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Summary: Some loves you never lose. Some things are just meant to be.

PORCELAIN

My hands touch the clay and I begin to spin the wheel. First cool, and then warm, and warmer still. I focus on maintaining harmony between speed and balance, otherwise everything would fall apart. Not too much pressure on the wrist, as he constantly reminds me. I miss his presence at my side; it has been weeks and if this is my eternity I think sometimes I will lose my mind.

The base begins to wobble and I collect my thoughts quickly. Breathe in, breathe out. Outside, the silence of the night cocoons me as I work. Nowadays I feel safe only at night, when there are no eyes peering, no gifts that pass in and out of the hallways, no servants stationed at the doorways, no maids who follow my every move. Even now they know where I am but this is harmless and in truth, I think my mother realises I must have something to do instead of waiting endlessly for the coming of a day I dread. She pities me but she will not beg my father to release me. Like me, she has no power and even if she did, she would not use it. Beautiful women are assets to be bargained with; we are collected like art.

I never thought myself beautiful until he looked at me. I never thought a man beautiful until I looked at him. Dressed in simple clothes, like an ordinary woman, I had snuck into his home, intent on getting him to apprentice me. Up until then, the enduring love of my life had been art. The cool surface of the porcelain, the patterns that encircled gently like silk chains, the delicate strokes that mapped a lifetime of effort, sweat and tears. He had not known who I was, this great artist who had just moved to this province. It had to be that spring, my first spring away from the capital, away from my parents with only my indulgent nurse and an ancient aunt as a chaperon. It was only when I returned that I realised why my parents had sent me away; they had been busy meeting prospective suitors and writing my life story.

Soft ebony hair, melting brown eyes with midnight irises, strong hands which turned clay into something living and breathing. For the first time I could not focus, even though I knew he agreed to let me into his home because I amused him. It also helped that I had talent too, although I would readily admit that mine is nothing compared to his. Years from now he will be read about, studied, his works displayed in palaces and museums.

I shift my fingers over the body. He likes his vases of a certain size, the neck and body must be in exact proportion. Even as he will be remembered, he will remember me. I want him to have something to look at, to hold on to. In truth, I wish he would forget me. I cannot bear to think of him when he pictures me in the arms of my husband. This has crossed his mind before and for the first time, I found him drunk and incoherent in his house. My elegant, self-possessed lover with a heart that aches in tandem with mine. I am the one sold but not the only one destroyed.

Each day I spend in this vast house is a grain of sand on the beach. I wait only for night when I can return to my one connection to him. Tonight I carve. The edge is sharp, my hand steady once I decide what I want to give him. I create peonies just like the ones I admired in the marketplace and which delayed me on the way to his house. It was the first time I had an inkling that my secret love might be returned. He was irritable, pacing slightly beyond the door and the relief that flashed over his face was so very sweet to me. I was left that day to work on my technique and when I left the shed, I realised there were peonies in the house. There had been none before.

Pain lances through my finger and blood runs into the shallow lines. The bleeding stops soon enough but I cannot remove all the red from the clay. It stares at me, a mirror of my wounds. Still, I have to continue. There is so little time left.

There are carp swimming beneath the falling petals. His voice is in the sound of running water, his reflection what I yearn to see most when I stop beside lakes, when I sit by the running ponds. Since I cannot have letters, I relive my memories because I miss him and I fear losing him a second time. His expression was so faraway that day; he was so quiet as we sat together. My hands were cold because I had not told him the truth, not even when my lessons had stopped but my visits stretched so far into the evenings and early nights that my nurse was threatening to tell my parents. Summer was drawing to an end and I was to return to the capital soon. I had told him as much without giving away my status.

But then I had to in the end. His soft words telling me that I did not have to leave tore my heart and made it sing. My parents would never allow a commoner to marry me, not even one as famous and wealthy as he was.

I dip my brush in the glaze and let the excess drip into the bowl. In the days that followed my confession he disappeared. I could not find him at his house, I couldn't find him anywhere in the town. Working on my pottery caused me to cry incessantly so I painted. At times I hurled the paint on the paper and ripped into it with my brush, ruining the fine hairs. For once I wanted to rebel and I struggled to return to the skin that I had worn so comfortably. I had always known my parents would select my husband and I would be three kinds of fools to believe in any other possibilities now.

This shade of blue always soothes me. If tranquillity had a colour, this would be it. Tonight through the open window the moon shines full. I place the finished vase on a table and let it soak in the moonlight. It glows softly, like my lover's white robes and skin by candlelight. He came in through the door of my aunt's home like a thief in the night and told me that if I would let him, he would steal me away.

A person can give up everything and get nothing in return. I couldn't let that happen to him. I knew what my father would do. He would break Yi Jeong's hands and then kill him to punish me. There have been whispers and rumours at court which I know to be awful truths.

Not an eternity in a lifetime but one night, I tell him. Now that he knows who I am, who my family is, he knows why I am refusing and what I am proposing. He looks defeated, anguish in every curve of his face but he does not stop me when I reach for him. If we can have nothing, we will at least have this.

It is morning now and the vase is gone. I have sent it to his home. As I stand still and let the servants slide my arms into the jacket sleeves, I wonder what he is doing today. The ribbons are carefully tied; they smooth the full skirt carefully and place the shoes in front of me. As I place my feet into them, my first step on the path laid before me, I wonder if he will find the promise I inscribed at the base of the vase.

We must meet again, we have to. I refuse to accept that this fleeting spring and summer is all we will have. Please, I breathe desperately as I wait for the man whom I must accept as husband to arrive.

Some loves haunt for an eternity and I have found mine.

a/n: Inspired mostly by Jay Chou's song "Blue and White Porcelain".