This one is from a challenge that I signed up for, but never completed. The person running the challenge never contacted me about being late, and I never follow through. If you read this, and you think it might have been your prompt for a fest/challenge that you never recieved, let me know!

There’s a young boy, maybe five years old, watching Hyukjae pass by. Another boy, older, is tugging lightly on his sleeve and whispering, glancing up every couple of words, while the youngest stares up with round eyes. Hyukjae bows his head as his horse steps past, and the two children run off.

They aren’t the only people staring, so Hyukjae nudges the horse into a trot until he’s out of town. Once he’s on the road, the little horse resumes his placid walk, and Hyukjae drops the reins. From where it’s tied on by his coat strings, he loosens the letter he’d just picked up in town and unrolls it, reading it over more slowly now that he’s out of the public eye. He’d been too impatient before to wait until now to read the letter, but he would have needed to read it twice regardless. Just to double-check that the work of the past years of his life had indeed all been in vain.

I must admit, however regretfully, that I was glad to receive the contents of your letter. For some time we have feared you would be unable to reach that conclusion, that you might toil at the puzzIe of revisiting the past, and lose the future. I know that you suffer with sorrow for an unchangeable past, but it does not seem to be possible by any theory or calculation for our existence to allow the reversal of time. I truly am sorry, Lee Hyukjae. But I also know that if not for this undertaking of yours, we would not have had correspondence these many years, so in the face of defeat we should do well to focus on the positives. Do tell me when your most recent experiment with time in forward motion yields results. Your theories are not being well received by the European scholars, but this is hardly a hindrance, as they would be blind to our achievements no matter if even your device proved its worth directly in front of their eyes. I hope to hear from you soon, and hope further still that a letter is only an advance for another personal visit. You are always welcome, and not for your mind, but for your company.

Please take care of yourself,

your dongsaeng (please advise if that is the incorrect term)

Zhou Mi

Hyukjae sighs, rolling the letter and securing it once more. He doesn’t spare much thought for the European scholars, truth be told, beyond a thankfulness for sharing their theories and instruments. Scientific study seems to be more highly regarded among the foreigners, but their sense of superiority lacks taste and is where the sharing of knowledge stalls.

He can see the words in his mind’s eye - it does not seem to be possible - repeated over and over, like irritating an old bruise. The ache is sweet. Time will not allow for its mistakes to be corrected - as a matter of fact, the concepts of time and mistake will never cross, like parallel lines.

The horse picks up his pace as the small piece of land he calls home comes into view. They stop in front of the house, Hyukjae moving the saddle from the horse’s back to the low stone fence. He lays the thick cloth across the saddle so that it can dry in the sun, or maybe get rained on, whichever comes first. The nameless beast steps off toward the field and is stopped by Hyukjae’s hold on the reins - impatient little thing - and waits patiently while Hyukjae slips the bridle over his ears. Then he ambles away to join the neighboring farmer’s cattle some thirty or forty acres away, tail swishing away flies. Hyukjae pushes through into his small thatched house, folding away his overcoat and continuing further on.

The letter he carries with him. The furniture in this room outshines the house itself, things he couldn’t bear to part from even as he left the family home in Hanseong behind. He kneels in front of the small chest table where he stores his research, sliding open the lower drawer. He settles the rolled letter in beside the only other contents of the drawer. This older letter, parchment worn and sallow, he lets his fingers brush lightly over the before folding the protective cloth back over the top. That’s when his eyes wander to the writing table beside the chest. He pauses, hand still on the cloth, frozen for a moment as he stares at the small metal device he’s been building, and at the pear which now sits atop it.

Then there’s a knock at the door.

Hyukjae slides the drawer shut roughly, rising to his feet and heading towards the front of the house without hesitation. He opens it. Sighs.

“Hello, Lee Hyukjae,” says Gu Junghwan, and Hyukjae is stepping out the front door even as the man bows, forcing him to shuffle backwards in mild surprise.

