The Afterimage in the Ink

Jin-mok laid down sparse shadows on the large sheet of paper with light ink. This would become the space where the trees and the forest would take shape. While in Gyeong, he had always painted sitting at a table; returning to his old habit of crouching on the floor after so long proved more exhausting than he had anticipated.

As Jin-mok’s brush flickered across the paper at a rapid pace, the Emperor’s voice fell softly over his back.

“Do you not draw a sketch first?”

Jin-mok couldn’t answer immediately, his brush occupied with smudging a particularly large mass of ink. Only after filling the space did he lift his head, meeting the Emperor’s unreadable gaze.

Unable to stare directly at the Imperial countenance, Jin-mok quickly lowered his head, straightening his posture as he answered the question.

“It has been a habit since I was young. It is more comfortable for me to paint this way.”

Jin-mok had never properly learned how to paint. His only education had been watching an eccentric old man in his village over his shoulder. In those days, Jin-mok had barely scraped by, chopping wood for the old man in exchange for enough food to survive. Whenever he had a spare moment, he would simply draw in the dirt with a fallen twig.

Because of this, he lacked the fundamental concept of starting with a preliminary sketch. He simply painted what he wished to see, and if it became a tree or a flower, then so be it. He thought that was just how things were done.

He belatedly realized he had told the Emperor this same story once before. But would the Emperor truly remember words spoken so long ago in passing? Seeing as he remained silent now, the Emperor likely thought nothing of it.

Since the Sovereign did not speak further, Jin-mok simply moved his hand in silence. He longed to hear the Emperor’s voice a little more, yet he dreaded hearing the terrifying tone that had haunted him ever since they moved from Gyeong to Tae. It was a fickle heart he possessed.

Lest the Emperor should speak again, Jin-mok busily filled the masses with brushstrokes, then went over them again with darker ink to add depth.

Between those shadows, he drew lines to bring forth a cliffside. He was tracing the lines with a much lighter touch than when he had applied the shading when the Emperor spoke again.

“I was under the impression that painting in such a manner is not easy, yet you seem quite practiced.”

While painting downward from the highest peak of Seonnyeo-bong, Jin-mok had been holding his breath intermittently. Even now, as he drew the sharp edge of a rock reaching toward the bottom, he held his breath, only letting it out in a burst once the line was finally complete.

“It is not a talent of any great significance. It is merely… how my habits were formed.”

Due to the crouching posture and the strain of holding his breath, a flush of heat rose to his face. The chills that had been teasing his shoulders earlier had now crept down to the small of his back. Not only was his left arm, which supported his body against the paper, starting to ache, but his right arm—strained from maintaining the height necessary for thin lines—was beginning to tingle.

Jin-mok sat upright for a moment to steady his breathing. In the space of a long exhale, he felt the Emperor move. Rising from his chair, the Emperor reached his side in a mere two steps; the hem of the dragon robe filled the corner of Jin-mok’s lowered vision. Just as he felt his head drooping further, the Emperor’s hand touched his cheek.

“You have a fever.”

A small click of the tongue followed. To Jin-mok’s ears, it sounded like a reproach. As Jin-mok shrank his neck back, the Emperor spoke in a voice that sounded decidedly displeased.

“We shall stop here for today. However, Prince, bear this in mind: this is the last time you may use the pretense of a weak body to stall for time. Do you understand?”

“Your Imperial Grace is boundless.”

Jin-mok prostrated himself at the Emperor’s feet. He closed his eyes tight as his forehead touched the Emperor’s instep. From the moment they touched, the heat in his body felt even more intense. He wasn’t sure if the source of this burning flush was his illness or the Emperor’s touch.

The Emperor gave a small, mocking snort and gave strict orders to the waiting Chief Eunuch.

“Look after the Prince’s condition thoroughly. I shall arrange for this again soon.”

“I shall do as you command, Your Majesty.”

Jin-mok only managed to exhale once the Emperor’s feet vanished from beneath his forehead. Had he held his breath too long? The moment he let out a thin gasp, a wave of dizziness rushed over him. After the Emperor left the inner chamber, the young attendant Yun-gyo rushed in and shook him.

“Guest, are you alright? Guest, please wake up!”

The boy’s voice grew distant. Unable to lift his increasingly heavy eyelids, Jin-mok finally lost consciousness. He had a faint memory of cold sweat trickling down his temples and the sensation of goosebumps rising on his skin.

