safety of his idea, and when they quickly tell him his idea is dangerous and needs to be put on hold, he ignores his own experts that he himself hired, because they are telling him that he is wrong, and he is sure he is right.
In his mind, he's a visionary, and nobody understands his vision. He is surrounded by naysayers. Several things have proven too difficult to do the best and safest way, so he has cut corners and taken shortcuts so he can keep moving forward with his plans, but he's sure it's fine. He refuses to hear any word of caution, because he believes he is being cautious enough, and he knows best, even though he has no background in any of the sciences or professions involved. He sends his own grandchildren out into a life-threatening situation because he is willfully ignorant of the danger he is creating.
THIS is like the real villains of the world. He doesn't want anyone to die. Far from it, he only wants good things for people! He's a sweet old man who loves his grandchildren. But he has money and power and refuses to hear that what he is doing is dangerous for everyone, even his own family.
I think he's possibly one of the most important villains ever written in popular fiction.
In the book, he is killed by a pack of the smallest, cutest, "least dangerous" dinosaurs, because a big part of why we read fiction is to see the villains face thematic justice. But like a cigarette CEO dying of lung cancer, his death does not stop his creation from spreading out into the world to continue to endanger everyone else.
I think it is really important to see and understand this kind of villainy in fiction, so you can recognize it in real life.
Sweetheart of a grandfather. Wanted the best for everyone. Right up until what was best for everyone inconvenienced the pursuit of his own interests.
And my client was like that too. His wife had died, and his dog was now the love of his life, and she was this little old dog with silky hair in a hair cut that left long wispy bits on her lower legs. Certain plant materials were easily entangled in this hair and impossible to get out without pulling her hair which clearly hurt her. When i suggested he ask his groomer to trim her lower leg hair short to avoid this, he refused, saying he really liked her usual hair cut.
I emphasized that she was in pain after every walk due to the plant debris getting caught in her leg hair, and a simple trim could put an end to her daily painful removal of it, and he just frowned like i'd recommended he take a bath in pig shit and said "But she'll be ugly" and refused to talk about it anymore.
Sweet old man though. Everyone loved him.
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Why Dragon Age Veilguard isn't a "Cathedral"
Concept art by Matt Rhodes
"To disinherit the storylines of past games goes directly against the notion of building cathedrals."
What is inherent with Veilguard that keeps bothering me is the fact that the world's choices truly didn't matter--and it doesn't simply bother me from a player perspective, it's not simply a grievance borne of frustration to what I (as a longtime fan) have lost. It's about the very culture of the arts under capitalism's new media habituation cycle [x][x].
Yes, I spent hours of my life playing and replaying each instalment of Dragon Age. Yes, I painstakingly curated a 'canon' world state by replaying what came before in preparation for Veilguard. Yes, I am even more unsatisfied with the end product--time hasn't helped, it's just widened the divide. But, and I can't stress this enough, these very personal gripes aren't what hit home the most. It's the inherent disregard of legacy. A legacy that the previous writers and game developers were building towards.
In the DAV artbook, "cathedral" is the word used to describe the process of making a game. Matt Rhodes' exact words are: "One artist can make a painting, but it takes a team to build a cathedral." Cathedrals took centuries to build. The architect who drafted the first blueprints would likely never see his work realised, he had to rely on those who came after him, like-minded and passionate, to see it through--for the culture, for the future, for legacy. Painters took on several apprentices for this reason too--giant frescoes were not completed by one man's hand, even if it is one man's name that immortalises them. Similarly, if you weave a narrative around choice, what good does it do to take it away at the final act if not to fall to caricature?
To disinherit the storylines of past games goes directly against the notion of building cathedrals.
Late-stage capitalism and profit-margin-obsessed game producers forcing developers to churn out meager content, to make a known brand into something it's not, to chase a fad or a popular trend... o, how reductive and cliche you've been forced to become Bioware. We have lost the cultural thought patterns relative to Cathedrals. We know only of barn-raised churches--done in a day but unlikely to last the turn of the seasons.
And don't even get me started on the music of Veilguard either. From Origins to World of Warcraft to Everquest to Baldur's Gate to Dungeon Siege, you can hear the intricate interconnected weave of sounds inspired by the Dungeons and Dragons-esque fantasy genre. You hear it in the repeated use of certain instruments, in the harmonic weeping notes of a bard-like singer or the foreboding echoes of drums as if of war. In tavern songs. But then, rather than hire someone who loves these worlds and this genre, who is a hungry artist looking to make a name, a legacy if you will, for themselves with a spectacular score, you hire any already sated composer, one well-into the encroaching years of career fatigue, whose notes repeat in countless projects, who feels less concise and more uninterested with each new project. One who has long since cemented his legacy. Someone in it for a paycheck and nothing else! And, to top it off, you let him compose something so minimalist? I am offended actually.
Cathedrals! We should have witnessed the final tile being placed on the Dragon Age cathedral. Instead, some architects walked up, tore down the interior and installed IKEA furniture and called it authentic before having to call the previous architects to come and fix the "load-bearing issues", forcing them to rush and add a coat of varnish and a few 'aged' details for authenticity.
#dragon age veilguard#veilguard#dragon age#bioware#veilguard critical#da:tv#dragon age the veilguard#matt rhodes#veilguard concept art#dragon age artbook#a cathedral in ruin#i am being dramatic and in my feels but also it's not about me--it's about the literal disney-ification/corporatisation of media now#this post is also anti hans zimmer hype#like... that man has been phoning it in for a while now#pack it up#let new talent come in#stop gatekeeping the arts by flooding the mainstream with the same composers/actors/writers#media studies#as a solasmancer i got my happy ending#as a dragon age player?#yeah... no.#i couldn't sleep until this was exorcised from my brain
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i love creating art
#as much as i lament not being as good as i am in my head . i love making things whwn i draw lines it tickles ky brain funny#i think yesss this was exactly what i was born to do#in ye olde days i wouldve been an apprentice painter or whatever
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Sexypink - Celebrating the life of an original, Glenn Roopchand.
#sexypink/Glenn Roopchand#sexypink/bereavement#sexypink/apprentice to Carlisle Chang#sexypink/painters#Trinidad and Tobago#tumblr/Glenn Roopchand#tumblr/Carlisle Chang#tumblr/bereavement#celebration of a life#Glenn Roopchand#painters#Trinidad and Tobago Artist#protege of Carlisle Chang
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To forget the past is hard. Even if you try to ignore it.
Clockwork is Kronos.
Clockwork is visited by his ex-wife Rhea and she discuss their children and Kronos' disregard for them. Clockwork reveals that he thinks of them, with only a picture of Hestia and a large family portrait of Danny and Dani, while Rhea questions his intentions. They argue again.
++
Kronos, or Clockwork as he was now known, stood at his desk and adjusted his staff, knowing that someone would be visiting him in his home. The ticking of clocks filled the air of his lair in the Ghost Zone, he found it comforting as always. He turned slightly at the sound of a portal opening and sighed as the familiar figure stepped through. He had seen her coming and knew it.
It was Titaness Rhea, his ex-wife, once Queen of the Titans, standing with an air of regal composure that eons of separation had not eroded. Her presence seemed to fill the room, her aura a subtle blend of authority and warmth.
Clockwork stifled a groan. While he appreciated her rare visits, they always came with strings attached. What part of him that had changed and didn't need to see her all the time, or at all, didn't she understand?
"Clockwork," Rhea began, using his adopted name with strained politeness. She was still not used to calling him that, but she respected that he wanted to be called that. She crossed her arms and gave him a measured look. "It's been a while."
He turned to face her fully, his ghost tail now flying as he looked at her, hands clasped behind his back. "Indeed. I hope this is a fleeting visit, Rhea. I do have a schedule to keep."
Rhea's lips twitched, not quite a smile. "When is that not your excuse? Still, I wanted to see you. To talk."
"About what?" he asked, though he already knew the answer. He hoped she would understand that he didn't want to talk about their children and their descendants. The less he thought about them, the better.
"Our children," Rhea said, her tone pointed. "You've ignored them. Again."