“Gu Junghwan,” Hyukjae says with a bow of his own, “what could possibly have brought you here this afternoon?”

“I have a feeling you can guess.”

“I remember receiving a letter in town and nothing more.”

“A letter from China. You know the rumors.”

“The rumors are baseless, and you yourself are well aware.” Because you can’t keep your nose out of anyone else’s business, he doesn’t add.

“Yes, of course, you are only interested in your studies. My only intention is to assure others that you are not bringing any trouble.”

“No trouble, only knowledge.” Hyukjae finishes with a bow, hoping that he’ll leave before they start talking in circles. Every conversation seems to be the same conversation. Hyukjae’s mouth twitches in amusement at the thought - time doesn’t repeat itself, he is quite sure of that, no matter how it feels.

“I’m not sure what humor you’re finding in this situation, Lee Hyukjae. Your business with the Chinese scholars - “

“Is my own. Is there any specific reason you followed me all the way out of town?”

He can hear the tone of his voice border on a sharp disrespect even as the formal language leaves his tongue, and unfortunately Gu Junghwan notices the same. He launches into his same tired refrain - all about how the townspeople are just having a hard time trusting a nobleman without a family, who leaves for long stretches of time to spend it in close counsel with China, even though Hyukjae has brought no trouble to town for as many years as he’s lived just on the outskirts.

Hyukjae bows once more, deeper still, hoping this will get Gu Junghwan to catch the hint. He says nothing, just holds the posture. At the moment there is a pause in speech, Hyukjae thanks him decisively and straightens.

Gu Junghwan stops speaking, finally, but draws his lips together in displeasure. “You’ll do well to proceed with caution, Lee Hyukjae. Tolerance will be very hard to come by.”

“I will remember for the future. For today, I’ll have my meal, if you don’t mind. Thank you for your words of caution.”

He thinks he sees concern in Gu Junghwan’s face when he turns away from Hyukjae’s doorstep, but it’s possible that he’s imagining things. He waits until he’s sure the man will continue on his way back into town, then finally pushes through into his study.

The pear still sits there atop his little device. Slowly, Hyukjae lowers himself to sit in front of his writing table, eyeing the fruit with caution. He lifts it gingerly. It’s as solid and ripe as it was the day it disappeared from his sight in this very room, sitting upon his time device, nearly three months ago.

Going back is a dream he gave up long ago, a dream that still wakes him in the night with fists tight around his blankets, a feeling like he’s being swept downriver with no way back home. He won’t make his way to the past, it’s not the way of things. Like dreams slipping away in the early mornings, the longer you chase them, the faster you lose control.

But time, reliable as it is, will always usher you forward. Hyukjae brings the pear to his mouth, sets his teeth against its skin. The fruit yields easily, and it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted.

-

The first thing he does is pen a letter of his own.

Indeed my dongsaeng Zhou Mi,

The experiment was a success. The next step of the process will be experimented shortly. I have confidence that this will not be my final letter to you, but should you receive nothing beyond this correspondence in the future, consider the second experiment to have been either a failure or in need of diligent recalibrating.

Your sunbaenim,

Lee Hyukjae

He hesitates, wondering at how many things would go unsaid if he were to be wrong, and if this letter were Zhou Mi’s final correspondence after all, but in the end he rides back into town to suffer more lingering stares to deliver this to the courier. After that, he wastes no time.

The device, no bigger than the palm of his hand, is both solid and delicate. He rests it in the palm of his hand, heart beating a touch quickly in his chest. He’s chosen a corner of his yard away from the road, a relatively safe place for this next experiment. He had considered what he should carry with him, but ultimately decided that the clothes on his back should be sufficient enough. His shoes, he removes.

