Work Text:
The door to the pub opens with a bitter, early morning squeak, and shuts with a bang. Dust falls from the ceiling. A cup rattles precariously on the bar. Three startled old men, and one older woman jolt on their stools before turning to glare at the newcomer. A boy stands in the doorway, pale as a ghost with wobbling knees, his lips nearly blue from the cold.
The woman sighs and indicates with supreme disapproval that he might as well go sit by the fire and warm up first. Youth these days, mouths the eldest of the men. He turns back to the barman, a grizzled forty-year-old barkeep, and shakes his head.
“You believe this, Taeyong?” says the elder.
The barman, Taeyong, smirks. “It was definitely different back in my day.” He goes back to scrubbing the counter. Meanwhile, the other man, also with wrinkles lining his face, scoffs.
“You say that like we never did dumb things ourselves. Never snuck out after our parents were in bed. Never crept down to the moors at midnight. Never waited until dawn just to get a peek at that… that place.”
Taeyong huffs. “Sure, we were all young. But back then we knew what we were getting into. Look at that boy. Can’t be younger than what, sixteen?”
The elder, Yuta, bangs his fist down on the table in agreement. “That’s what I’m saying.” That’s probably not was he was saying at all.
They each sneak a glance at the kid over by the hearth being coddled by Taeyong’s wife. He looks shaken to within an inch of his life.
“That’s Mark, isn’t it?” asks Taeil.
Taeyong nods. “Jaehyun’s boy, yeah.”
Yuta says, “Why, I oughta go over and see his pop this afternoon. Tell them what the kid’s been up to-”
“Ahh, lay off of it, would you?” says Taeil. “You’re only young once.”
“And you only see the Lord, once,” Taeyong adds mysteriously.
“And his dog.”
“What, you saw his dog too?” says Yuta incredulously.
Taeyong finishes wiping the counter and reaches for a mug next. “Doesn’t everybody?”
Taeil leans back, wizened by the years, gray-haired from life. “I saw them. Twice . The Lord and his dog.”
The two old men glare at each other as if daring the other to retract his statement of old, faded glory. Meanwhile, Taeyong goes on, cleaning and re-cleaning each tall glass mug, like maybe the next time he does it they’ll actually sparkle. He puts one down with a heavy thump and the other two look sharply at him, startled.
“What?” says Yuta.
Taeyong peeks at his wife and the boy. They aren’t looking this way, and it’s likely they’re out of hearing distance too. Taeil and Yuta instantly lean closer to the bar as Taeyong whispers. “Ain’t no dog.”
“What?”
“I said, it’s no dog.”
Yuta sits back upright and furrows his wrinkled nose. “Whatever does he mean?” he says to Taeil, before laughing outright.
Taeil also cocks his head. “No dog? Yong, I definitely saw a dog. A giant, black, hairy dog. Bounding right next to the Lord, the two of them as happy as you could be.”
Taeyong smiles now. He’s not looking at either one of them but instead resumes his cleaning. “Everyone sees the dog, Taeil. Every kid, every young’un in this village. But, Taeil, Yuta, how many of you ever blinked? How many of you ever blinked… twice?”
Yuta and Taeil resume their staring match, finally reconciled into an agreement that the barkeep is mad or losing his marbles.
“Huh,” says Yuta finally. “Okay, I’ll bite. What did you see, when you... blinked or whatever.”
Taeyong just keeps smiling. He puts a finger up to his lips, the rag still clutched in his palm. “Secret,” he whispers.
Yuta waves him off, exasperated, and dives back into an argument he was having with Taeil before the boy came in.
Ten minutes later his wife has plied Mark with a hot cup of tea, a blanket, some steel courage, and sent him back to his family.
“Kid was out on the moors of course,” she says to no one’s surprise. “His friends all ran on home faster and left him out there alone. Been wandering through the fog maybe an hour?”
The three men give a collective sigh.
“Another generation begins,” says Taeil, and Yuta nods vigorously.
Irene laughs and then reaches over to box Taeyong’s ears. “Give me that mug. You’ll wipe the glass itself off if you keep this up for much longer.” Without pause, she continues. “Poor boy. He’d been telling his friends he didn’t believe it. ‘Can’t be no sorcerer living here, my dad’s folks would’ve run him off years ago!’ ’” she mimics with perfect intonation, chuckling.
“So he got a real scare, huh?” asks Yuta.
“I’ll say. Only a boy that age could so insist on what he knows, but the glimpse of not just one sorcerer but two!” She breaks off, still laughing, and Yuta and Taeil immediately gasp.
“What?” shouts Yuta.
“Taeyong, your wife’s messing with us, isn’t she? Isn’t she?” Taeil demands.
But Taeyong only winks and says once more, “Shhhhh, secret.”
When nobody says anything more, Irene shoves the men off their stools. “You had your breakfasts hours ago. Time you get out of my tavern and get on to your homes. Bar’s closed until sunset unless you wanna pay double and sweep the floors too.”
Taeyong is a little more cordial. “Bye for now, and have a good rest of your day.”
Taeil waves, but Yuta just shakes his fist, hobbling over to the door as Taeil holds his elbow and escorts him out. Before the door shuts, Irene yells, “And don’t be going out looking for the Lord now, you hear?”
“Or his dog!” calls Taeyong after them.
