Unnecessary Enchantment || 2ho

8. Laws of Self-Love

Here, like in Geoncho, Minji sits them in a grove of multi-colored bamboo. Some angel's mist dusts off as Jongho brushes past the stalk. Previously, Jongho had not known flora could have a scent, but here it seems that every crumpled leaf and petel send off their own aroma.

Eagerly Jongho had awaited Minji's return, now timidly he sits before her. Not scared of her, of course not, but of what she might say.

"Remember what you mentioned last time?"

"Yes," she simply replies, not attempting to guide him to one descision or another.

"When I left my family, you know it wasn't on good terms. I think... after some time away..."

Still, a proper anima, Minji will not put words in his mouth, so Jongho continues.

"I think it'd be good to go back for a little bit, and then leave on better terms."

Minji knows this is necessary, this return - with the proper tools - to those people Jongho grew up relying on. His heart longs to love them, even if his mind cannot stand the confines.

Minji simply wonders if he will truly come back. As young as she is, she's seen it many times: those determined chimmongs who fall prey to the vain throws of their past. The saddness, to Minji, is to watch the soul she has touched return to the very nightmare they fled to escape.

Yet, she cannot help those who refuse.

"I think that could be very helpful to you," she says.

Jongho nods. "So," he looks a relieved, "how do I go about that?"

•°°｡☬⁠｡°°•

In the afternoon, Jongho goes to visit the fields; a network of growth Jongho would never have imagined.

Within the tucks and curves of the mountains, crops are nurtured to life. In the lowest valleys, rice sprouts from puddled water. Higher on the hillside, soy, yams, and cabbage curl around interwoven trees.

The first time Jongho visited, he was hesitant to stay; he felt as if he were violating a moral code by seeing the skin of the farmers, the spreading tan of the floras in their labor.

In the heat of the day, most workers end up stripping down to their chests; some larger women, perhaps, tying a cloth around her breasts in necessity.

A cultural change, certainly.

Even as the tips of trees begin to blend hues, this afternoon's heat is enough for many to desire a little more intimacy with the dirt.

But the person Jongho came for is nowhere to be found among the throngs of green.

"He's at the fermentary!" Minjae, Hongjoong's little cousin, calls. Unlike Yunho, Minjae doesn't hum to excite the growth he induces; instead, he is utterly silent. Even his rythmic breath is muted as he listens to the silent song of the seeds. At least, this is what Minjae insists.

"Ah," Jongho nods. Minjae knows he isn't much of a talker.

Jongho's bare soles patter along the foot-path. The dirt is soft here, packed down by centuries of continual use, so his unaccustomed feet have no pain. The feel of the earth is rather pleasant, actually, Jongho finds.

Vaulted, stone ovens peek up along the path in quick succession as he nears the fermentary.

At first, it is a normal hanok. Albeit set up in a way obviously not for daily life. Shelves upon shelves of the most colorful jars greet Jongho as he walks past. Pickled eggs with peppers, baby corn, Kimchi, quail eggs, red and white cabbage, bright cucumber: jars of ocean and river fish suspended in a variety of oil and water.