It’s a simple little thing, if you don’t know what you’re looking at. The button on the side is spring-loaded, nothing fancy, but the antennae which spring forth are delicate. Hyukjae’s skin begins to prickle, like thousands of tiny pins originating from the device. It’s an unexpected sensation, but not altogether unpleasant. The feeling seems to radiate outward - his heart picks up its pace - and flows, like a river. After a moment or two, his body is so diffused with it that he wouldn’t be able to tell where it begins or ends. Theoretically, the energy is not circulating, but is instead feeding off the device. It begins to feel warm in his hand. The thin antennae move about so quickly that he can only feel it as a vibration in the air, a humming sound akin to the wings of a fluttering hawkmoth. He doesn’t notice the moment when it happens, but it must - the antennae lock in on the space between space, the emptiness between what must make up everything which makes up all things, and the only warning he gets is a loud whirr which erupts from the center of the device until the energy from the earth beneath his feet kicks him forward. He doesn’t stumble, but his brain provides the sensation for him anyway.

There is a moment - whether longer or shorter than a moment, or even unmeasurable by the laws of time itself, he’ll never know - in which he is aware of nothing but awareness. No sound, no sight or touch, not cold nor hot nor temperate. Not absence, but not presence either. And then the world rushes back to him.

The first thing he’s aware of is the cold. He’s confused about his vision, but it doesn’t take more than a few hard blinks to realize that his eyes are fine - but the ground is blanketed in snow. He curses, then shivers.

The good news is that his house and belongings seem to be untouched. The bad news is that he has no kindling for a fire, so he dons as many overcoats as possible then trudges back out into the snow. He wanders in the vague direction of the farmhouse of his neighbor, body trying to acclimate to the abrupt weather change. He’s harboring a low level of anxiety, worried about the horse, with nobody to feed or exercise around for at least a few months. Could be years, but he doesn’t quite know for sure yet.

Halfway across the snow covered field, Hyukjae slows to a stop. He stands there shivering under layers of coats and suddenly, it all catches up with him. He’s here - he’s now - his feet are beginning to get wet. If he feels like he can’t tolerate the winter, he has the option to jump ahead straight to spring. It worked.

Something like pride mixed with disbelief bubbles up from the center of his chest and he grins to himself, willing the euphoria not to turn into hysteria. He laughs happily, striding forward at a quicker pace.

When he ducks into the barn, warmth greets him. The cattle don’t pay him any mind, chewing away at their meals, but one animal does lift its head - his horse, safe and sound. A quick once-over confirms this. He picks up a leg to examine his hoof, surprised to see that she even looks to have been trimmed properly, and while he’s bent over, a voice comes from the barn door.

“Ah, I see that you’ve returned. Was the trip prosperous?”

Straightening, Hyukjae looks at the farmer where he leans against his walking stick, eyes warm. He bows, and the farmer returns it, somewhat stiffly.

“You have been taking care of the horse?” Hyukjae asks, even though it’s obvious. The farmer nods.

“I assumed it was no harm. I hadn’t seen a fire from the thatched house for some time. I wonder, do you know you forgot to tell me you would be leaving again?”

“Ah,” Hyukjae begins, running a hand over the back of his neck. The farmer usually did take care of the pony while he was in China, it makes sense that he would assume Hyukjae had gone for another visit and forgotten to tell him. He hopes the rest of the town assumed the same; he doesn’t want any further rumors about his business to spread. “I must have forgotten, I’m terribly sorry -” his mind scrambles to remember the farmer’s name, but comes up with nothing, so he finishes with a lame bow of his head, glancing up through his eyelashes apologetically.

The farmer just laughs, a gruff, low sound. “Gwanghun,” he supplies. “It’s no trouble. He thinks he belongs with the cattle, so it’s no trouble to the horse either.” He laughs again.

Hyukjae feels odd under Gwanghun’s gaze, like the man understands more than he lets on. They rarely ever speak, even though Hyukjae’s little house was purchased from him and sits on his land. “I will repay you for his feed and care,” Hyukjae says, but the man shakes his head.

“There is no need, Lee Hyukjae. He did some work for me this fall, he’s payed for his own keep. Did you know he tolerates a harness?”

