Brothers in The Field

The early morning mist clung to the rolling rice fields like a forgotten dream. Haesu and Gyeongho ran barefoot through the damp earth, their laughter bright and pure, filling the air as their feet kicked up the last remnants of the fog.

Haesu was faster, always quicker on his feet, his movements smooth and effortless. But Gyeongho—tough and determined—was never far behind, pushing himself harder, refusing to let his older brother leave him behind.

“Hyung, wait up!” Gyeongho yelled, grinning, his breath heavy with the chase. Haesu glanced back over his shoulder and, with a teasing smile, kicked a puff of dirt at him.

“Catch me if you can!”

Gyeongho scowled, his little legs pumping faster. “I will!”

They ran like they didn’t have a care in the world—like the shadow of the throne didn’t hover over them, like their lives would never be touched by the weight of a crown.

At the edge of the fields, Ara’s voice called them in, sharp and warm. “Breakfast is ready, you two! Before the rice gets cold!”

The boys slowed, still breathing heavily, and walked back toward the house. The moment they crossed the threshold, Ara handed them each a bowl of steaming rice, her smile gentle but laced with something deeper—a silent prayer for the peace they enjoyed, for the future she knew was destined to change.

Taeha stood by the door, watching them both. He said nothing, his rugged hands resting on the wood of the doorframe, but his eyes held a quiet strength that spoke volumes.

“You’re not tired yet?” he asked Gyeongho, his deep voice calm.

“Never.” Gyeongho’s reply was instant, his pride in his answer as strong as his fists.

Taeha’s eyes softened, and he turned to Haesu, who sat beside him, his gaze distant but steady. “You’re growing up too fast, little prince.” The words slipped out before he could catch them, and a flicker of understanding passed between them. Haesu said nothing in reply, but his eyes lingered on his father’s face—unspoken questions hanging in the air, unanswered.

Taeha gently ruffled Haesu’s hair before turning back to his work. “Eat. And after, you’ll help me in the fields. I’ll teach you how to use a sickle today.”

Haesu nodded, his heart swelling with an odd sense of belonging. Here, in this quiet village, in the heart of his adopted family, he was at peace. The world beyond the fields was a distant dream. But there was something he couldn’t shake—a pull he couldn’t explain.

Gyeongho’s sharp voice broke through his thoughts. “I’ll finish with the harvest today, Father. I’ll be back before the sun sets.”

Taeha looked at him, a soft pride in his gaze. “Then work well. And mind your temper today.”

Gyeongho puffed out his chest, his expression already defiant. “Always.”

The day passed in a blur of hard labor, the scent of fresh earth mixing with the sound of blades slicing through the thick stalks of rice. Haesu worked beside Taeha, learning the rhythm of the sickle, the feel of the cool metal against his palms, and the quiet satisfaction of honest work.

But it wasn’t long before trouble arrived.

A group of village boys, older and brash, wandered past, their eyes narrowing as they spotted Haesu and Gyeongho. One of the boys, a little taller than the others, sneered at Haesu.

“Well, well. Look at the nameless stray.” The boy’s tone dripped with mockery. “Not even born of nobility. Just a bastard raised by farmers.”

Gyeongho’s body tensed, his jaw clenched. His hands curled into fists at his sides, but he held back. For a moment, there was a stillness in the air. Then, before Haesu could even blink, Gyeongho lunged at the boy, fists flying.

“Shut your mouth!” Gyeongho roared.

The boys scattered, but Gyeongho was relentless, his blows landing fast and hard. The other boys retreated, but not before one managed to shove Gyeongho back, sending him crashing to the ground.

Haesu moved to help, but Gyeongho was already on his feet, eyes wild, chest heaving with fury. His hands were scraped and bloodied, but his face was pure determination.

“I’ll make sure no one calls you a stray again,” Gyeongho growled, eyes fixed on the retreating figures of the other boys.

Taeha appeared from behind, his strong hand gripping Gyeongho’s shoulder. “Enough,” he said, voice sharp. “This is not the way, son.”

But Gyeongho only shook his head, not backing down. “No one insults my hyung. He’s not some nobody. He’s more royal than anyone in this village.”

The words hung heavy in the air. Haesu stared at him, his heart heavy with something he couldn’t name.

Later that night, in the quiet of the barn, Taeha sat beside his son, his hand on Gyeongho’s shoulder, his voice low but firm. “You protect him, Gyeongho. But you protect him not just because he’s your brother—because one day, the world will call him king.”

Gyeongho didn’t answer. Instead, he just nodded, his eyes hard and unyielding. The weight of the secret he carried, the truth about Haesu’s birth, was too heavy a burden for words.

Haesu, meanwhile, sat in his room, bandaging Gyeongho’s scraped knuckles. They had barely spoken since the fight, but there was an understanding between them that went deeper than words. Gyeongho was his protector. And Haesu, though he didn’t know it yet, was the heir to a throne long abandoned.

As Haesu finished wrapping Gyeongho’s hands, he looked up, their eyes meeting in the quiet darkness of the room.

“One day, Gyeongho…” Haesu whispered softly, “I want to protect you too.”

The moon shone through the open window, casting shadows across the room as the two brothers,one knowing more than the other, settled into the heavy silence of the night.