Chapter Text
The feathers on Hyunjin's headpiece felt like his own personal death bell, weighing him down like a noose around his neck, like a giant, cold stone boulder between his shoulder blades.
He did not want to go forward. He really did not want to move forward.
Still, he walked.
The corset pinched his waist impossibly thin, digging into his flesh every time he could do nothing but take too deep of a breath, and the petticoat was the closest to torture Hyunjin had ever gotten with, as the linen kept scratching and tickling every inch of skin spilling from his stockings.
And still, he walked.
He could feel the stares, sharp and prickling, like the blades of a hundred swords, following his every movement like vultures would an injured animal, waiting for their chance to strike and devour the corpse left behind. They judged, they looked, they whispered, and still, Hyunjin walked.
His collar sat high and tight around his neck, so vastly different from the attires surrounding him from left to right, emphasising bosoms and décolletés alike, flattering curves and exposing flesh that Hyunjin did not have, even under all of his lace and frills and rouge and powder.
The mamas were watching like hawks, testing and judging the competition, counting every second needed for their progeny to step through those doors and meet the eyes of she who awaited on the other side. Who had the ability to make or destroy them with so much as a flick of her finger.
If only they knew he could not be competition.
If only they knew he was a vile impostor, a disgrace to what they held so dear, a farce dressed up as one of their own. If only they could read the words plaguing the recesses of his mind, the truth that could never be spoken, lest he wished to bring dishonour to his family, lest he wished to shame himself at best, lose his head, wealth, freedom and dignity at worst.
But still, Hyunjin walked.
One foot in front of the other, chin up, gaze steady, the impeccable image of grace and femininity, moving with the practice that only a lifetime of learning etiquette, poise, gait and posture could grant, of putting on layers upon layers of lies so convincingly, so perfectly, so flawlessly, that not a single soul would question him, would know him for a fraud, for a filthy, pathetic pretender wearing pretty garments and precious jewels, deceit and humiliation in equal doses.
His mother was beaming by his side, pride and victory radiating from her entire being, basking in the attention of those around them, knowing the envy she was evoking, knowing that her most prized possession was the topic of everyone's conversations, was the very centre of all the gossip, for good or ill.
Hyunjin clearly remembered her words from that same morning, cutting like a cleaver, sharp as a whip.
"Tonight, my dear hummingbird, you will leave your shell. The world will be at your feet, like we have always known it would be. The Queen will take notice of you, I am sure. All you have to do is wait and let the fruit of our work bear the sweetest nectar. Bask in the glory of your first season, my treasure, and allow yourself to bloom and flourish under the sun like you deserve."
The smile adorning Hyunjin's lips stung, needles and thorns piercing his mouth, the poison hidden in his mother's insistent cooing and affection corroding him from the inside out, eating him alive, forcing him into yet another mask, yet another trap, yet another set of invisible shackles.
Lady Hwang, born Bae Yujin, now matron of the Hwang household after the passing of her husband, Baron Hwang, who had perished young — when Hyunjin was only three years of age. Lady Hwang, who had taken over her deceased husband's affairs in a country that was still unfamiliar but offered many a chances — not excluding those of colour, both the native sons and daughters of the territory and the ones arriving from foreign lands, all thanks to Queen consort Charlotte's influence and authority. In a country that his parents had chosen to re-build their lives in, as so many others had before, drawn to the prospect of a new start, a fresh opportunity and a brighter future to cultivate their riches.
"You are destined for greatness and recognition, dear. You should remember this and conduct yourself as such, for once you step through those doors, nothing will be the same," his mother looked upon him with the same reverence one would reserve to a priceless treasure. "Once you step through those doors, everything shall crumble and bend the knee to your magnificence."
Lady Hwang, whose first and only child was her son, Hwang Hyunjin.
"Tonight, you will be introduced as the most glorious, beautiful, perfect jewel of the season," she smiled, raising her hand to tenderly pat at his cheek. "No one will dare claim anything else. Your name will be on everyone's lips, your face branded onto their mind, and they will wither in your shadow. Do not forget this. Never, ever forget how lovely you are, my splendid, gorgeous daughter."
Lady Hwang, who had always desired a girl, a little flower for her to nurture and raise, to fashion a doll out of, and instead had only received a son, before her husband departed their mortal plane and left her with no hope, no dream for further offspring. Left her with a male child that wore a face so similar to hers, but a body that was a dreadful mockery, a reminder of what she had been denied. Of what she had been robbed of.
Hyunjin had always known, since the day he had learned to listen, that his mother's love was conditional, and that the conditions were unattainable. He had known that he was an imperfect replacement, a misfit in her ideal reality, doomed from the moment the words ‘It is a boy’ had reached his mother's ears, and then her mind, and ultimately her heart.
He was a failure. A worthless, unwanted present.
A liability.
Everyday since, Lady Hwang worked towards fixing him. Everyday, she reminded him of all the ways in which he was lacking, even without spelling out her exact disappointments.
She shaped him exactly the way she wanted him to be, as carefully and deliberately as a blacksmith would fashion the strongest of swords or an armour made of the finest and hardest metal. She moulded his posture, the way he sat, the way he walked, the way he stood; the tone of his voice, his pitch, the manner of his speech, the level of harshness of his diction, his accents and his intonations. She corrected his choice of words, his vocabulary, his handwriting. She dictated what he ate, the size of his servings, the pace at which he consumed his food. She chose his sleep patterns, his favourite pastimes, his midday activities.
Day after day, month after month, year after year, he was taught deportment, brought up with music lessons, art, literature, calligraphy, poetry, embroidery. Anything and everything that a proper lady should know, should excel at.
And, concurrently, his body was crafted and trimmed to fit the vision she held of her perfect child, the daughter who had never been born.