Clockwork raised a brow, feigning confusion. "I have no idea what you're talking about. I've kept her in my mind. I even have a picture of one of them right here."
He gestured to his desk, where a very small but neatly framed photograph of Hestia rested; she wasn't looking at the camera as she worked at her hearth. He took the picture from one of his portals. Rhea followed his hand, her expression unimpressed. She can't believe he only had one picture of Hestia.
Rhea glanced at her ex-husband and wondered why she ever thought he cared. Even if he wasn't crazy anymore.
Then she pointed behind him, to the huge family portrait that dominated the wall behind his desk.
It was impossible to miss: a large painting, almost three metres high, showing Clockwork sitting on a chair in the centre, flanked by Danny Fenton and Ellie Fenton. The two half-ghosts stood confidently beside him, their expressions radiant with joy, and Clockwork also had a smile on his face. It had been so hard to get them both to behave the way the painter had painted the picture, so many hours. They couldn't sit still. But he liked the way it was going.
"You were saying?" Rhea asked dryly.
Clockwork looked back at the portrait, then shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly, as if talking about the weather. "Danny and Ellie are my apprentices. I look after them, guide them, teach them. So to speak. Not my children."
Rhea's brow furrowed, her patience waning. "And when exactly were you going to tell me about them? Or were you going to continue pretending I didn't exist for them? Or let me meet them."
Clockwork sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Rhea, we know how things turned out with the other five. I can handle this duo on my own. And Danny is a great hero, as is Ellie at the moment. Really great students."
The mention of their children - Hades, Hera, Poseidon, Zeus, Demeter and Hestia - hung heavily in the air. The bitter history of betrayal, war and broken family ties was not something any of them wanted to revisit. Or that Kronos wanted to talk about, let alone with his wife.
Still, Rhea glared at him, her anger simmering beneath the surface.
"You don't just start like that," she snapped. "Blaming me for how they got out! While praising the ones you took care of, how great heroes they are!"
Clockwork's tone became defensive. "I gave them stability, training and helped them find a purpose. Isn't that enough? Or would you rather I eat them? Or be given to me to eat."
Rhea's eyes flashed. "Don't you dare put that on me. You were the one who..."
"Yes, yes, I know," Clockwork interrupted, his voice uncharacteristically sharp. "The great betrayal I gave you, the swallowing of children, the rebellion of Zeus, how you hid the boy. We're past that, Rhea. I have moved on from the past. Perhaps you should too.
The argument spiralled from there, as it always did. Words turned to accusations, accusations turned to frustration. Rhea's voice grew louder, while Clockwork's remained icy, but no less cutting. The air in the cave grew heavy with tension, time itself seemed to slow under the weight of their unresolved grievances.
Finally, Rhea threw up her hands. "You are unbearable, Kronos!"
Clockwork stiffened at the use of his old name. "And you are implacable, Rhea."
Rhea took one last look at her husband and the painting behind him. Before she left.
"Silence at last. I really should not bet with my own powers whether she will visit or not."
#danny phantom#dp#danny fenton#Dani Phantom#Rhea#Kronos#Clockwork#Hestia#greek myhtology#Titans#greek mythology#Greek myth x DP
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from the artist's studio | cs
pairing: painter!choi san x painter!reader AU: historical au, joseon dynasty word count: 10.5k
masterlist
I reach out to my lover, he’s trapped within a painting. The muse of a Renaissance artist- he’s so divine he may have even started the movement.
Her feet pattered down the cold floorboards, pushing through the salmun doors-the fabric of her purple hanbok bunched up in her palms. The midnight bloomed in the depth of the spring, where the cherry blossom trees roared with the wind. A captivating beam from the candle paved the way to the front doors, her heart lurching in her chest as she felt an enchanted soul beckoning her name; her vessel bowed in his essence as if the rapping of the door knocker was to the beat of her name, echoing every syllable. With her hand outstretched for the doors, she hauled it open finding a man whose eyes were squinting as the the coarse rain battered against his supple skin; his teeth chattering with the cold. With a brown leather bag sloped over the shoulder of his light yellow hanbok; hands gripped steely over the handle of his heavy cases. He was tall, with broad shoulders, she quickly discerned but his face almost seemed obscured by the dark clouds and the night slowly filtering into the star studded sky.
"Please, Miss, I'm here to see Mr Yim. I'm a new apprentice at the local government office." His voice was almost mellowed by the crash of thunder against the sky, which had them both flinching at its mercilessness. A surge of relief rested upon him as a slender arm in purple outstretched towards him; the warmth easing the shattering goosebumps bestowed upon his delicate skin. With a contented sigh, the figure in front raised the candle to his face; the soft glow illuminated his crescent eyes which bored into another's burgeoning with curiosity.
"Your name, Sir?" Her honey like voice, slid into his ears; lashes gently fluttering as he breathed in the sight before him the beaming light from the candle forging a halo around this angel. Her tight jaw and deadpan expression was immediately dissolved between the influx of enigma that flooded into her eyes.
"Choi San." Nodding diligently, she gesticulated for him to follow her to her father's study. The hallways of the Yim estate were particularly large, a few candelabras were perched on top of the drawers plastered across the panelled walls-the smoke infiltrating into the empty space. They graced the floor with minimal sound, as if there were ghosts traipsing the corridors rather than real people.
Stood outside the large door, she dipped her head in politeness as he gently caressed the lumber; soft knocks restituting off the walls. With the candle perched within a hand of his own, yet another door opened; the esteemed artist tumbled through the doorway into another life.
Just over two decades ago, on a winter night, where the trees were bare of crisp leaves and the ground was brazen with purest of snow; a couple sat by the fire in their bedroom: a new-born cherub encapsulated within her mother's arms. Mr Yim, the father of the child, was a member of a group of scholars who advocated the need for the government to foster commerce, industry, and technology. He was a part of one of the four schools of thought in Joseon that shifted from speculative theory to attending to more taxing socio-political issues. Therefore, despite being renown for his hard work, and steadfast nature, he was also known for being quite reserved- to put it nicely. There were no 'good mornings' or 'good afternoons' from Mr Yim. Nor were there dirty looks and unwelcoming mannerisms bestowed upon his acquaintances. He liked to keep to himself, Mrs Yim being the only woman in the world capable of seeing that man smile.
"Would you like to hold her, dear?" His wife called, the gentle babbling of his child sending a jolt of fear rushing through him. Eagerly, he dismissed the opportunity, to which Mrs Yim had sighed staring down at her beautiful daughter. "She is your daughter, too. You're going to have to hold her at one point."
"I'll hold her when she is a little older than what she is now."
"Before you know it, she will become a woman and you will reminisce all the opportunities you had to cuddle her when you could." Truthfully, Mr Yim was afraid of fatherhood; he never really understood the notion of it but if having a child would make his darling, Mrs Yim, happy then Mr Yim would give her all the children in the world. How could he raise a child when he was left to raise himself? What could he even teach except say to his daughter after every stumble, every mistake, every stutter, every cry for help but: 'find your way'?
Thus, his aloof nature extended to his daughter, who having been pinned by her mother's side until her unfortunate death, became wholly estranged from her father. He was no longer her mother's husband, but rather just a kind stranger who fed her, clothed her, kept her under his roof and gave her almost anything she wanted.
Miss Yim was rather bizarre.
Or at least, that's what the townspeople thought through her poignant introvertedness; maintaining scant friendships, rejecting all marriage prospects almost immediately preferring the confines of her large quarters-which in themselves were situated in the segregated division of the family home. Her rooms were not bright, but panelled with a dark wood that foremost created a dull atmosphere, there was minimal light other than what streamed in through the open doors and windows that overlooked the vast lawn. A porch ran around the whole building, where Miss Yim frequented, all year round, as she drew.