There’s an exasperated shriek from the porch, and the couple inside giggle together. They lean against the counter shoulder to shoulder, smiling in that wistful way that only a duo of their age can achieve.
“Well that was fun,” says Irene eventually.
Taeyong murmurs. “Always. Mark’s going to be okay?”
“Sure, sure. Not like anyone gets hurt out there. A few sprained ankles every now then. Broken elbow that once time, oh… how many years ago. Ten years?”
Taeyong is already laughing. “When Kun and Doyoung climbed that tree to get a better look at the manor and fell down, landing on Jungwoo.”
“That was it!” she cackles from the memory, holding her chest and crying tears of joy. “Speaking of the Lord though, have you talked to Sicheng?”
Taeyong hums. “He said he’d come by around noon and drive the wagon up there.”
“Fog’s thick this morning. It’s a good day for that.”
“Lord Ten would agree.”
No one knows exactly how many years it’s been since the Lord moved into the village. And whether he came first or the manor he lives in is another mystery. All anyone knows is that for generations, there he’s been. Silent, reclusive, frightening. The fog is always thicker on those parts of the moors, the rains heavier. Horses won’t go near there, and none of the village dogs either. All know whose territory it is, and they know it belongs to a sorcerer. But they don’t even know his name, and no one’s grandpa’s grandma ever knew his name, just a number that’s been passed on through the centuries and the young ones think it’s all a myth until they grow up and get old, and still there is the Lord with his face so young, as the little ones attest, one generation after another.
Ten.
They whisper that his name is Ten.
The moonlight fights its way through the shrouded mists, illuminating a wispy silhouette. Magical, glowing. And the hound walks by his side, a monstrosity, black of fur, long coat, built like a wolf but for its glowing eyes and its drooling tongue.
The Lord whistles. Throws something in the dark, and the hound bounds after the object, feet pounding on the dew-matted ground.
Another whistle and the dog returns, leaping onto its owner as the two silhouettes barrel towards the ground. They land with a thud, and with laughter, one high pitched bark too surreal to emanate from such a beast of a dog. But moments later there are two voices laughing in the shadows, in the mists. Two figures which tumble in the grasses until one stands up, shakes itself off, and the other stands up behind. The second figure is taller, larger, broader. He wraps his arm around the Lord Ten’s shoulder, and they disappear into the fog.
Two tiny little boys shivering in fear under tree cover eventually pick themselves up and run back home.
Another day, another week, another year. Another cloudy, mist-driven morning and Sicheng pulls the horses up short, well outside of the manor grounds.
He jumps down off the side of the wagon seat, boots splashing in the mud. He wipes a stray fleck of mud spray off his cheek, fussing when he only makes it worse. A handsome boy, that’s what people called him as a kid.
But now Sicheng is a young man, and perpetually covered in grime, doing odd jobs around the village and sometimes the surrounding ones too.
When he was fourteen he drew the lottery for the manor . What a frightened, terrified little boy he was driving the cart up here for the very time, nearly wetting himself as he approached the place, all overgrown vines and ancient trees, windows that whistled as he approached, shadows that spoke .
Now he only sighs as he hefts a large crate off the back of the wagon and into his arms, perpetually resolved that his back is never going to make thirty with all the labor he puts into ‘serving the Lord’.
Half the villagers won’t even talk to him anymore. The little girls and boys, no taller than their parents’ hips, occasionally accost him, whisper bewildering questions like ‘He doesn’t eat babies, right? Right, mister?’ or ‘Have you seen his face?! Is it as scary as they say it is?’
They never say who told them these rumors. Probably older siblings, maybe even their parents, grandparents.
Sicheng likes to mess with them.
‘He only eats the pretty ones,’ he tells a comely little girl, throwing her a wink.
Her older brother scoffs and says, ‘Yeah? That why you’re still around?’
Truth be told, Sicheng is still a little scared of the manor. Strange things happen whenever he delivers supplies. Doors open of their own will, not a creature in sight. Trees bow over the dense, overgrown stone walkway, sometimes obscuring his path, sometimes revealing it. Sicheng never makes his own trail, he goes where the manor tells him.
The back door to the kitchen opens before him today, the last tendrils of mist blowing before him, twisting around the creaking door frame and disappearing as he shoves his way inside. Sicheng’s only seen a couple of rooms inside the manor. There are the kitchen and a connecting storeroom, one single hallway between them. Anywhere else and he doesn’t dare to enter.
He puts the crate down on the floor and begins unpacking it. Most of it consists of the most basic supplies, flour, sugar, rice, soap, and tallow. The occasional spools of cloth the Lord must order, though for the life of him Sicheng doesn’t know how he communicates with the merchants. All he does it pick up the goods from Taeyong and Irene’s place, then lug them here.
The Lord doesn’t even receive mail. Although sometimes, Sicheng delivers mysterious locked boxes he can only guess contain forbidden things. Items related to magic.
Something shivers through the house, a wind or a voice… Sicheng can’t tell the difference. But goosebumps erupt on his arms, and the hairs stand up on his neck. Something frighteningly primal causes his nerves to declare fight or flight.
He chooses to calmly finish putting away the containers of goods where he knows they go. That finished, still he swears something or someone is trying to talk to him.
“Hello?” he whispers gravely into the silence.
Nothing happens. Sicheng sighs and shakes his head, chiding himself for once again being spooked.
