Work Text:
Misericordia (mercy)
Maybe it was divine intervention, maybe it wasn´t. Miracles are usually described as grand and glorious, but this was bloody, miserable and the consequence of a strange mixture of silly and grave circumstances.
Dr. Rivera had found little respite in Joseon. For all the country was poor, there had been a disappointing lack of epidemics and tragedies since his arrival. Running away from his sins had not alleviated the guilt he carried, and with no great tragedies around, he felt like he wasn´t doing enough to atone for them.
The hike to that remote village and the boring and pitiful task of checking the health of the nuns left him feeling even more despondent. As much as it was their willing choice, it was sad to see those strong women wilting away with little resources to alleviate their rheumatism and cataracts, so far away from a home they would probably never return to.
If God was everywhere to judge him, he might as well care for His nuns, he thought, although he never had had much faith to begin with.
As if offended by the lack of trust, the almighty chose the moment he was immersed in those musings to grant him his wish for tragedy.
The vision will haunt him for the rest of his life. A demon of bottomless and desperate eyes, carrying what looked like a burnt and fallen angel, appeared at the gates of the church.
It isn´t God what propels him to save her, but a practical, brave sister whose name he didn´t even know how to pronounce. It´s her who takes the devil by the hand, unafraid, and talks to it in soothing tones when he makes for his swords as soon as they try to approach the woman. It´s her who tells Rivera sternly that he must rush to do what God asks of him.
He does, and the angel breathes, and for a while, he is a believer.
*
Dong Mae sits politely by the nun, waiting to be readmitted into the room. A couple of younger nuns had ushered him and Dr. Rivera out of the room in order to clean Yang Hwa up, and her saviour is lounging by the window eyeing him warily.
The suspicion and cold treatment aren´t exactly unprecedented, he isn´t bothered in the slightest. But the man had made Yang Hwa breathe again, so he relaxes as much as possible and doesn´t make any sudden movements, avoiding making himself any more menacing than he already is.
“He thinks that you are a devil and that she is an angel.” The nun informs him in quiet tones, visibly amused. “As sad as it is to see an educated man confuse human victims of this cruel world with biblical creatures, I suppose it is done some good if it brings him closer to God”.
Dong Mae is as exhausted as a man can be, but he laughs. It is funny. He knows he hasn´t much time left, and he is extremely thankful that he got this borrowed time, this opportunity to see Yang Hwa´s chest rise and fall again, to meet this battle worn priestess that holds his hand as if it isn´t made for killing and consoles him with dry humour.
The laugh is the last strain his body can take after so much exertion, and he coughs blood. The doctor rushes at him, his fear momentarily forgotten. That says something good about him- Dong Mae respects professionalism- but he can´t help to look at him and offer him a bloody smile, just to see him stop dead in his tracks and open his eyes wide. It is also amusing.
Rivera is having trouble shaking off his first impression, for all that he knows that this man is not a demon. He suspects, now, something even worse. That the darkness that surrounds him is not the work of the devil, but of earthly things that are terrifying in their cruelty and reality.
He´s been observing details, with the clarity of panic.
The swords are clearly Japanese - he has seen those on display in his travels, and their potential sharpness is scary enough to wish those scabbards out of his sight. There are beautiful flowers engraved in them, as if this strange world can reconcile death and beauty, as if they think nothing of putting them together in such an irreverent manner.
He´s clad in black and red, rich silks as ostentatious as they are beautiful, such contrast with his unkept hair. Rivera hasn´t seen a man wearing red and long hair in his whole life. If the idea had been suggested to him before witnessing this strange being, he would have thought it ridiculous and effeminate, but there is nothing but power and a new kind of beauty in the sight before him.
He sees more things, of course, for he is well travelled and a doctor.
This man is a killer.
The swords are a blatant clue, but such cold eyes are only forged in the worst tragedies.
This man is dying.