Oh! The most compelling thing about Miss Yim was that in contrast to her academic father, she had particularly excelled in the arts, often taking on commissions from local noblemen requesting venerated portraits of their wives. As well as the opportunity to put her skills to practise, she saw it as a way of putting a few extra pennies in her pocket. In alignment with her reserved nature, Miss Yim found that she preferred to draw using defined, darker mediums such as charcoal, ink and graphite pencils. There was something so true about the loneliness that could be felt from the intricate brushstrokes as the ink spilled across the page. As if the figurines were her, simply founded to be a mere prop in a large frame.
Smoothing down the hairs on her head, she snapped away her gaze from the mirror to the window overlooking the side of the garden, the silhouette of the hanok roofs, carving elegantly into the sky. The trees rocked and the grass rippled with the pending ferocity of the wind. Indeed, the storm would not subside within the next few days. The door to her bedroom slid open, the older maid stumbled in settling the tray upon her bench.
"Will I not be eating with my father today?" Ina looked up from where she was kneeled on the floor, settling the bowls onto the bench.
"Mr Yim is currently accompanied with Mr Choi. Your father requested that you eat by yourself for the duration of his stay, you know how it is." Nodding, she took her seat opposite Ina patiently awaiting for the maid to stop assembling her dishes in a neat line in front of her. Whilst women typically dined by themselves, her father had allowed her to eat with him almost daily; except when there were guests. Despite his neglect towards his daughter, he still valued her feminine dignity and did not trust the vulturous eyes of men that rested their predatory gaze upon her.
"Who is this, Mr Choi, and how is it that I wasn't aware of his arrival until he was knocking on our door?" She questioned, Ina's careful gaze flickered to her before staring out into the open space in contemplation.
"A new apprentice. He’s appointed here, on request of his father." Leaning forward, Ina's voice dropped an octave. "Apparently his father says he's been 'engaging in sin' so he's been estranged from his parents until he gets his act together." Raising a questioning brow, she looked down at her bowl.
"Is he a homosexual?" Immediately, she was wacked on the back of her head by the older maid who didn't miss a single second in scolding her. Her hand sped to the back, rubbing the jolt of pain that seared through her, a temporary look of irritation glazed over her eyes.
"You insolent girl! How could you say such thing, you know how disgraced that is!"
"You said ‘engaging in sin'. I can't think of anything more sinful other than fraternising with men or women." Ina's dirty look penetrated through her bones, provoking a sense of humiliation that would rattle through her in the depth of the night. Scowling at her mistress, she rolled her eyes before getting up from the floorboard.
“Hurry up and eat your food. You need to go to Mrs Kang’s today." Following Ina's orders she gulfed down her food, drowning out the maid's muttering about her being crude and dishonourable.
The light chatter from the front room fell deaf at her ears as she sauntered to the entrance, which the two kitchen maids scuttled in through. Bowing at their mistress, they made a fowl attempt at suppressing a fit of giggles as they subtly snuck a glance into the room. Following their gazes, she warily traipsed in, catching her father converse with their new guest.
"Ah, speak of the devil! Mr Choi, this is my daughter." He teared his gaze away from his mentor to draw his eyes across the room and find the infamous Miss Yim perched by the doorway, gripping onto her onto the full skirts of her dark blue hanbok.
It was hard to deny that Mr Choi was amiable. He was tall, well-built with a toned torso that was still perceptible through his uncreased peach coloured hanbok, dimples adorned his perfectly structured cheeks. He nodded with such elegant eagerness, at her father's command harbouring the position of an obedient son, almost leaving her wondering what was so 'sinful' about that man in the first place? What could he have possibly done so wrong that he had practically been disowned by his family?
"Miss Yim, it's nice to formally meet you." She gave him a polite nod, choosing to stay silent than say something and be met with her father's harsh stare.
"Mr Kang told me you've been over at his home, a few times." Her father spoke breaking the awkward meeting. A breath became lodged in her throat as she anticipated some sort of wrath, after all Mr Yim was supposed to be oblivious to her going out and painting other women for a light commission. She didn't exactly know how he would react to that. "He appreciates your help with Mrs Kang's pregnancy." Mrs Kang is pregnant? That would explain the engorging belly, the mood swings and the other number of odd behaviours that she was listing off in the past few weeks she had been challenged with drawing the difficult woman. At times, Miss Yim thought she ought to have more empathy, it wasn't that she lacked it, it was that she tended to not gift her empathetic abilities to the prejudiced. It was women like Ina, and the cooks that worked in the kitchen that deserved her compassion. Women who strived to be breadwinners, even if it was due to poor socio-economic circumstances. Because women like Mrs Kang were hypocrites to be preaching the old values, pre-Confucianism, when they neglected their own sex.
"Yes, she's been enjoying my company. I intend to go again to deliver herbs she’s asked from Ina’s garden.” She recalled glancing down the extensively large page, as Mrs Kang moaned and groaned when the servants were too late to serve her namul and kimchi.
"Red raspberry leaf, dandelions, echinacea." Grimacing, she looked over her sheet to give the woman a look. "You can just get this from the market, why do you need this from Ina's garden?" Mrs Kang simply pouted rubbing her belly. Now that she thought about it, how did it not occur to her that she was pregnant? Perhaps it was because they begged to slim down her figure in the painting.
"Fresh herbs are good for babies." Were the herbs from the market not fresh enough for her? “I need them picked before they’re here.”
"Perhaps I should add lemon balm to burn that fat." A discourse of exasperated gasps rippled over the room, Mrs Kang waddled out of the room wailing for her husband. It was ruthless and unkind, keeping the unsympathetic Miss Yim awake at night before she travelled back to the Kang estate to see a very unhappy couple.
“I’m sorry, Mrs Kang. You’re beautiful just the way you are, even more with the little belly.” The pregnant woman’s tight grip around her neck, as they hugged, almost choked her to death.
Mr Yim's eyes outcasted through the doorway, there was a light patter of rain yet the howl of the wind had subsided significantly. He let out a small hum before returning back to the young pair staring, ardently, back at him.
"I say Mr Choi, should be your chaperone. It's a little unsafe to be going out by yourself." Before she could open her mouth and argue, her father held out a hand to silence her thoughts. Chewing on the inside of her cheek, she nodded once more, before dashing from the room to have a flustered Mr Choi following her.
Hitching up her skirts, she trudged through the field, the sun had filtered into the sky radiating its essence onto the young souls as they surpassed the reams of houses. Had it not been for the joyous discord of infantile laughter, it would have been quiet; San mustering the courage to initiate a conversation. He cleared his throat, she merely blinked at his futile attempt at grabbing her attention.
"Miss Yim, you must slow down I can't keep up with your pace." He declared, striding faster towards her, the tall grass brushing against his knees.
"I think you can cope, Sir. Your legs are longer than mine." Walking through the grass wasn't difficult but when her hanbok was floor length, lifting up the heavy fabric proved tiresome and not to mention her shoes were sinking into the muddy fields, squelching miserably under her heavy steps. Eventually, San matched her pace as they made their way up the steps to the Kang estate.
A shrill voice eructed into the airs, the domestic staff worked at a proficient speed as they amended the damages inflicted from the storm. As a group of servants raised the logs from the path, San ran to their aid significantly lightening their work load. His charity had left her silent contemplating her initial thoughts on his persona. There must be something impure under all that. Surely? There had to be some reason why his father practically disowned him.
Kang Yeosang stood by his front doors, watching as his staff worked the lawn and through the large home. He sought the enigmatic painter launch up the steps, with an unreadable look painted on her face.
“Good Morning, Miss Yim.”
“Morning, Yeosang.” She greeted, he laughed a little at her dull tone.
“I take it, there’s nothing particularly good about this morning.” He jeered, she huffed at his characteristically exuberant manner.
“Not when my father’s spy is here to be my chaperone.” She turned around on the steps, the pair looking down at San moving the heavy logs from the path, dirtying his robes at that. “He’s the new apprentice at the local office, Choi San, I think he said his name was.”
"Oh, the country boy." Country boy? "He's from Yangdong, have you not heard? His family is amongst the richest, they're both scholars and farmers, now." Across the country, Joseon farming techniques had taken a turn within the last few decades, especially with the establishment of irrigation and rice transplantation methods- bringing Joseon to a state of flourishment. It was safe to say, which farmer wasn't rich now? The admirable farm boy was pushed away by the servants, making his way up the steps. Leaving him with Yeosang, she made her way in the direction of the couples' shared quarters, Mrs Kang draped over her bed, her wrist dramatically resting on her forehead.