He stacks the empty containers into the crate for his return to the cart, hesitates one last moment before stepping outside.
There’s something watching him from behind the nearest tree.
Sicheng immediately avoids its gaze. Nothing, absolutely nothing good can happen from meeting a sorcerer's eyes.
Or a sorcerer’s companion.
He feels the low growl more than he hears it. His footsteps quicken, he almost trips over a rock. The pathway he walked down before is now covered by a tree. Sicheng quickly goes around it, heartbeat escalating wildly. At the edge of the property, he lets out a long exhale, immediately followed by a shriek when something barks from right behind him. Or is it in front of him. He looks around wildly, only catching the glimpse of a black streak as it vanishes into the mists.
The horses are neighing in fright. Sicheng runs to them, throws the crate onto the back of the cart, shushing them desperately as he entices the poor animals to turn around and begone.
“Damn dog,” he mutters under his breath, still terrified but now hotly mad. “Stupid, stupid, dog.”
He really hopes it was just a dog.
“Are you lost, little one?”
Jisung’s six-year-old little legs shake where he lays on the ground, knees banged up, bleeding and covered in dirt. Tears are falling profusely from his eyes, he almost can’t breathe. He shuts his eyes because he can’t find Chenle anywhere. And then that voice… beckons.
No, no, he won’t look around. He won’t look into the sorcerer’s eyes.
Still, he shakes his head. If the sorcerer requires an answer and he doesn’t respond, will he die?
“You’re in these woods a lot, aren’t you? Where’s your friend today?”
The voice is so sweet, so nice and inviting. But Jisung fears for Chenle’s life, if he can no longer save his own.
“I-I… I don’t h-have a friend.”
Soft laughter rains down from above, then the figure is lifting him up, strong hands on his shoulders. Jisung bites down on his lower lip and tries not to sob. He doesn’t want to startle the sorcerer into accidentally striking him down dead. On the other hand, maybe then he’ll go quickly. He won’t be held and tortured for days. Isn’t that what his Grandpa Yuta used say? Grandpa Yuta isn’t even his real grandpa, but he might as well be. Jisung’s lived with his family since the day he was orphaned and he takes grandpa’s word as law.
If only he had listened…
“Your home is that way, straight through those two gnarled trees. Cross the river, there’s a little bridge there, then you should know the way back.”
Jisung doesn’t believe him. Why would the sorcerer be so nice?
“I… that’s not.. I mean..”
“Are you still scared you’ll get lost.”
The sorcerer takes Jisung’s hand in his. His skin is soft, his grip is firm, confident, but gentle. Jisung still won’t open his eyes. He doesn’t want to be struck blind. But then the sorcerer leads his hand to something soft and furry. An animal, a dog, a suddenly licks the gashes on his knee and Jisung screams in fright. He falls down a second time, eyes firmly shut. His hand has now been wrapped around the neck of the animal who is gently coaxing him to stand back up.
“Go with him. He will lead you home.”
And Jisung doesn’t have a choice. He sobs on silently, feet lead forward by the giant husk of an animal he refuses to look at it, one step at a time, one foot in front of the other. He hears the wind rip through the trees, he hears the river draining on its path. Finally, he smells the farmyard which is home.
He opens his eyes.
The dog is nowhere to be found. But Jisung is miraculously home. He basks in his newfound life, and hugs his mom and grandma, gives his grandpa a bewildered, newly mature look. Like a boy suddenly growing up and discovering that his elders might not know everything after all. He doesn’t realize his knees have been healed for another couple of hours. His clothes smell a little bit like dog.
Doyoung was most definitely born in the village, raised there too, though he doesn’t like to talk about it now. It’s been ten years since he and his mother and brother moved away. He’s eighteen now and not exactly looking forward to being back. There are things in this town which unsettle him. His uncle Taeyong doesn’t seem to agree.
“Doyoung, my boy!”
He ruffles Doyoung’s hair and ignores the teenager’s scowl.
“How’s my sister?”
“Fine,” he huffs.
“And your brother?”
“Around, somewhere. Who actually knows.”
“Didn’t you come together?” Taeyong frowns, but Doyoung doesn’t care anymore. Jeno is fine. He’s always fine. Instead, Doyoung looks around the inn. Unsurprisingly, it hasn’t changed. Still all wood panels and a warm, roaring fireplace. Still those ultra-clean counters his uncle likes to polish until the wood itself is as soft as down. Doyoung scoffs and cranes his head to look at the only two windows which open to the main street, the only real street.
“You looking for someone?” asks his aunt Irene, coming down the steps from the second floor. “You know your old friends are still around. They’ve grown up same as you.” She laughs. “A little taller, hint of facial hair. Still as immature as ever.”
Doyoung ignores her. Jungwoo he wouldn’t mind seeing, and he supposes Kun wasn’t so bad, but Doyoung is stranded here in this village all summer long. Maybe, maybe it’s time to put a few old ghosts to rest.
He deliberately doesn’t ask about the manor, or the Lord. He knows his uncle doesn’t talk about it, not to him at least. It’s stupid, Doyoung thinks. Everybody in this whole frightful place whispers about the manor and the sorcerer who lives there.
He drops his heavy suitcase in the room upstairs his aunt has picked, checks that everything’s set to right, and then traipses down the stairs and out the door without even a goodbye.