His hair was to be kept long at all times, silken, lustrous and shiny, an ebony cascade of flowing locks that could be tied up in countless ornate styles. His skin was to be flawless and soft to the touch, from his cheeks to his long legs, supple and smooth, sweet and inviting like the finest of candied fruits and sugary pastries. He was to refrain from any sort of physical exertion that could bring about muscle growth, sweating, strength or tanning, to keep his complexion porcelain, pale and fair like that of a doll.
All in the name of femininity and beauty, of delicacy and frailty.
Hyunjin had tried to rebel at first, stubborn and full of youthful vigour, filled to the brim with the ferocity of a still-growing and rambunctious youth, roaring and seething, pushing back against his mother's guidance, against her tutelage, constraints and laws.
On many, many occasions, he had cried himself to sleep at night, praying to whatever higher power might reside out there, listening, that his skin would gain colour and blemish, that his limbs would grow more muscular, that his mother would finally see reason, would acknowledge him as her actual child, not just as a spare part she kept around for the sole purpose of being sewed up to fix, to improve upon, to alter, to refine, to polish.
Prayers that went unanswered, as his body remained too thin, too gaunt, too delicate, his skin too light, like the petals of the daisies embellishing their gardens. His bones never grew stronger, no matter how much he protested the corsets or how many times he escaped to climb trees in the orchards, to run through the lawns in hopes the exercise would help.
Nothing ever happened, and his mother's resolve only grew stronger.
Days passed, the years blended together, and nothing changed. Nothing ever would, he understood in time. So he stopped fighting her, eventually, giving up and giving in, because there was no other choice but compliance. Because at least, if he bore her reins gracefully, if he listened to her every word, acted as the hummingbird trapped in her golden cage, her delicate, elegant, obedient dove, he could try and minimise the number of bruises his wings suffered.
It did not matter what he wanted or what he saw himself as, it did not matter that every time he glanced in his mirror, what he saw looking back sickened him. It was his only choice, the best option he had, regardless of the situation, regardless of the outcome.
He had to play his role, pretend, live the lie until his final breath, ignore the cold, dull, lifeless ache of resignation that took bite after wretched bite out of his heart. But maybe it was not the worst fate he could have, maybe he would survive it. Somehow.
Then, at the age of eight-and-ten, the first signs of his impending debut had reached his ears.
His mother had started dropping hints, speaking of his future prospects and the match he would surely have no problem attracting, of the offers that would likely start pouring in as soon as he was properly unveiled, of the Lords and Viscounts, Barons and Earls that would flock to their doorstep begging for a chance to speak to him, to earn his attentions.
She had started talking about marriage, of how he would find a good husband, someone who would take care of him, provide for him, put a ring on his finger, give him a title of his own.
That had been the sole occasion where Hyunjin had put his foot down, after years upon years of silent passiveness, of obedience and capitulation, and spoke up.
Finding an excuse had been surprisingly easy, taking inspiration from the same tune his mother always used. He had begged her for more time to perfect his studies, more time to master new instruments and broaden his knowledge of the arts, to nurture his mind and cultivate his body to be the best version of himself, the most precious, lovely, flawless flower, the only bouquet capable of enrapturing the attention of the Queen herself and the notice of the most eligible of bachelors, the truly worthy, and the wealthiest too.
"For the family, Mother," had been his words, a whispered plea, a hushed suggestion. A lure. "I must make you proud, must I not? I should make the Hwang lineage look glorious in front of the Queen and her court. I should be the one to bring a Marquess into our line," he emphasized, "if not a Duke, even. I shall strive to achieve this and become the pride and joy of this house. I promise you will not regret this. Please, let me try. Please, give me but a few years. Allow me this opportunity, and I swear I will not let you down."
It had worked, but his mother was no fool. She had conceded, however not without setting conditions of her own.
"So be it, my dearest. I shall indulge you, but you will have no further than the year you turn one-and-twenty. At which point you will present yourself before the Queen, and you will," she stressed the word with a grave tone, "find a spouse worthy of your status. No excuses. There shall be no other delays, and you shall not beg or complain, do you understand?"
There was a threat underneath her words, unspoken yet ever-present, a knife set precariously next to his jugular, not digging into his flesh but waiting to be turned and pressed and oh so effortlessly dragged along his delicate, vulnerable neck, slicing his skin open, letting him bleed out and die a slow, dreadful death.
How pitiful would it be, to perish at his mother's hands so ingloriously, so morbidly, so miserably.
"As you wish, Mother."
That day had long passed. Many months had gone by, days of playing pretend and striving to learn, to perfect his skills and talents ticking away, and his temporary, feeble, fictitious freedom had come to its inevitable end.
His birthday and springtime had since left him behind, replaced by hot summer days where the sun shone high in the sky during the day, beating down on them mercilessly, and the gentle nights followed, with warm breezes and stars painting the firmament like a thousand tiny jewels.
Replaced by one particular summer's evening, one where his life would change forever, and his fate would be sealed, in one way or the other.
One, that at this moment in time, Hyunjin could not predict the course of. He could not predict what his surrender would entail, what his demise would look like, what ending he had coming his way. What was to follow.
All he knew was that, once he stepped through those doors, there would be no going back.
All he knew was that he wished he could have stayed locked in his room, wished for the silence of the empty, quiet space and the darkness, even though they held only solitude.
"Let us go now, my dear," his mother beckoned him closer. "Your time has come, and it will be wondrous. Trust your mother, and everything will be as we have always dreamt."
He did not reply. His smile did not waver.
The night was upon him, the moon was high in the sky and the party had begun. All he could do was play his part, keep his composure and swallow the poison in his throat.
"Yes, Mother."
All he could do was walk through those doors and hope that he could find a way to survive, by any means necessary.