"Hello, Mrs Kang." The woman jolted up from her seat, an obnoxious groan emitted from her as she propped her back up against the wall. "I brought you your herbs."
"Thank you, my love. You left your paints, they're just on my dressing table." The herbs were exchanged from her paints, digging into the pockets of her hanbok. The older woman began to natter, the discordant tonality rattling in her ears. Mrs Kang loved to talk. Even if it was about absolutely nothing, that woman talked for the whole of Joseon.
I'm leaving this place with a headache.
She often wondered how it was that Yeosang put up with his insufferable wife. Was it love, or a promise that he had made to Mrs Kang's parents that he would never leave her? The thought made her sigh in pity- to be permanently bound to someone in matrimony seemed like too much effort at times. Perhaps the effort itself is what subdued her mother to misery, the poor Mrs Yim eagerly handing her soul to the Angel of Death. Or maybe Miss Yim had possessed a stone-cold heart frozen over by the neglect of life's intimate essence; overpowered by a sense of maturity held over by her mother's early death. She took it upon herself to make it clear that by the time she was thirty, if there was no proposal that had come around she was going to wholly abandon the idea of marriage and work herself to death.
"That man is so pretty." She spoke, dreamily, Miss Yim's eyes lazily fled in the direction of Mrs Kang's. Her head poked through the doorway where both Yeosang and San were travelling down, engaging in intelligent discourse. "Not Yeo, the other one." The pregnant woman clarified.
"He's ok, I suppose. Not bewitching enough to tempt me."
"That has to be the biggest lie I have ever heard."
"What is Miss Yim lying about now?" Yeosang provoked as both men entered the room. Both women shared a look before the painter slumped onto the dressing table chair. "I suppose you're awaiting your payment."
"Well, my services aren't free." She declared, pompously. Yeosang rolled his eyes before he moved to the opposite end of the room, San had almost drawn his body out of the bedroom, a little embarrassed as the pregnant Mrs Kang ogled her eyes at him. Stretching her limbs, she got up taking the velvet bag. "Thank you, Mr Kang. I'll visit when the baby arrives."
His perfection had her repleted with such distaste for him. Simply put, Miss Yim hated Choi San because he was loved by all. Her father loved him, Ina adored him, the maids were constantly drooling over him it shot her with a sense of annoyance. He quickly became a household name, spoken of when he was at the office with her father and even when he was at home. Everywhere she went it was just him, him and him. The worst thing was, was that he was even trying to be nice to her prevailing through her grim looks and hard words.
“San this, San that. Honestly, he’s not even as esteemed as everyone claims, Ina. He’s just a man, like every other man. And all men are the same. So what if he's good looking, does that suddenly make him god’s greatest gift?” Burying her face into the pillow, an exasperated huff escaped her lips. Ina fell onto her bed, reaching her arms out to stroke her mistress’ back. With a contented sigh, she felt her eyes drooping a little as the maid's soft caresses were gently lulling her to sleep. Her touch felt like that of her mother's, soothing the aches of her heart whilst simultaneously provoking the nostalgia of a mother's love. To have her mother again, to have that woman encircle her into her arms. Rock her back and forth. She longed for her mother's scent again, often chasing the whiff of her familiar saccharine redolence as one chased butterflies in an open field.
“Yet you think of him often. He occupies your thoughts as much as he occupies ours.”
“Hardly, I-,” She stammered in a desperate attempt to recollect her thoughts into a single ambience. “I envy him. How is that he steps into this home for a second and I see my father smile?” Ina’s face dropped, a breath caught in her throat as her mistress spoke aloud the forbidden words she denied her staff to even breathe. The older maid had been rendered silent for too long, giving Miss Yim all of the answers she needed to press forward with her wistful assumptions.
"Perhaps if you grew to understand him, you would know why your father has inhabited such emotions for him. Think of him like a son-in-law. He will love him but not as much as he loves you." The maid reasoned.
"Then that makes him my husband." She grumbled, pulling the duvet over her shoulders.
"Now is that so bad?” Ina teased, before pulling her weight off the bed. With no strength to argue, her eyes fluttered to a close; her soul being dissolved by the night.
The following morning, it was too cold to be even sitting on her porch and with eyes tired of the same dreary scene, she ventured out of her quarters, delving into parts of the home she had missed. By the kitchens, the late Mrs Yim had reserved herself a small room decorated with the tools of all her hobbies in order to enact time alone for herself, away from motherhood and social responsibility. The room was consistently cleaned but usually left empty having it being full of painful memories of the beloved mistress of the household. For the first time in a long time, Miss Yim had felt the drive to find the room again and read her mother's poetry she had spent hours pouring over in the rooms.
Yet it had been almost shot stone-cold dead when the door opened to find San sat by the window hands raised towards the canvas. The anger within her refused to simmer or boil, it was rather the smooth swaying of the soft waves lapping the crust of sand. Her hands feebly reached for the poetry book on the table.
"I didn't know you were a painter, Mr Choi." She proclaimed, her breath hitched in her throat as her eyes sought the intricate details on the canvas. Her eyes glossed over the colours, the succinct shapes, drawing on the brushstrokes herself with the sharp movements of her eyes. It moved her. When was the last time she had been left this breathless?
"You never asked, Miss Yim." Immediately she felt intimidated by his artwork, her own revered drawings felt meek in comparison to his. A mere apprentice in an important official’s presence. To even be this close to him was considered a blessing. "You can sit next to me. I don't bite." Tentatively, she drew closer seating herself on the floorboards next to him; the brush of their fabrics sending a tidal wave of timidness over her. Where was the bold, steadfast Mrs Yim? Long gone, lost to the large expanse of the sea. Drowning under the ocean of his perfection. She didn't even want call for help, allowing herself to be enveloped by his allure. You draw so beautifully, she wanted to say. It's perfect, like something-someone even.
"You should have been a royal painter." The remark was swallowed into a melancholic void within his heart. Sparing a glance, he dipped the tip of the paintbrush into the crevice of the cerulean blue paint before raising to illustrate the canvas.
"Don't say that to my father." She sought the gloom glossed over his brown eyes. Was he, too, held down by social responsibility and expectations? She didn't think it was possible for a man's dreams to be mauled over by society; for she saw it with her father who had the whole world at his feet-picking dreams as if he was picking daisies from a meadow. Dropping her book onto the floor, she rested her head on her knee, solicitude fulfilled the serene atmosphere. Her eyes fell over the fancy metallic pots situated around the easel, which she knew to be various colours of paint pigments. Resting her head on her knee, she tenderly rocked her body from side to side as she watched his hands elegantly work through the canvases.
"Did you ever consider pottery? That's supposed to be quite popular now." Her question breaking through the quiet airs, the delicacy of her voice startling San. It was devoid of boredom, or disinterest like he had always perceived. No lace of judgement like he was silently praying to be diminished from her soul.
"It'll grow out of popularity soon." He stated, resting the paintbrush down to exercise the tense muscles in his hands. "I heard this was the late Mrs Yim's room, I hope you don't mind me being here." It, too, came as a shock to her when she shook her head-with no care in the world that he had colonised the room that she was once sure was hers.
It was sunny for once, which was odd for this time of year-she thought throwing open the door to the porch finding San surrounded by a large number of logs and an axe.
"What's he doing outside?" She pondered, Ina folding up the washed bedsheets before tucking them away into the drawers.
"They stopped properly chopping up the logs so we can use them for the fire, so Mr Choi offered to help." Wandering out through the doors, a smooth current of air tousled her hair, a book held tightly against her chest.
God, he really was toned. Rolling up the sleeves of his hanbok all the way to his bulging biceps, the maids all stopped in their path to rest their elbows on the low garden wall overseeing the vast expanse of grass. Effortlessly he picked up the axe, raising it over his head to slice down the log of wood. She rolled her eyes at her maids, as they watched him with dreamy faces. They nattered in hushed tones, giggling amongst themselves unbeknownst that their mistress was stood behind them. Leaning down to where they were sat on the garden wall, she poked her head in between the sea of charmed maidens.