It’s foggy, of course. Even in the summer when the weather is warm and sometimes the sunlight trickles down through the clouds, there’s fog. More and more of it closer to the road which leads to the manor.
Doyoung doesn’t do anything too extreme on his first day here. He’s going to canvas the place very closely this time, nothing risky. He goes as far as the heavy gate leading into the manor grounds. It’s open. It’s always been open, like the place is just asking for someone to come around and stick their noses where they don’t belong.
Doyoung sees it as a challenge.
“Move,” Ten laughs. “You’re blocking my light.”
There’s a warm chuckle, then moonlight once more shining down on his work desk, scattered papers all cut up in magical little shapes that only Ten knows what to do with. Johnny never does magic. He could, but he doesn’t. Ten’s never pressured him.
Instead, Johnny lets Ten do his thing, while he remains by his side, loyal, solid. Not exactly quiet.
Ten puts the last flickers of magic into his tiny little snowflake and watches it flutter out of the way.
“Snow? In the middle of summer?” Johnny’s laying on the floor now, all long limbs and tousled hair, a grin on his face.
“I’m not that much of a crazy sorcerer,” he says, giggling. “Just storing them up for winter. I have an idea I’ll feel like putting on a show .”
Johnny hums, a warm hand wrapping around Ten’s calf, just the barest hint that he’s there.
“We’ve had a new observer over the last week,” he says eventually.
Ten smiles. “What do you mean new. I distinctly remember him as a kid. Nosey as ever.”
“Want me to do anything about it?”
Ten has to think about it for a moment. “Should you? Perhaps not. Sometimes fate should run its course, don’t you agree?”
“I’ll always agree with you, Ten.”
It’s the last of their conversation. Ten builds his little snowflake army until the moon is drowned out by the sun, and a soft, wooly dog drools lazily at his feet. Only then does Ten sit back and stretch out his arms. He stands and pads his way towards his bedroom, barely listening for the animal as it trails after him, climbing onto the foot of the bed and then a little farther up. The dog turns into a man before Ten’s even fallen asleep.
“Ouch!”
Kunhang hisses, pulling his finger back from the trap.
“What were you doing that for? I told you it’s sharp,” says Dejun.
Yangyang laughs, nervously. They’re deep into the bogs where, even in the middle of the day, everything is hazy and a little dim. Not the scary kind of dim, not like at night, but enough that he wishes they’d brought a small lantern along if just to see that their fox traps are sitting alright. And also maybe, just for comfort. Scattered trees dot the landscape, straggly but close enough in the fog to obscure the horizon.
“We’re not going to catch anything,” he tells the other two. “Not like this we aren’t. Not here.”
“Why?” says Kunhang.
“Too close to the…? No, I think we’re alright,” says Dejun. He’s the oldest of the three barely beating out Kunhang, but Yangyang doesn’t hesitate to say he’s definitely the most mature of the lot. Maybe the most optimistic? Or at least the bravest. Yangyang wouldn’t call himself brave. He’s definitely thinking they’re too close to the manor house. And the last time Yangyang dared to get so close he wet his pants. That was five years ago. He hasn’t gone within sight of the place ever since, and for very good reasons. The first of which is that Yangyang is scared of dogs.
“I still don’t think we’re going to catch any foxes around here,” he says to cover up his other fears.
“We will, don’t worry.” Dejun lives on a farm not far away and his dad has been complaining about the number of foxes killing his chickens. “They’re here, I promise.”
“‘Here’, at your house, yeah,” whines Yangyang. “But-”
Everyone knows no animals will get near to the manor house.
Dejun capitulates, just a little. “I mean, maybe this is a little farther out than necessary.” It’s the last one they’ve set today. The rest of the traps ring the farmhouse and some of the outlying fields.
Yangyang opens his mouth to argue the point when a twig snaps in the distance and he startles, lets out an atrocious shriek, and falls down flat on his butt.
Yangyang’s face burns a bright red. Kunhang laughs himself silly. Dejun at least offers him a hand to sit back up, but Yangyang’s heart is still beating like crazy and he turns his ears to the surrounding area.
“You heard that right?!”
“Heard what? You yelling like a banshee?”
Yangyang flushes even more. “Banshees aren’t real. But do you know what is real?”
“What, your mythical sorcerer?” Kunhang has never quite believed in the stories, and he’s been to spy on the manor too! It makes no sense.
“He’s not a myth. He’s real.”
Dejun shushes their impending argument. Seconds later, they hear another twig crack in the distance.
“Who’s there?” shouts Dejun, standing up. Yangyang quickly gets up to stand behind him, just in case they’re all about to die. He probably wouldn’t escape but he wouldn’t regret it all if Dejun went out first. Yangyang’s always been a little mercenary like that.
There’s more rustling in the distance, but coming closer their way, as if the person out there trying to be quiet has given up the attempt.
“Hello? Who’s there?” comes a voice.
Dejun doesn’t answer but Yangyang sags in relief. Surely, an all-powerful scary sorcerer, or a dog, wouldn’t sound so curious.
Then, out of the fog steps Kim Doyoung. He looks at the three boys suspiciously, like he can’t quite believe anyone but himself is out here. “Uhm. Hi?”
