BW C144

Chapter 144

 

Hoeun felt a presence gazing upon him. Even in the haze of sleep, the stare was so piercingly clear that it could not be mistaken. For a moment he wondered if it were an intruder, yet the presence did nothing—only watched.

 

Time slipped by. All that reached his ears were the distant, unidentified cries of beasts, the hush of falling snow, the soft thud of accumulated snow sliding from branches, the flap of wind against the tent—nothing more.

 

Hoeun was sinking back into deep slumber when—

 

“Cough… cough…”

 

A dry, rasping cough escaped him. His throat stung, his chest throbbed, and unconsciously he furrowed his brow.

 

Then, gently, a hand touched his forehead. A hand so scalding hot that he wondered if someone had placed a brazier upon him.

 

Yet Hoeun welcomed that heat. The inside of the tent was bitterly cold, and the brazier’s warmth fell far short. Without thinking, he tilted his head toward the hand, seeking more of it.

 

“…”

 

His eyes flew open.

 

And met eyes of deepest black.

 

“…”

 

“…”

 

Hoeun drew in ragged breaths as he gazed up into those eyes. His parched lips trembled, and in a cracked voice he whispered,

 

“…General?”

 

Only a single dim lantern flickered precariously within the tent, yet he knew the man at once. In all the world, only one person possessed eyes so inky and yet so sharply brilliant.

 

Still, he could not tell whether this was dream or reality. Perhaps the fever had conjured a phantom. But then—

 

“How is your body made that the fever still hasn’t broken?”

 

That low, resonant voice was undeniably real. The brusque yet tender tone was real.

 

“General!”

 

Hoeun sprang up as though released from a spring and flung himself into Taemuk’s arms. He wrapped his arms around the man’s neck and buried his face in the hollow of his throat.

 

“General…”

 

Taemuk’s scent enveloped him. Against his own chest he felt the steady, weighty thump of Taemuk’s heart—perhaps a touch faster than usual, yet unmistakably his.

 

“General… General…”

 

Hoeun clung to him, pulled him closer, caressed him again and again. Though only a single day had passed, it felt as though years had separated them. He held Taemuk with his entire body, then suddenly jerked back, urgently examining him.

 

“Are you… are your wounds all right?”

 

His gaze went first, of course, to the hands. Left hand—one, two, three, four, five. Right hand—one, two, three, four, five. Ten long, thick, knotted fingers, all perfectly intact. For good measure he touched the nails, stroked the palms; they too were unharmed.

 

“Ha…”

 

Hoeun closed his eyes and released a trembling sigh of relief. Then at once he cupped Taemuk’s face. The blood-red eyes that had once glared like a demon’s were restored to their original darkness. The cheeks that had been torn and ragged were smooth again, and both ears remained whole—the elegantly shaped auricles and lobes exactly as he remembered, breathtakingly handsome.

 

“Haa…”

 

Another sigh of relief. His hands traveled onward—over the thick neck, the solid shoulders, the chest brimming with muscle, the forearms so stout that two hands could not encircle them—and lower still, lower yet. Abruptly his wrist was seized.

 

“Just how far did you intend to explore?”

 

A voice laced with laughter stopped him. On any ordinary day Hoeun would have bolted to the farthest corner of the tent like a startled squirrel, yet tonight he merely surrendered his captured wrist and gazed at Taemuk in silence.

 

“…”

 

Something was strange about Taemuk’s voice. Between each syllable lingered a compressed breath, melting like snow. The final syllable tore as though ripped.

 

Yet outwardly he appeared unharmed—no bleeding, no visible wounds. His expression betrayed not pain but the faintest trace of a smile, as though nothing had ever happened.

 

For a moment Hoeun wondered if all of it had been a dream: not the Taemuk before him now, but the horde of ghouls, the sight of Taemuk wounded—perhaps those had been the dream.

 

Impossible. The despair and terror he had felt upon seeing Taemuk injured were too real.

 

“But… how are you here?”

 

Hoeun’s lower lip quivered as he asked. Had Gilsang brought him? Yet they were meant to depart at dawn. Was it already morning? Had he slept that long? Bewildered, he frowned faintly.

 

A burning thumb brushed gently across his cheek.

 

“The wind was blowing hard.”

 

“…Pardon?”

 

“I thought you would be whining again about the cold, so I came to see.”