“What are we looking at?” They squeaked, jumping up from their seats upon sight of their mistress- flapping their hands as some rushed back into the kitchen and others tended to garden duties. “Well? I would like to know too.”
“You wouldn’t understand Miss Yim.” Yes, yes she was the narcissistic Miss Yim who harboured no feelings for men and couldn’t deduce their charming airs. She was the Miss Yim who rejected countless marriage proposals, not based on looks but merely because she found that no man possessed the kind quality in a man that she was seeking. No patience, no loyalty. They were not even ruled by a sense of ambition. So how could she be hypnotised by the sacred beauty of a man, specifically, Choi San.
“Yes, I don’t understand why you’re not doing the job that we’re paying for you to do. All of you, out of the garden, it’s already been tended to!” She shouted, in an instant all of the maids dispersed back into the home. Huffing, she slumped onto the garden wall, glazing her ink pen over the defined lines on the page. Occasionally, she’d peer her eyes over the pages at San, tending to the curve of his body, and the horrific cinching of his waist. When he looked to his side, she hastily returned back to her sketchbook, feeling a blush decorate her cheeks as his steady gaze burned into her skin.
“Very accurate, Miss Yim.” Jumping up from her seat, she screeched the pot of ink spilling onto his face and neck. Whoops.
“Oh goodness, I am so sorry. Ah.” She let out a pained sound, battling with her internal conflict as she grabbed his hand rushing them into the direction of the porch that led to her quarters. Powerfully, she slid the door open darting inside and towards the washroom. Hauling him down to his knees in front of the washing basin, with a soaked rag in hand, she scraped away the ink splashed across his face. “Take this off.” She ordered, signalling to his hanbok.
“W-what?” He stammered, his face heating red.
“Well you’ve got ink and dirt all over it. I can get a new one for you.”
“I can’t just return back to my quarters and change?”
“Well no because then my father will see you and he’ll know I stole his ink again.” An annoyed huff escaped from his lips as she handed him the rag to clean himself. “Here, I’ll go get you a spare set of clothes.” Jumping up from where she was kneeled, her foot slipped over a puddle of water his arms snapped out towards her waist. Gripping his shoulders for stability, a faint blush trickled over her face, their noses barely an inches distance.
"Be careful." Quickly unravelling her hands from his shoulders, Miss Yim ran out of the room towards his quarters. Slipping past the double doors, she rummaged through the drawers for his clothes-picking up a light green set.
"Mr Choi?" A maid's voice called out from behind the closed door. Discerning their shadow moving closer, she made a beeline through the open doors leading into the garden. Scuttling into her washroom, she practically launched the hanbok at him before hiding in her room.
A breath of relief had finally escaped from her when he left from her room, both of their faces burning red in the midst of this shameful meeting. Yet San seemed persistent to know her, feeling that there was still something beneath the stone-cold façade she had constructed; something emotional and raw that he had felt he had to know. And Miss Yim was too becoming more curious, by the day, as to what Choi San’s secret was and why his father perpetually hated him.
Ina had forced them to go on a walk together, she groaned, silently, as they left the home behind making their way down to the meadow. At first an odd tranquillity permeated the air, eventually she grew tired of the jarring dissonance of absolutely nothing.
“A penny for your thoughts?” She inquired.
“I’ll keep the penny. I almost feel you’d judge me for having thoughts.” San bemused, she rolled her eyes, a faint of a smile on her lips. Just the tiniest, but it was practically gone within the same second.
“I don’t judge you, Mr Choi. I do, however, envy you. You’ve taken the place I wanted in my father’s heart.” She confessed, he looked towards her sympathetically, with knowingness that she was indeed right and the Mr Yim, famous for being just as aloof as his daughter, had somehow softened a little upon his arrival. Perhaps it was a son that he had always wanted, not a daughter but the scholar was reserved; San being too terrified to pry.
“Your place is best occupied elsewhere. Somebody else has it, I’m sure. He keeps it safe with love that is too potent that even dreamers can’t feign.” Of course was reading her mother's poetry, she didn't think many could understand the abstract nature of her words; of course it was him out of all who admired her poetry as it was his own.
"I am not pretty enough for that." Miss Yim argued, looking down at her feet. After all, the marriage proposals were not because of her vague good looks, but mainly because Mr Yim claimed an abundance of wealth.
"I disagree with you on that." Her face heated with his affirmation.
"Well, I am no Jang Ok-Jeong."
"There are many beautiful women in Joseon, not all of them have ever been recorded."
"She caught the eye of the King, a man who has a kingdom at his feet, he is supposed to be too superior to even look at his subjects. And he looks at her? Is that not a beautiful woman?" They were both fuelled by this argument, the debate igniting a set of powerful emotions that roared within them. This, was what they both deeply felt conversations were supposed to be. Potent discourse about society, literature and art. Not idle chatter on the weather, marriage and the social laws that subdued them.
"A man is supposed to be ruled by his head, not emotions. I say if any man bestowed more than a single glance, on a woman, and his breath was taken away, then she is more gorgeous than Venus herself."
"Not that wretched painting. It's so...vulgar." San snickered, squeezing his eyes as he let out a melodious laughter. "It says so much about the male gaze." She spat out as they trudged through the fields back in the direction of her home.
“I wonder if you like any art, at all? Other than your own?” He questioned.
“Owon is good. Apart from the vulgarity of Renaissance paintings-,”
“Which I must say is the majority of the whole movement, pray, continue.” He teased, his pestering smirk seemed to stitch wings on her heart, for it fluttered at his amiability, his devoutness to mankind and all of its endearing qualities and his perseverance. Despite her uncompromising attitudes and distasteful demeanour, he seemed compliant with listening to her, talking to her, truly trying to understand her and not just turning a blind eye. Choi San truly wanted to know her, for her; and not follow some false allegation that she was devoid of a heart or soul. He commended she had both and they were wrought with an existentialist quality that he wanted nothing but to huddle in the corner of a library and read away his life until it dissolved under the cover of her persona.
"What about you?" She questioned, tucking a strand of loose hair behind her own ear. At once, San was drawn into the world of virtuosity describing each of his favourite pieces as if it could be encapsulated into a single globe. The sweet dissonance of his voice lugging her into a dreamscape as they gently glissaded through the empty hallways of the Yim estate. They sought their eyes over the panelled wall, following the intricate lines of carved wood. They could almost be called mad people loose from the dreaded ward. For their eyes did not see the same way a normal persons did. He saw the shimmer in the air, the light poring through the crevices, the faint blemishes on a skin unseen with a naked eye-too vague to be called a taint, a mark, a scar. And she would see what he saw, whether it was not there she could reach to the depths of her sanity and pour out the image before her eyes to satisfy him.
It became a wonder to her how they spent several nights, the light patter of her feet as she rushed to his quarters with fulfilling arguments over art pieces, sharing techniques, rifling through each other's sketchbooks. His style was a stark contrast to her own: luminous watercolours, velvety acrylic paints, oily crayons. His muses were full of life and wonder, the strokes brimming with fruition. It was if a single segment of his painting held more hope than what could exist in her whole being.
There was something about him, too. She could see it now, his compassion, his adoration. As the weeks spun by, she became less repulsed by his sincerity and opened up to it more, almost finding herself craving his attention. His affection was much welcomed; she often wondered what it would be like to be so loved by him.
In her mother's old drawing room, she found him again, his large hands drifting over the pages again. Peering over his shoulder, she softly blew into his ear; the warmth tickling him.
"What are you drawing?" Her eyes scanned over the cartridge sheet, its intimacy striking her. It looked like her. Every sketch line, every shade, every little detail, every little blemish on her face.
"You." He answered, he didn't dare tear his eyes away from her for her hair was falling down her face in perfect waves that lured him into uncharted depths.
"You drew me so pretty."