It’s been a while since Doyoung’s been around. He lived here as a little kid. Yangyang used to play with his little brother Jeno. Doyoung was always the odd one. Apparently, things haven’t changed.
“I know you guys, don’t I?” says Doyoung. He doesn’t say their names though, just, “What are you doing out here?”
“Fox trapping,” says Dejun.
“Oh. That’s nice. Well, bye now.” And he starts walking away, continuing on a path which Yangyang knows will take him to the manor.
There’s a particular way the tall grasses shimmer at night, like a sea at night, flecks of light reflecting off the moon, high up in its place. Yet it’s still dim on the ground. The ground is littered with small rocks. Yukhei picks his footsteps carefully, perilously. The sheen of the moor under a midnight haze has a way of playing tricks on the mind. That’s the last thing Yukhei needs right now.
He tucks the bundled letter paper under his arm and steels forwards towards his destination.
The path Yukhei takes isn’t marked by maps. There’s no road along this part of the moors. To take the road would mean an hour out of his way, and that’s time he doesn’t have. Not if he’s supposed to make it back home without anyone seeing him. She was imperative he do just that.
The night is chill. Somehow sweat still drips down his forehead and down his neck, soaking the back of his shirt and running down his spine. It’s only partially from the exertion. The rest of it is all nerves.
Yukhei stops at the barrier. There’s no fence here, no gate. Just a low, untrimmed hedge that grows no higher than his hip. He takes a great breath, holds it for a moment and then… steps over.
“You can do this, you can do this.”
The muttering doesn’t help. Neither does the approaching manor, tall and shrouded in fog. The back of the house is, if possible, even more intimidating than coming up to it by the front. The moon disappears behind the rooftop as the world sinks into complete shadow. Yukhei’s steps slow, his heart rate suspends, time appears to slow. The back of his throat is going dry from fright and he’s about five seconds from giving up this errand and bolting straight back to the confines of his home.
He doesn’t though. Instead, he trains his eyes for the place he’s been told about, the small latch near the splintered frames of a low window. It’s evidence of a basement somewhere within the manor but fortunately, he doesn’t have to verify this. He rushes for the latch and pulls it open before he can make himself think about it. The wood cracks at his touch, but the opening is there. Quickly, he shoves the letter into the groove and shoves it closed.
There’s only a single pair of eyes from an overhead window to watch him sprint back across the moors and disappear from sight.
Johnny will retrieve it later. A folded sheet of letter paper inscribed by a majestic, curly script.
~ To our lord, first and last of his kind, tenth of name,
Blessings upon you, and gratitude forever from an old woman who would not be alive but for your kindness and generosity. I know you would not begrudge me not making this trip myself, but I do believe it is time another generation of my household would learn of your benevolence. From now on I entrust Yukhei, my grandson, to your honest care. I am ready and would live out the rest of my time naturally. If this be pleasing to you, then I will say goodbye and entrust the well-being of my children and my children’s to the lord who watches over this land.
One hopes, that one day, soon as I am gone, more will know of your kindness.
~ From an old, embattled, but tired old woman, take care of yourself, Ten. You and your companion.
“Doyoung?! Doyoung, are you up there?”
Doyoung jolts and cringes, shoving away his notebook and hiding it under a book on his nightstand. Jungwoo is fast and he does not know how to make a quiet entrance.
“I’m here?” he sing-songs, belying his annoyance. Not a moment later Jungwoo throws open the door and stumbles into the room.
“Doyoung, are you crazy!”
“I… don’t know how to answer that?”
Jungwoo is already marching up to the bed where Doyoung had considered taking a nap. God knows-and his uncle too- that he hasn’t been sleeping much at night.
“I just found out, from Jaemin no less, that you’ve been out every night sneaking up to the manor house?!”
Internally, Doyoung sighs. Outwardly, his face freezes into a statue, a very bored and unconcerned statute. So much for keeping up appearances.
“I… have?”
But Jungwoo gives him that look and Doyoung might be one to continue the farce except Kun is walking into the room in Jungwoo’s wake, and Doyoung silently curses. It’s impossible to lie in front of Kun. Doyoung doesn’t even want to.
“I, have. Yeah, what of it?”
Part of him is wondering just what Jaemin saw him doing. If it was only exploring the moors near the manor, that’s nothing. Every man and woman, young and old, in this town has done that at least once in their lives. If it’s the other stuff though. The hiding, the observing. Did he see him sneak onto Sicheng’s cart that one time? Or when he slept in the tree closest to the western window, the place where the light is on every night? Doyoung couldn’t walk for an entire day after that, and he’s not sure his neck has recovered even now.
Jungwoo seems to have run out of words. He stands there staring down Doyoung who finally sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed. By the time Kun adds his concerned face to the staring match Doyoung considers that maybe, maybe they really are worried about him.
“Doyoung,” says Jungwoo quietly. “What are you doing out there? What are you actually trying to do?”
His eyebrows are arched. Kun’s biting his lower lip, hands disappearing into his pockets like he’s searching for some way to get Doyoung out of this predicament.
They don’t get it though. There’s nothing Doyoung can say that that will make them understand. What Doyoung feels about the sorcerer, the lord, everything about him and that house, and the shadowy dog that follows in his footsteps, Doyoung has to know. He needs it. It’s not about the mystery anymore.
Maybe it was never about that.
Two weeks ago when he arrived here, it was going to be just fun and games.