He sits straight in a manner that Rivera has seen before, a posture sustained by sheer force of will, not by able muscles. His breath comes measured and strong, but the sound is all kinds of wrong. Judging by the number of scars visible, the silk must be hiding the marks of hell´s torture.
And yet there he is, calmly sitting by a bossy old woman, laughing at him.
Rivera is familiar with being ridiculed, and that, above all else, is what makes Dong Mae suddenly human to him.
He is a doctor, and a dying human in front of him is, by definition, a patient.
He is also quite angry, since he doesn´t like to be made fun of. The feeling gives him more resolve than faith ever did.
He had already saved an angel that day. It seemed time to make himself useful and be in hell´s good graces, too.
*
“What did I tell you about dying before me?”
Dong Mae has been convalescent a lot of times- he quickly recognizes the feeling. It is the first time that the wakes up to such a beautiful face and harsh loving words.
“You died on me first.” He rasps.
She helps him drink some water, and he allows himself a moment to gather his breath and thoughts.
“It´s not my fault that you also came back quicker”. He complains. It has the desired effect, and the corners of her mouth rise a little. His battered chest fills with joy. He´s always been fascinated by his own ability to make her laugh (almost as much as he was surprised to find her dark wit so amusing himself) and he feels immensely grateful to be able to use it once more.
He has known deep gratitude before. He was saved just before he was kicked to death in the mud, got an opportunity to bite his way through life, more of a dog than the people who had named him such had bargained for.
But now he understands than the only thing more powerful than being grateful for his own existence is to be grateful for another´s.
He´ll be indebted to the beautiful young lady as long as he draws breath, but he is not hers anymore. Maybe he´ll just pay a coin per month.
Yang Hwa is waiting patiently, piercing him with her intelligent, sharp eyes. The cut is deep, but it doesn´t hurt. He relishes the attention, wishes for nothing else but to make her laugh again, draw her close and feel her alive.
“It is not my fault that you came back quicker from death.”He repeats. “But I will apologize anyway, because I have made you wait before. I won´t do it again.”
It is a solemn oath.
*
It is almost two months before they are both are fit to travel. They can´t show their faces in Japan nor in Joseon, so they decide to go to Shanghai. They have their fair share of contacts (some of which might even be trustworthy) and Yuzo must be somewhere, looking for his lost boss. They will have a flourishing business going on in no time, it doesn´t matter much that they have nothing but the mended clothes on their backs, two swords and each other. Survivors like them find trades easily and they have risen for deeper bottoms before.
The nuns refuse what little money Dong Mae has on him and promise to keep them in their thoughts and prayers.
Dr. Rivera has a pensive look on him when he receives a deep bow from his devil. Dong Mae manages to contain his smile until he turns, wishing him good luck with his rediscovered faith in a language he knows the foreigner doesn´t understand. He hopes the honest sentiment behind the wish still counts.
Yang Hwa lays flowers on his mother´s grave. She wonders aloud if she would have liked some alcohol best.
“She must have been looking out for you.” He says, the old feeling of inadequacy creeping back. What would she say, seeing her daughter with a butcher´s son?
She hums. It is a lovely sound.
He smiles to himself and wrestles down the self-deprecating thought, filling its place with the joy thar her mere presence brings him. He has always liked her but granting himself permission to love her is bringing a lot of joyful little things into his life. A smile, a hum. “A lovely sound”.If he is not careful, the voice in his head will end up sounding like certain annoying young lord and he will have to cut his own head off to quiet it.
He is interrupted in his self-denial about worrying about what trouble that dumb noble might have gotten himself into without supervision when she speaks again.
“She must be grateful to you, then. Because you brought me to her. And gave me back the name she gave me.”
“Yang Hwa.” He whispers, feeling short of breath. She might never know how much that imagined reassurance about the acceptance of her mother means to him, but, as always, she pierced straight to his heart.
“Say it again. I enjoy how it sounds, in that silky voice of yours.”
“Yang Hwa.”
“Yang Hwa.”
“Yang Hwa.”