"I only drew what I saw." Her heart wavered in piety, his devotion provoking an arrangement of madness. He was going to drive her insane and she was content with it.
"I wonder, what was it that you were excommunicated for?" Her silence broke through the passionate airs, culminating the objectivity that fulfilled among them as his sins held heavy on his tongue.
"I am not a scholar, a farmer or a devout son. I am an artist, a man who sees the world despite all of its maliciousness. I see the world so raw, it almost disgusts me but I am not terrified by its honesty. I find it so beautiful, it belongs on a page: drawn." Her body swayed towards him, hypnotised by his delicate words drawn his intoxicating tenacity, filling her with such immitigable rage that within that severe moment all she wanted was him. "I was 'excommunicated' because I am not the man my father wants me to be. I return as soon as I am devoid of all the emotions he renders vile." Tentatively, her fingers curled through his hair his eyes fluttering shut under her gentle touch.
"What about you Miss Yim? Why are you so solitary?" He murmured, their quiet voices serenaded the room.
"I am not solitary by choice. It's been enforced upon me and I know nothing and no one else but myself." Her whispers, though full of hurt and pain, were seldom dulcet. He thrived himself upon her words alone, it was enough to send him into delirium but her whole unmatched beauty with her words? He was sure to be sent to the wretched institute.
With an envelope gripped in her hands, she made her way over to his quarters slipping into the warmth, his smile greeting her as she slumped onto the chair in front of him.
"Mrs Choi? Your mother?" She inquired, handing over the envelope. San snickered at her nosiness, rolling her eyes as he took the sheet from her grasp, ripping open the seal to reel his eyes down the page.
"Actually, it's my wife." He announced, sparing her a single glance as he continued to read the words sprawled across the page. A sharp pang penetrated through the barriers in her heart, she felt her feet slipping under the ground, the walls pulverising as they caved in on her. For some reason, the room felt much more smaller than it was. Her heart was beating faster than any poetic declaration he had bestowed upon her, any time he had made her feel as if she was truly a worthy soul of being loved. Her heart palpitated faster than when he made her feel she would not die from a cataclysmic loneliness.
"I didn't know you were married." She breathed out, gripping the sage green silk in hand; feeling almost disgusted with herself for fixating her whole being on a man who never belonged to her in the beginning.
"We'll be officially married when I return back home." With a teasing smile on his lips, he grabbed a clean sheet from his desk and began elegantly carving the characters onto the page. "I'll be sure to send you an invite, if you'll come?"
“Of course, I’ll come. You know, for the food.” She quipped, his dimpled smile shattering the months of pining she had set for this revered soul. “I’ll take your leave, San.”
She fled from the room her bare feet blessing the sweet earth, the velvety wisps of the wind taunting her as tears welled up in her eyes. With a breath hitched in her throat, she fell onto her bed; bottom lip quivering as pearl tears escaped from her eyes dribbling down her cheeks before splattering onto the bedsheets. Her painful howl terrorised the desolate quarters as she had done on several dispassionate nights, the skies mimicked her torment, the light patter of rain hit against the window as if it understood all her wretched emotions. As if it understood her anger, hatred and hurt. As if it understood how disgusting it felt be left vulnerable by a man who could never be hers.
Was it some false delusion that she had been seduced by? That he, who was carved from a sculpturers most wild emotions, by all of his tenacity and his violent rage that he wished to create a being made of light: could truly be hers? By his yearning and pent up sentiment, by his dying wish that this world was not at peace until some divine figure from a concealed land would touch her world? Her hands shook as she sought to remove the tears streaming endlessly down her face. After all it had now made sense to all of the sympathetic souls that had heard her be plunged through such pain, to read her tale and understand the reason for her aloof nature.
Up the walls went back up. Brick by brick.
Curse you, Choi San, for breaking them down in the first place.
San had not seen Miss Yim for the remainder of the week or the subsequent. Granted, he had been flooded with an overwhelming amount of work but such was to be expected with the incredible staff shortage and Mr Yim’s high expectations. Regardless, he missed the snarky comments and unrelenting stares from across the room. He missed her moodiness, how ever infuriating it was at times; he missed the sense of quietude she presented at his feet and its ability to render his mind numb. Overall, he missed her. Yet, she seemed to be nowhere in sight and in fact missing even under the cover of the night.
“Ina, do you know where I can find Miss Yim?” He questioned, the agony rupturing the sutures of his weak heart apart.
"In her room, Mr Choi. She's, specifically, requested not to see anyone." Oh. His mood deflated after that concession, wracking his mind for all the things he had said in their last engagement; anything potentially hurtful or offensive but he didn’t recall anything particularly endangering. His quest to venture into her quarters, despite her ruthless commands which had the servants petrified over her uncharacteristic (but not abnormal) behaviour, had been cut short by Mr Yim’s desire to keep a tightened hold on the apprentice. He thought about bringing it up as he ate dinner with his mentor.
“How is Miss Yim? I heard she’s isolated herself in her quarters?” He raised, tentatively, as Mr Yim’s eyes scoured down the reports. Her father was a little too quick to dismiss her actions.
“Never mind her, that’s not something new. I was surprised she was even roaming around the house when you arrived…” Mr Yim trailed off as a thought infiltrated his mind, shutting the book close, his furrowed brows silenced the questions in San’s mind.
The moonlight spilt in through the window, the luminous shadows dancing with the light breeze. With dried tear tracks staining her puffy cheeks, she circulated her finger around the cotton sheets pulling up the heavy duvet over her shoulders, a trail of heat comforted her. The door to her room, silently, slid open; oblivious to the soft bustling of footsteps she stretched her limbs sitting up in her bed.
“Miss Yim?” Her head snapped up at the deep voice, its familiarity sending an agonising wave of heartache through her being. There he was, the perpetrator himself, settling in front of her with a teacup in his palms as if nothing had happened in the first place. “Are you ok? I know you don’t like echinacea, so I got you lemon and ginger tea.” Placing the tea cup on her night stand, he rested his palm against her forehead.
“What are you doing here, San?” Huffing, she fisted up the hair in her palms before sticking a dry paint brush through it to create a tight knot.
“You’re burning u- were you crying?” His finger lightly smoothed her damp skin, shaking her head she pushed his hand away from her face. God, she felt awful for his wife who had to endure his infidelity. “What’s wrong, jagiya, speak to me?” Biting down on her lower lip, Miss Yim threw her gaze out of her window, she sought the light shimmering as her vision blurred.
“Just leave, please.” There was no more hostility left in her tone, a coarse throat lacerated with the phlegm that built up from endless nights of sobbing herself to sleep. Tiredness gnawed at her, she just wanted to dissolve back into the covers. Pleading, begging she’d do whatever she could to force him to leave because if he didn’t then she would tear down the path to the Angel of Death and beg him to take her dwindling heart. On her knees she would go, for the mere sight of her lover crumbled the steadfast walls she had tried so hard to rebuild.
“Are you upset because I’m going home next week? If that’s the case-,”
“San, are you dense?” She interrupted. He was subjugated to silence, a look of hurt flashing over his face. “Leave means leave.” Adjusting her body so she could slide under the covers, she stridently hauled the fabric over her head, gripping her lips tight shut, so no more pitiful sobs escaped her and she was no more a servant to his cruel love.
The Yim estate was left with a melancholic air as the venerated bachelor made his preparations to leave the home. The maids were forlorn as they’d no longer have the privilege of seeing his striking face to bless their monotone days. Miss Yim had finally mustered the courage to take a stroll through the garden, avoiding San's quarters at that. Lingering by the flowers, she wrapped her arms around herself to manifest a sense of warmth that failed to prevail with the awful weather. She didn't notice her lover tear down the garden to her, his heart leaping within his own chest.
"Miss Yim?" Her body whipped around upon his words, her hands balled up into fists the anger displaced by fear. "Do you know how painful it has been for me to go days without seeing you? I am leaving for Yangdong, today, and god knows if I didn't even so much as see your face I would have gone feral."
"I- why?" She stuttered, at a desperate attempt to collect together her words and form a sentence. How and when did he culminate such passionate feelings for her?