But the things Doyoung has learned since then… He peeks at his hidden notebook, certain that his friends haven’t gotten an inkling about what’s inside. And they won’t know either. Doyoung isn’t going to tell them.
“Look, guys, it’s… it’s just a hobby? I’ll cut it out, I promise.”
He’s lying through his teeth, and both of them know it.
There’s the other thing about this town though and the people who live in it. They’re used to that mystery, they like being scared. They like pretending it’s all gossip and fireside stories. Kun and Jungwoo, once upon a time they were adventurous like him. They and every other prepubescent kid who sneak out of their beds and go tiptoeing across the moors.
They all grow out of it.
But Doyoung moved away. He missed that stage of his life. And it’s too late now to go back and relive it.
“You really promise?” says Kun.
“Yeah. I do.”
And Kun is content to let him lie.
For one night, at least, Doyoung decides not to go out.
There are whispers among the fog, an inhale of breath, soft laughter. A lithe body throws itself between two buildings, hands grasping the rough frame of wood. He’s smiling, but out of breath.
“Catch me if you can,” he taunts.
There’s an exhilaration he doesn’t always feel. He’s outside, actually walking amidst the houses of the village he owns. Somewhere from a faraway corner comes an echoing bark.
Ten laughs, then he’s sprinting around the nearest corner, feet barely touching the ground. Another alleyway, another vista of darkened windows. Ten slows his footsteps, listening to the wind. The soft pants of the dog follow him into the fog. Ten considers running again. It’s been so long since they played such a great game of tag. All the way from the manor, across the moors, into the village. Instead, he lets the animal slide its nose into Ten’s outstretched hand. Johnny is panting too from such a long stretch of running.
“Found me at last, huh?”
The dog snorts. A moment later, Johnny stands upon his human legs, sweat covering his face and neck. His black hair is damp and windblown, and still he’s attractive.
Ten grins. He lifts his now empty hand and places his palm up high on Johnny’s shoulder.
“Now that we’re here, let’s go?”
“After you, my lord.”
Ten snorts. “Please, call me anything but that.”
They walk the rest of the way, side by side, arms brushing together, shared breath. Despite visiting only once every decade, he’d know how to find the house blindfolded. It sits at the end of the village, farthest from the moors, a lonely little house somewhat set apart from the rest. Ten’s steps sound loud in the night from the crunch of fallen leaves. He looks around. Johnny pads by his side again on four feet.
There’s a young boy sitting on the porch, on his back with his boots in the air braced against the side of the house. Not someone Ten was expecting. Johnny vanishes in a heartbeat.
“Hello, there,” he says, pleasantly as he can. The full moon is already halfway down the sky. “What are you doing here?”
The boy startles with a frightened gasp. His boots come thundering down on the creaking porch. Bare moments later he’s on his feet looking ready to bolt. Ten expects it, but instead the boy holds his ground like’s trying to protect the house, or someone in it.
“Who-who’re you?”
“Me?” says Ten with a patient laugh. He touches his chest as if curious too. “I’m just someone. You don’t live here though, do you?”
“N-No?”
“What’s your name?”
It’s more than a question. There’s magic in those words, a pliant spell which has the boy opening his mouth and saying, “J-Jeno,” without further ado.
“Jeno. Ah, yes. I know you know. This is the Wong household though. Are you friends with them. Yukhei, perhaps?”
“You… know Yukhei?”
“Not yet,” says Ten honestly. “But I’m sure I will in the future. Is his grandmother home?”
Jeno narrows his eyes suspiciously, but Ten’s magic is still infused in his questions, and through it, Ten learns more than he needs to know, more than Jeno will ever be able to tell him. Yukhei’s friend, a close friend. Not close enough to know where Yukhei has gone. He won’t know that Yukhei is off sneaking around the moors with a girl he adores.
“She’s, yes. She’s asleep though. Of course. And, she’s not been feeling very well.”
“Yes, I have heard that. Look, would you give her something for me tomorrow?” He pulls a vial from a pocket beneath his jacket and holds it out in the moonlight. It shimmers a soft sapphire blue, liquid contents spiraling around itself, halfway vaporous in the bottle.
“What is it?”
“Something to ease her pain.”
When Jeno doesn’t come off the porch to retrieve it, Ten takes a tentative step forward. He can see Jeno’s panicked response.
“It’s medicine?”
“Yes.”
“But you’re not the village pharmacist.”
“And you haven’t been living here long. How long have you been back, a week perhaps?”
Jeno stiffens. “How... do you know that?”
“I know a lot of things.”
He sees the exact moment Johnny comes into Jeno’s line of sight. The boy’s eyes widen, not in fright but in recognition. The dog pauses briefly at Ten’s ankles and Ten runs a hand through his shaggy mane, fondling an ear before Johnny steps past and up the steps of the porch.
Jeno actually kneels down to pet the animal just like he’s done this a million times before. When he glances back at Ten he says in wonder, “Mister, is this your dog?”
Ten resists the urge the smirk, but he responds with a fact. “Yes, yes he’s mine.” All mine.
“I didn’t know. I’ve seen him around.”
“I bet you have.” They’re obviously pals if Johnny’s relaxed manner is anything to go by. Ten silently disapproves, but then since when has his familiar ever really listened to his requests. The animal is friendly by nature. Loyal, loving. All too loving. But he does have that… mischievous streak. Ten can’t help feeling fond.