 

“…”

 

Hoeun stared at him, breath catching. Silence settled, broken only by the soft piling of snow upon the tent. When the weight of it finally slid down the canvas with a faint rush, Taemuk suddenly pulled Hoeun into his arms as though reeling in a catch and buried his nose in Hoeun’s hair.

 

“That was a lie. I came because I missed you too much.”

 

“But… you could not have known where I was…”

 

“I followed the sound of your cough.”

 

“My cough?”

 

“Yes. Of all things, I followed your cough.”

 

Taemuk closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, drinking in Hoeun’s scent. All the way here he had thought himself fortunate that Hoeun was ill—fortunate that those coughs had left a trail, allowing him to find the one he sought. Each cough had made his eyes flash like a predator scenting blood.

 

It was grotesque, yet he felt no regret. The moment he finally touched Hoeun—his warmth, his fragrance, his very skin—rapture surged from the pit of his stomach like lightning.

 

“…”

 

Hoeun froze for an instant, then lifted his arms and embraced Taemuk’s back with all his strength. Only then did he fully feel the man’s heat. Even through thick military garb it was overwhelming, as though he held living flame.

 

That heat hurt Hoeun terribly. It was the heat of Taemuk’s blood, of his pain.

 

“General… you are… burning.”

 

“Good. Then you’ll be warm, won’t you?”

 

Taemuk laughed low. To an outsider it would have sounded leisurely, almost peaceful. Yet Hoeun knew it for the fragile mask it was.

 

Taemuk’s throat worked roughly again and again. The hand cradling the back of Hoeun’s head trembled in spasms, fingers clenching intermittently. His breathing was uneven, his heartbeat erratic. And above all… each time he spoke, the faint scent of blood drifted between them.

 

Hoeun understood without difficulty.

 

Taemuk was not yet healed.

 

Outwardly whole, inwardly he was still bleeding.

 

The realization left no room for stillness.

 

“Just… just a moment.”

 

Hoeun pushed against Taemuk’s chest with both palms. Taemuk yielded at once, though his jaw clenched so fiercely that the bones stood out.

 

Then, without warning, Hoeun yanked loose the ties of his inner robe. The moment the knots gave way, the voluminous garment slipped from his shoulders like water. At the sight, every trace of expression drained from Taemuk’s face.

 

“…What are you doing?”

 

“I am going to undress.”

 

“Why.”

 

“So that I may heal you.”

 

Hoeun intended union. He knew from countless experiences that holding hands, embraces, or kisses alone could not mend wounds this grave.

 

His own body was far from strong enough to receive Taemuk, yet he believed—knew—he could endure it once. Only once, neither more nor less; he would bear it, no matter the cost.

 

He stripped off layer after layer. Suddenly Taemuk seized both his wrists in one great hand, engulfing not only the wrists but the hands entirely.

 

“No.”

 

“…Pardon?”

 

“Not yet. No.”

 

Taemuk’s brows drew together as fiercely as possible; his voice came low and suppressed. There was no room left for laughter on his face or in his tone—there was no strength remaining to pretend.

 

“…”

 

Hoeun looked from one of Taemuk’s eyes to the other. Not yet? How could there be a “not yet”? Until when must he wait? Until when must Taemuk endure?

 

“No. I will do it.”

 

With his free hand Hoeun stubbornly continued pulling at his clothes. The ties tore as though ripped apart; layers fluttered down like falling petals. Taemuk released the wrists only to clutch the open robes and draw them tightly closed again. Such strength poured into his grip that his wrists shook, veins rising livid on the backs of his hands.

 

“Listen to me, Choi Hoeun.”

 

He growled like a beast. A thick plume of breath burst from between his teeth—dense and white, almost like tobacco smoke. Strange, indeed; though it was winter, they were inside a tent warmed by a brazier—how could breath emerge so violently?

 

Hoeun could easily gauge how ravaged Taemuk’s inner organs must be. His own eyes grew cold.

 

“I will do it.”

 

He twisted his body, trying to escape the iron grip. Yet Taemuk’s hold only tightened.

 

“I said no.”

 

At the low warning, Hoeun could bear no more and shouted.

 

“Isn’t this why you came? You said you missed me. Then take me. Do whatever you wish!”

 

“You…”

 

“Do it. Take me. As much as you desire. I beg you.”

 

Hoeun writhed, shoulders and waist twisting wildly. The seams of the garment Taemuk clutched began to snap one by one; finally even the tie of the under-robe tore away. Soft silk slid down, baring skin white as polished jade.