"Why? Isn't it obvious? I am in love with you." He declared, she shook her head, profusely, at him.
"How can you say that?" Her voice raised an octave, parrying against the harsh winds that blew at them.
“If being in love with you is a deadly sin, then I am the greatest sinner there is. I will walk up to the gates of hell and open them myself. Hand over my arms and ask them to bound me to its greatest depths.” His chest heaved up and down, tears brimming at the front of her eyes. “I cannot live without you. I would not even do so much as breathe unless you asked me to. If you asked me to stop breathing, I would!”
“You’re a married man, San. Do you know how god awful that sounds?”
“I’m barely married but engaged. When I go back home, I will once again beg to not be wed off to her. I don’t love her, how can my father expect me to marry her? How can you expect me to marry her?”
“I don’t think you understand, San. I can’t love you.” His arms outstretched for her waist, hauling her towards him, the rain beating down on them both. With the gentle flick of his finger, her head tipped up to peer into his eyes.
“Look into my eyes and tell me you don’t love me, or even feel as much as a small emotion for me. One word from you, would silence me forever.” She bit furiously down on her lip as his vehement fixation tore through the borders of her soul. When did she fall so vulnerable in his conquest for her being?
“I don’t love you the same way you love me. I am incapable of doing so.” His own brown eyes fulfilled with hot tears, pouring soundlessly down his cheeks. Her heart wavered with misery as he ripped away his grip, stumbling backwards upon her untruth.
“I understand. Thank you, Miss Yim. For the first time in my life, someone saw me for who I really am and not who I am meant to be.” Once again, the thunder cracked against the sky as San turned his back on her striding back into the home. The maids ran out to shut the doors, summoning their mistress back in but she sunk to the floor erupting into a fit of sobs; a wave of shock rattling through them. Her heart burned with such pain, even as Ina cooed lifting her up from the floor to guide her back into the home. Melting into the older woman's arms, her ears drowned out the distant sound of her lover ambling far, far away from her to a land in which even its notion would never grace the depths of her mind.
Her father's office was warm, but not the comforting kind as the biting airs of Joseon persisted. It was more suffocating as they sat across from each other in his office, discussing the state of her future now that he had managed to complete some of burdening tasks at work. He had several proposals lined in front of her, some prospects from his workplace, some from Mr Kang and even Ina had managed to find one or two seemingly agreeable men within their social class. A sigh fulfilled her, it would be a lie to say that she didn't look for the smallest hint of San within them all.
"I'm sorry Father, I don't like any of these men." He closed his eyes in indignation, rubbing his face before collecting the sheets from in front of her and throwing them into the fire. The embers cackled in a slow, seething ferocity as he leaned back in his chair.
"I honestly don't know what to do with you anymore. You won't marry, you won't leave your quarters. You've stopped helping around the house. All you want to do is sit in your room all day and stare into space." He scolded, she shook her head before raising from her seat. "You are becoming a burden to me."
"Well if I am such a burden to you, then just get rid of me." She taunted. An animosity truanted through him at her discourtesy.
“What do you think I have been trying to do since your mother left us? It should have not been your mother that had died! It should have been you! I would trade my soul to have your mother in place of you.” He blurted, before quickly slapping the palm of his hand to his mouth, cursing him for the spoiled words that left it.
“I would trade my soul too, to have my mother where you stand. You are a poor excuse of a man and to call you my father is an insult to me.” She hissed through gritted teeth, the shock reverberating at Mr Yim’s core; the severity of her words pulsating through his blood.
“You shouldn’t have been a father if all I was going to be to you was a pretty doll in a picture. The truth was she didn’t die because she was ill, it was the heartbreak of carrying a whole marriage on her back. It was the fact that you didn’t care about her wants, but your own.”
"You are in no position to say that to me. I loved your mother like it was breathing, I loved her as if she was the greatest blessing, as if God had granted me mercy for all the times I had done him wrong." His chest suspired, brittle hands shaking as a heavy tension remained suspended in the air between them; Ina loitering outside afraid to walk into the war zone.
"But you didn't love me! It was my mother who loved me, and I wasn't allowed to have her! I wasn't my mother's daughter, or my father's. I was a daughter of a servant with my name merely attached to you." At the end of the day, she was the figure in those paintings. Trapped within a frame, four equidistant lines on a piece of cartridge paper, bound by brushstrokes, sketch lines, constricted and held down by the artist. Subservient and stuck to a position in which she could not move.
Mr Yim deserved the brutal honesty of those words, no matter how harsh it was, and with a pounding headache, she ran out of his office ignoring her father’s calls for her to return to his side. This was it, there was nothing and no one by her side now and she was now the destitute figure that she had feared she would become.
“What’s wrong my dear? What’s hurt you so much?” Ina’s soft voice dilapidated at her mistress’ gloom, one she had seen prolong within her late madam too. Squeezing her eyes shut, she summoned the courage to spill her heart to her maid. She told her of how much she adored him, how deeply she wanted him and the ways in which he had made her fall in love with him. And how he had hurt her too.
“So call me heartless and apathetic all you want but I couldn’t take another woman’s man from her.”
“My love.” Ina’s weak fingers travelled through her hair. “You are far from heartless and apathetic. A man who you love is your whole life, you gave your life away to another woman.” She looked over to Ina, falling into her motherly embrace, breathing in her scent. There it was. The same scent that her mother had, the scent she was dreaming to come back to her in the midst of the night, and her a fool to dismiss that it was in front of her the whole time.
“What should I do now?” Her weak inquiry, breaking her heart, sinking deeper into the void than she already was.
“Go back to him and tell him you love him. He is a gentleman who accepts despondency like a soldier. So you, his general, must go back and tell him to return home to you.”
“Ina-,”
“Do not deny yourself of what you deserve. Your mother did, I won’t see you walk the same path.”
“I will let time run its cycle. Time will tell if he is meant to be mine.” She declared, to which the maid rested her palm on her cheek.
Mrs Kang’s baby boy, Kang Minho, was indeed a beauty. His bedazzling little eyes stared up at her in wonder, babbling as she lightly drew the tip of her finger over his chubby cheeks. It was astonishing for Mrs Kang to see that it was merely a little baby that would eruct a smile out of the secluded Miss Yim. It had been about four months since San had left the estate, and a while it took for her to leave the confines of her quarters. Once again, she took requests after requests painting and painting until her hands became stiff and sore. And so even more marriage prospects came, and her eyes lingered slightly over a potential husband. Both Ina and her father were pleased when she stayed a little longer at the doorway of their home talking to one of the young apprentice’s at the office. He was tall, handsome and kind; perhaps it was flickers of San she saw within him that had her thinking that spending the rest of her life with this man: wouldn’t be particularly gruesome. Regardless, she made no firm decision but still, for her father this was significant progress.
“He likes you.” Mrs Kang chimed, grinning down at her baby. She hummed carefully, softly tickling his smooth cheeks.
“Maybe I like him too.” Her gaze lightly flickered to the elated mother. “Where is Yeosang? I didn’t see him on my way in?”
“Oh he’s in his office with San.” Her head snapped up from the baby at the sound of his name. Goodness, how long had it been since she had heard that single syllable name, forever it seemed it would merely reverberate inside her head. “Did you not know he was in town? He came to see Minho.” Shaking her head, she got up from the bed consoling herself.
“I- I think I’ll leave now. I’ll come visit another time.” She announced, before awkwardly patting Mrs Kang’s head; a poor endeavour at affection but for Mrs Kang this affection was whole-heartedly appreciated. Her footsteps sped down the hallways, she came to an abrupt halt at the exist of the Kang estate.
There he was, stood there with Yeosang conversing if they were age-old best friends her heart palpitated with anxiety, knowing that she’d have to walk past him again. The sight of him almost triggered her, she gripped onto her deep purple skirts, his own yellow hanbok beaming like the sun.
“Miss Yim! I didn’t know you had arrived, leaving so soon?” Mr Kang chirped from the door. She shook at her head at him.