He did not, but he’s glad the farmer wasn’t too inconvenienced by his lack of foresight. He grabs a rope and loops it over the horse’s neck, bowing once more before leading him back out into the snow.

The time device is still where he left it in the house, drawing all of his thoughts and attention away from anything else. He contemplates its success while he changes into dry clothes, thinking of how he’s going to change the calibration next time while he builds a fire. Then he pulls out a fresh piece of parchment.

    Dongsaeng Zhou Mi,

The winter months always seem to come quickly, but none as quickly as this. Only mere hours ago was I enjoying the last fair days of spring, and I am not attempting verse, I assure you. You must have already received my last letter, and I was correct in that it would not be my final correspondence, but I must apologize for the fact that I will not be able to receive your reply. It is with mixed emotions but an ultimately heavy heart that I must tell you that these, indeed, will be my final words to you, even as the ink is drying on the page. The new experiment was a great success, but I was also correct in that the calibration was imperfect. I’m sure I know how to narrow down the time parameters with my  latest adjustment, which I will send attached to this letter for the sake of posterity. I won’t leave incorrect documentation behind. I have traveled five or six months into the future when I only wished to travel one week, but I can use the information to recalibrate. This is how I know I will not see you again, my dear friend. The time frame I wish to step across next is more of a leap, and beyond the span of your lifetime.

Despite what I’m sure you’re thinking, this is not an easy decision. It’s one that I have been contemplating since before I had your confirmation that my original experiments to travel back through time and into the past would be impossible. I am not content here. I may not be content in the far-off future either, and I don’t believe any deity would be able to predict what I will find there, but I think it is my only option. Happiness will not be found for me here, but the unknown has the potential, I am sure of it. My only regret is that I will not be able to give you or your colleagues a proper goodbye. Don’t take my words to heart. Don’t let them make you believe that your company did not provide some measure of comfort to me, because it has. Unexpectedly so, I am able to care after all. This is what gives me hope about whatever I might find in the future. It is possible for me to find peace and contentment, Zhou Mi, and I must take that chance. I hope you will understand. Please give Song Qian my greetings and farewells. My heart echoes the sentiments of these letters for you both. Your contributions to my theories have been indispensable and I wish to give credit where credit is due. I apologize for my selfishness, but I am certain that this life will be prosperous for you and your family.

Whatever happens to me, you will not know, but please believe that in either success or failure, I will be better off. Goodbye, my friend, my brother, and thank you.

Your hyung,

Lee Hyukjae

Hyukjae stares at the words without really seeing them for a few moments, waiting for the ink to dry. Then, carefully, he rolls the parchment. He could stay for longer. He could travel to Shanghai one last time, say goodbye to Zhou Mi in person… but then it would be much harder to leave.

He’d already ridden into town once since the last time he’d slept, but that was hardly today anymore - at least not for anyone for in town, or even for the horse. So he makes the ride and is back before nightfall. Then he packs.

It doesn’t take a lot of preparation. He doesn’t have very many things, and even fewer that he can take with him, but it’s going to be a journey nearing a week long in order to get to the coast, so he packs accordingly. It doesn’t make sense for him to head out in the dead of night, so he spends one last night,

One last thing. One last letter - this time merely a short note. He entrusts the home, and the horse, back into the care of Gwanghun.

-

[missing bridge between these two scenes]

-

He gasps as cold water rushes around his thighs, struggling to gain purchase on the sand beneath his feet as a wave swells the water even higher, splashing up to his waist. Hyukjae wraps his fingers tightly around the time device and holds it up near his head, taking large, quick steps toward the shallows of the beach. His pants are soaked now. Spinning around, he gapes at the sea. Waves are rising and crashing much closer than they had been just moments ago - or decades ago - but he's sure he can't have moved through space as well as time.