It was a full two days later when Jin-mok regained consciousness. He must have suffered terribly, for he could barely move his body. As he feebly wiped the sweat-drenched brow, Yun-gyo entered with a basin of cold water, his eyes widening.

“Are you awake?”

Yun-gyo placed the basin on the table beside the bed and peered intently at Jin-mok’s face.

“Guest, are you alright?”

Seeing the familiar boy’s face, Jin-mok managed a faint smile.

“It is you, Yun-gyo.”

The boy nodded rapidly, his expression startled.

“Yes, it is Yun-gyo. Do you recognize me?”

His head spun so much that his eyes slid shut again. Jin-mok nodded with his eyes closed and let out a low groan. Yun-gyo hurried to wipe the cold sweat from his forehead with a damp cloth. Only then did Jin-mok realize the state of his body, which was burning so hot he could taste the bitterness in his mouth.

“Your fever is still high. I will change your clothes and bring you medicine, so please drink the decoction and sleep deeply.”

Jin-mok, swaying like a scarecrow in Yun-gyo’s hands, finally opened his mouth to ask:

“How much time remains… until His Majesty’s birthday?”

“Three days remain.”

Jin-mok squeezed his eyes shut, gasping out hot breaths.

“The portrait… I must finish the portrait…”

Yun-gyo, who was just finishing the knot on the fresh tunic, asked in a puzzled voice.

“The portrait… you say?”

Jin-mok replied feebly as he let the boy lay him back down.

“It is to be… offered… for His Majesty’s birthday…”

“But have you not already offered that as a tribute?”

Jin-mok blinked blankly. Had he finished the portrait? Then why did it feel incomplete? If he had given it to the Emperor, why couldn’t he remember the Emperor’s smiling face? Yun-gyo whispered as he tucked the quilt up to Jin-mok’s neck.

“I will bring the medicine soon, so please close your eyes for a moment.”

After Yun-gyo left, Jin-mok blinked his hazy eyes slowly. This is Bogyeong-dang. He felt a flicker of relief recognizing his own familiar quarters. He felt as though he had had a very unpleasant dream, but his memory was fragmented.

Indeed, how could dying and entering someone else’s body actually happen? I must have had a nightmare because I was unwell. Surely. Just as he was about to close his eyes in relief, the sliding door opened quietly. Hearing the rustle of clothes, Jin-mok caught sight of the person entering the room and smiled shyly.

“Your Majesty…”

It was all a dream after all. Since the Emperor has come to see me, this must be reality. Jin-mok was so relieved that he closed his eyes then and there, failing to notice the Emperor’s actual expression as he looked down at him.

“Your Majesty…”

The expression on the man who called to him so yearningly before slipping into sleep was peculiar. Sang-gang furrowed his brow, suppressing an urge to grab and haul up the man who had closed his eyes with such inexplicable relief.

Why did the Third Prince of the Kingdom of Gyeong, whom he had clearly met for the first time, call him so desperately? Since “Emperor” was a title unique to the Tae Empire, the Prince could not have been calling for his father, the King of Gyeong. The “Majesty” that left the Prince’s lips was undoubtedly directed at him.

Yet, no matter where Sang-gang searched his memory, he could find no point of contact with this Prince. It was impossible for the Prince to have met him. Though Sang-gang had stepped onto Gyeong soil long ago, it had only been a brief stay at a remote border far from the capital. There was no way the boy could have seen him, even from a distance.

Then why did this Prince call him so sorrowfully and fall asleep with such a peaceful smile? Sang-gang clicked his tongue, a certain someone coming to mind as he looked at the Prince’s fever-flushed face. Why did he keep seeing a completely different person in this man? Had he grown so bored he was finally losing his mind? Sang-gang’s eyes grew harsh as he looked down at the panting Prince.

It was not a pleasant feeling. It wasn’t the first time he had lost something he cherished. What was so pitiable about that dark-skinned, unremarkable painter that he kept surfacing in his mind?

Yet, strangely, this Prince shared many traits with the dead painter. The odd habit of bending the middle finger behind the brush was one, and the way he drew bold lines with ink without any preliminary sketch was another.

That wasn’t all. The gaze that looked up at him when they first met, and the tearful eyes that occasionally turned toward him—they all evoked that man. In terms of physical appearance, they shared nothing at all. That was why it felt all the more bizarre.

What commonality could there be between a painter with narrow, slanting eyes and a Prince with large, round eyes? It was almost strange to Sang-gang himself that he kept searching for the painter’s ghost in this man.