“I’ve been here for over an hour and a half. I’ll visit another time, especially since Minho is the only tolerable person in this household.”
“Just say you love him.” A grumble erupted from her lips, she rolled her eyes- with a delicate playfulness- before squeezing past the pair of men. A pounding of footsteps travelled after her as she trudged back through the fields in the direction of her home.
“Miss Yim, allow me to accompany you.” San professed, breathlessly. With a diligent nod, she transgressed forwards ignoring his burning gaze into her skin. “How have you been?”
“I’ve been fine. What about you?” He responded he was great all the same, reporting that the weather in Yangdong was a little warmer than in her hometown.
“When is your wedding date? I’m still awaiting on an invite.” It was a joke, nonetheless, but one that didn't hesitate to puncture holes in her heart.
“We broke off the engagement, it was mutual really. She was in love with someone else.” With a breath lodged in her throat, her stare tore away from the fields piercing straight into his eyes. It was then she had realised how burdened he truly was. Where was the San that always smiled and joked, and was so full of love it seemed inhumane to have so much of it? They didn't need to say anything to each other in that moment, they stopped walking subsided to a silent, paralysed position. "I think I'll just take your leave." His voice quivered, sending a jolt of agony through her.
Hadn't she made him suffer enough? After all he was the same man who loved her as if she was the vessel that kept the blood running through his veins, his heart beating and his feet walking.
Go back to him and tell him you love him.
Tell him to return back home to you.
His body almost disappeared behind the vast expanse of buildings, when she raced down the fields, as fast as her legs could carry her, ignoring the vicious ache gnawing at her muscles and the agitated pounding of her heart against her chest. Tearing down the path towards him, in the chance that if she didn't run any faster she was going to lose her lover to the wind.
"San!" Her shout echoed in the breeze, but reached to his ears anyway, a tug at the weak strings that had barely held down his soul. He turned, so desperate that she would come to him like she had done in the dead of the night. Feeling his lover crawl into his arms, pledging that she would never leave from his side.
"Miss Yim, what's wrong?"
“I lied to you, when I said I didn’t love you. I really, really do, I almost feel disgusted by it. I never thought, that someone as ruthless and as cold as me would be privileged enough to fall in love but when you entered my life I felt like my mother.” She sucked in a deep breath, her lover making gentle steps toward her as the wind whipped their hair. “I felt like her when she said: ‘If he was the muse in a painting, to be an object, a fleck of paint, or even dust on it would be my greatest honour.’” Warm tears forged in his eyes, biting down his bottom lip to prevent them from escaping. She wanted to outstretch her arms towards him but it was too soon.
“So, Choi San, it’s an honour to be loved by you. I came back, because I had to tell you that. I hurt you so much. I was scared that being vulnerable to love would only hurt me but the only person who gave me such torment was myself.” Her confession disturbed her, yet it was the unspoken truth that only he was entitled to. A tense silence suffused the air as she pended his response, but all he could do was try to convince himself that it was not a dream and she really had said all of the words he had spent countless nights praying that she would declare.
“I love you, Miss Yim. I loved you yesterday, I love you today and I will love you for eternity. There is simply nothing that one can do to tear my heart away from yours, not even you.”
"Do you mean that?" It was a stupid question, but she could not help the words be spilled from her mouth. He nodded violently.
"I do. With my whole entity." Choking back on her sobs, her arms reached out for him throwing them around his neck. Nuzzling her face in the crook of his neck, her grip tightened as he ensnared his hands around her waist; breathing in her scent as if it was oxygen. "Come home with me my dear, come home and be mine."
•••
All Right Reserved © the-midnight-blooms
DO NOT REPOST, TRANSLATE, REPURPOSE, OR PLAGISRISE ANY OF THE WORK HERE
'Yim' meaning light
A/N: the long awaited painter!san fic (with a twist 😏) that i've been waiting too long to put out. I hope you liked this one. :))
let me know if you’d like to be added to the tag list for any future fics I post!
tags: @n0v4t33z @potatos-on-clouds @jjongwho
#ateez#kpop#ateez angst#ateez fanfic#ateez x reader#ateez imagines#ateez fanfiction#historical au#san ateez#ateez san#choi san x reader#san x y/n#san x oc#san angst#san x reader#choi san#san#san x you#grumpy x sunshine#yeosang x reader#ateez imagine#ateez fluff#ateez fic#hurt/comfort#atz x reader#atz fanfic#atz san#atz imagines#san fluff
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my reading list currently looks like....
frankenstein* (ill probably finish this one up in a day or two)
the salt grows heavy by cassandra khaw
dracula
wuthering heights
the death of jane lawrence by caitlin starling
the haunting of hill house by shirley jackson
howls moving castle by dianna wynne jones
the secret history by donna tartt
jane eyre
drive your plow over the bones of the dead by olga tokarczuk
dune by frank herbert
we have always lived in the castle by shirley jackson
birnam wood by eleanor catton
are prisons obsolete? by angela davis
a game of thrones* by grrm
daughter of smoke* and bone by laini taylor
a clash of kings* by grrm
days of blood and starlight by laini taylor
into the drowning deep by mira grant
dune messiah by frank herbert
their eyes were watching god by zora neale hurston
bunny by mona awad
a storm of swords* by grrm
the lottery and other stories by shirley jackson
a psalm for the wild-built by becky chamber
the poppy war by r.f. kuang
the ash family by molly dektar
project hail mary by andy weir
beartown by fredrik backman
a prayer for the crown shy by becky chamber
once there were wolves by charlotte mcconaghy
mother thing by ainslie hogarth
all’ s well by mona awad
the long way to a small and angry planet by becky chambers
the goblin emperor by katherine addison
the memory police by yoko ogawa
our wives under the sea by julia armfield
nightbitch by rachel yoder
the painter’s daughters by emily howes
the will of the many by james islington
a fig for all the devils by c.s. fritz
the devil and mrs davenport by paulette Kennedy
prophet song by paul lynch
our share of night by mariana enriquez
the unmaking of june farrow by adrienne young
the shadow of the gods by john gwynne
the other valley by scott alexander howard
whale fall by elizabeth o’connor
the sword of kaigen by m.l. wang
the cruel prince by holly black
the wicked king by holly black
the dragon republic by r.f. kuang
the burning god by r.f. kuang
starve acre by andrew michael hurley
the assassin's apprentice by robin hobb
the hunger of the gods by john gwynne
a secret history of witches by louisa morgan
the fury of the gods by john gwynne
geek love by katherine dunn
funny story by emily henry
james by percival everett
the seven moons of maali almeida by shehan karunatilaka
book lovers by emily henry
foster by claire keegan
demon copperhead by barbara kingsolver
martyr! by kaveh akbar
small things like these by claire keegan
orbital by samantha harvey
the vegetarian by han kang
the god of endings by jacqueline holland
a feast for crows* by grrm
*rereads
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OO. Oo, okay. Pitch: Moist was one of the cardsharps on the riverboat in Witches Abroad.
He’s still young, still trying to con his way across the world, still seeking old masters to train under. Mister Frank says that the trick, the real trick, is mechanical gadgetry — a mirror, a marked deck, a spring-loaded card holder in his sleeve. And it’s good money for a couple of weeks.
And then there’s the old woman, who breaks the mirror, swaps out the marked deck, and — although she definitely never touches the man — snaps the card holder.
By the time she’s racked up 40 dollars, Moist has lost all interest in the game. He’s watching the old woman like a student studying the work of a master painter, listening to every tuneless hum and every squeaky twist of pinky in ear.
The old bird is a pro.
She wins 55 dollars and a broom, and is out of the room like a shot as soon as she has the winnings in hand. Moist follows right after her; outside of the saloon, she’s talking to two other women, one squat with a face like a dried apple and the other lean with hair like a hay bale after a gale.
She flatly refuses to take him on as an apprentice, but does give him one piece of advice:
“There’s no trick,” she says. “It’s all about headology.”
#discworld#witches abroad#going postal#moist von lipwig#granny weatherwax#gnu terry pratchett#does this fit the Discworld timeline? i have no idea. probably not#but *imagine*
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