With Johnny’s unspoken insistence, Jeno is much more amenable to Ten’s request. So they leave him there, one more mystery solved, more unsolved, and Jeno is somehow none the wiser when Ten tells him goodbye. “And say hello to your brother for me. Tell him, the Lord Ten is expecting him.”
Three nights later Doyoung sits on top of the tavern rooftop, waiting in the mists. Jeno’s words have been ringing in his ears for days. He tried to sleep the first night. He kept hearing a dog bark in his dreams. Then his brother arrived home, a little sad that Yukhei wasn’t back in time to play games with his new deck of cards, but full of stories… about a man and his dog.
It’s the first second-hand encounter that has gotten under his skin. No longer a story for the notebooks. No longer something he heard or witnessed from afar. This was his brother .
‘Tell him, the Lord Ten is expecting him.’
Doyoung can’t sleep the second night either. He lays awake, tossing and turning until the moon swings high up into the sky, so bright not even the fog can obscure its light. But there’s nothing happening in the outside world. Doyoung traces a familiar set of steps to the manor gates. No lights on, no sounds.
There’s no one expecting him. And at first, Doyoung doesn’t recognize that the pain in his chest is the feeling of... disappointment.
And maybe that is the point. Somebody, some thing is expecting him but Doyoung hasn’t been waiting.
So on the third night, he doesn’t go anywhere. Doyoung crawls out the bedroom window like he does most nights but instead of scaling the sloping rooftop to the back of the building where there’s a ladder, he sits outside of his window instead. The slates poke at his bottom, his hands cling on tightly. His eyes which have gotten so good peering through the darkness see nothing, just fog.
An hour he waits, maybe two.
And then he hears it.
Barking.
That’s his cue to slide off the roof. He lands in a heap at the bottom, having jumped halfway down the latter. His toe is stubbed, his hands are raw from hitting the ground.
But his ears are still working fine. He hears the dog again, and it’s getting closer. Doyoung struggles with the staying put part. He wants to go , he wants to find it, accost it in the night, find its owner, that man, the sorcerer, the lord of the manor .
There’s another man walking with the dog though tonight.
Doyoung spies them coming through the fog. His instincts tell him to hide. He darts around the corner of the tavern behind a water barrel just in time to see an older gentleman—someone he recognizes? Mark’s father?—ambling side by side with the beast who wags his tail at every verbal praise.
“Thanks for walking with me,” says the man smiling, showing off two hollowed dimples on his gracefully aged face. “But I think I’m coming to my stop now.”
The dog whines and nuzzles the man’s palm. Meanwhile, the man continues his one-sided conversation. “It’s late, I know. But Taeyong’s always up for a midnight drink and a chat. You know Taeyong, right?”
The dog barks.
“Yeah, of course, you do. You know everybody, I bet. Great dog like you.”
More whines.
“Time for you to be getting home too, yes?”
Doyoung could swear the dog shakes his head. The movement is so small though, of course, he’s not shaking his head. Dogs don’t… but then Doyoung remembers, this dog isn’t normal.
“Bye, then, pup. See you around.”
The man leaves, walking the other way from Doyoung’s hiding spot and Doyoung isn’t surprised to learn his uncle sometimes stays up waiting for friends to drop by.
He’s not going to be distracted by it though. The man has gone but the dog remains. It sniffs at the dirt, tail waving slightly, eyes hidden from Doyoung by the shaggy tufts of fur which cover his face. And Doyoung wonders not for the first time, what its relationship is with the lord.
Time goes by.
An owl hoots in a nearby tree.
The dog sits down.
Doyoung, crouched behind his barrel, sits down as well and he too is waiting. For what, only he and the dog know.
Finally, ages it seems, he hears him. It starts with a high whistle. The dog's ears immediately perk up. Then he pulls himself onto all four legs, tail wagging in anticipation.
“Johnny?” And there, that’s the voice Doyoung has been waiting for. “Johnny boy!”
Somehow, Doyoung’s feet have carried him out into the open. Still, Ten doesn’t address him. The lord is shorter than Doyoung imagined him but this is the closest they’ve ever stood from each other. He’s prettier too. A delicate face, soft black bangs. The dog, Johnny, is licking his hand now which makes the sorcerer laugh and shove him away.
“Enough of that! You smell like somebody. Pheeww. Is it… Jaehyun, huh? Little cheater, you are.”
No one knows exactly how many years it’s been since the Lord moved into the village. And whether he came first or the manor he lives in is another mystery. All anyone knows is that for generations, there he’s been. Silent, reclusive, frightening.
Doyoung doesn’t think he seems frightening anymore. He’s also not the least bit silent. And in the past week, hardly reclusive.
Does he even have the right person?
Instinct tells him he does. The same instinct which terrifies and mystified him as a child, the same which set him on this current course of discovery.
“You’re Kim Doyoung.”
Doyoung jumps, unsure of when exactly he stopped paying attention. When this person… this Ten started looking at him. The dog is gone, replaced by a man much taller than the lord, long shaggy black hair and an arm around Ten’s shoulder.
“Yes,” he says, proud that his voice does not waver. “And you are Ten.”
The man grins. “No ‘Lord Ten?’”
“Are you though?”
“Am I what?”
“A lord?”