He waits until his heart crawls back down his throat and then turns to the shoreline. There are the roofs of houses here and there beyond the dunes, but they look strange to his eyes. Not too alarming, but still odd. Down the beach, he can see people milling about. Still no ships, or even a dock as far as he can see, but he watches the shapes of people with some trepidation. How will they have changed, as well? He squints a little, trying to see what could be going on down there, maybe spotting a fishing boat floating just beyond the point of sea where the tide begins to swell.

Well, they might be his first interactions. There's not much point in wandering around blind when he can get some information out of the Mokpo locals on the best way to charter transportation to Hanseong.

Something brushes against his leg. He jerks away instinctively and turns the other way and blinks down at the small, white dog which must have been what he felt. It’s quite smaller even than one of the Jeju hunting dogs he’s used to seeing, fur shaggy, and Hyukjae is curious enough about it that he’s already reached a hand down for the dog to sniff before he realizes there’s a line attached to a collar around it’s neck.

There’s a man on the other end of the line, tugging half-heartedly and saying something that Hyukjae can’t quite understand. The sound of crashing waves and the distraction at the other end of the beach must have kept Hyukjae from noticing his approach. The man draws his curiosity even moreso than the dog. He isn’t wearing any sort of headgear at all, and his hair is cropped short, which is probably the most surprising thing about the encounter yet. It looks well-kept, like it’s purposeful, and the fringe covers his forehead completely. His manner of dress looks slightly strange as well. The pants are a blueish, rough-looking texture, and a basic shirt without buttons or straps covers his torso, sleeves cut short at the biceps. As near as he can guess, this man is working-class. Given his location, probably a fisherman.

Hyukjae has been living among the common working-class for many years, and for every person who stared at him as he passed through town, there were twice as many who treated him the same as any other person they met. So Hyukjae bows as the man finally convinces his dog to heel to his side, a polite sort of bow, that the man returns with only a quick ducking of his head and shoulders.

Then he says something, but Hyukjae can’t quite catch the meaning of the words. They sound familiar, accented uniquely, and the man smiles easily as he says them. As Hyukjae’s head struggles with the words - it’s like when a phrase gets stuck on the tip of the tongue, but instead it’s the opposite, stuck in his head but unable to translate into meaning - the man’s face changes to confusion. He says something else. Then, more slowly: “Are you okay?”

So it is Korean. Hyukjae listens more carefully when the man speaks next, so he’s certain that the next thing he asks is, “Are you lost?”

He has no idea how to respond to that. There isn’t an easy way to go about this, His initial plan had been to just ask questions of the first person he met without worrying about sounding sane or needing to make an impression. He just needs to know when he is, and can worry about blending in later. So he shakes his head - no, he can’t possibly be lost when he has no planned destination and no way to return to where he came - and says, “What year is it?”

The man turns his head slightly, a look of confusion on his face. He reminds Hyukjae of the little white dog, now laying on the sand with his tongue lolling out, unconcerned, but the man answers without seeming to think about it. “It’s 2015, of course.”

Two-thousand fifteen. Hyukjae’s heart lodges itself neatly at the base of his throat. He’d overshot the time frame again, and by over half a century. Does it matter? One hundred years, one hundred fifty years… either number is impossibly longer than his lifespan would have been, had he played by the rules of time.

His shock must be showing on the outside, because the man takes a hesitant step forward, brow creased in concern, and asks for a second time if Hyukjae is alright. He nods slowly, trying to compose himself.

“2015. And what month?” The water had been cold, and he doesn’t seem to be warming up in the air either, but that could mean spring or autumn.”

“It’s… September,” the man says, then in a rush, “Are you here for Chuseok?”

Hyukjae almost laughs at the irony. Does a time leap mean his contemporaries are his ancestors? Does he have anyone in this time who would remember him as an ancestor?

He considers the question. He could say yes, and this man could either think he’s a returned spirit (he doubts that) or that he’s attempting to honor his ancestors in another way. But he doesn’t see the point in fooling anybody.