This time it’s Johnny who laughs, and Ten who shoves him with his elbow. He succeeds in dislodging Johnny’s arm around, only to sigh in satisfaction when it returns lower around his waist.
Despite the air of tension, more on Doyoung’s part than theirs, he can’t help staring at the two.
Who are you! He wants to scream.
Are they real? Are they human? Are they animal, sorcerer, witch, or demon?
And there it is again, that instinct that prickles at the back of his neck and shivers down his spine. Something’s telling him, one day he’ll know .
“Go home, Doyoung.”
“What?” He shakes his head in confusion.
“After this summer, go home.”
This, is not what he expected.
But Ten isn’t done with him yet.
“Come back though sometime. When you’re ready. When you feel the time is ready.”
Johnny is smiling, like all this isn’t a cryptic message, like he knows just what this is all about. Doyoung takes in their casual posture, the closeness of their bodies. Has he ever known someone like this? A friend, a companion.
No, but haven’t you wanted to? supplies a traitorous thought in his body.
“I don’t understand,” he says.
“No, but you want to. And that says a lot about you. Return to us when you’re ready. And I’ll teach you.”
“Teach me, what?”
Ten is smiling, wider and wider. His eyes are sparkling. Even the moonlight seems brighter just around his face, this man, this sorcerer, this whoever he is.
“Everything, Doyoung. I’ll teach you everything.”
It’s wintertime again.
Most of the village people gather on the main street dressed in their warmest jackets and mufflers and mittens and the kids are running wild, screaming and laughing under the eyes of their parents.
It’s the first snow of the year. The elders set up a bonfire closest to the moors and there they stand around singing while the younger gaze upwards dazzles and in delights, catching snowflakes on the tips of their fingers.
“They’re beautiful! Really beautiful, Doyoung, don’t you think so?”
Doyoung ignores his brother, but he does covertly admire the falling snow.
Now that he knows what he’s looking for, he can tell this isn’t natural. There’s a healing spirit hidden within these snowflakes. Something that brings good cheer and health and hope.
There’s magic lit through all the air.
At the end of the lane, he spots them. A smaller man with a hood over his face and obscuring his features. Beside him, a taller man, but walking free. Confident as only a man who knows he’s never be recognized in this form.
Doyoung stops in the middle of the street, Jeno’s words going unheard as he suddenly examines his entire life, birth to now. Has he done anything with his life? Has he considered a career, a partner, any other place where he wanted to live?
With the answer on his tongue, he smiles at the two who have also stopped to stare expectantly.
And Doyoung decides right then and there, and always, what his fate has been all along.
With a sudden gust of wind, a new wave of flurries blows through the village as the townspeople sound up another cry of delight.
All but one.
“Doyoung? Doyoung?” cries Jeno, whose feet lead him all down the street, to no avail.
Epilogue :
The door to the pub opens with a bitter, early morning squeak, and shuts with a bang. Dust falls from the ceiling. A cup rattles precariously on the bar. Three startled old men, and an older woman, jolt on their stools before turning to glare at the newcomer. A boy stands in the doorway, pale as a ghost with wobbling knees, his lips nearly blue from the cold. The woman sighs and goes to collect the boy. “You’re Donghyuck’s kid, aren’t you?”
The boy sniffs as she leads him toward the hearth.
One of the men, Chenle, sighs too. Youth these days, he mouths. He turns back to the barman and shakes his head. “You believe this, Kun?” he says.
Kun smirks. “It was definitely different back in my day.” It definitely wasn’t. He goes back to scrubbing the counter. Meanwhile, the other man, Jisung, scoffs.
“You say that like we never did dumb things ourselves. Never snuck out after our parents were in bed. Never crept down to the moors at midnight. Never waited until dawn just to get a peek at that… that place.”
Kun huffs. “Sure, we were all young. But back then we knew what we were getting into. Look at that boy. Can’t be younger than what, twelve?”
Jisung bangs his fist down on the table in agreement. “That’s what I’m saying.” That’s probably not was he was saying at all.
They each sneak a glance at the kid over by the hearth being coddled by Kun’s wife. He looks shaken to within an inch of his life.
“Okay, but for real though,” says Chenle. “You ever want to be that young again. Go back out there and… check it out?”
“Not on my life,” says Jisung. But he too looks wistful.
Kun sighs at them. “Nothing to be gained. You want to scare the shit out of yourselves again, just like back then.
“No,” says Jisung.
“I don’t know, maybe,” says Chenle. He lowers his voice, glancing suspiciously at the boy “Have you heard what they’re saying those? Those kids?”
Kun eyes him. “What?”
“Okay, but remember how we always saw the… lord. And… his dog? It’s always been the two of them, right? But the kids, my nephew said there are two sorcerers now! And that dog, it was definitely black. But now it’s brown!”
“You think there’s really another sorcerer?” says Jisung, all the terror of his childhood coming back upon him now. “And how is the dog brown now? It was definitely black. I saw it! It was black!”
“No way, there has to be two dogs. Dogs don’t just change their colors.”
“Sorcerer’s dogs might.”
“They might,” Chenle argues, “but-”
Kun lets them argue. He’s heard it before. But his mind is somewhere else, on the delivery he has to schedule today, on the mystery he’s party to. Reluctantly.
Sometimes, he just really misses Doyoung.