BW C15

Chapter 15

Hoeun sprang to his feet and faced him. Emerging from the shadowed woods, it was indeed Taemuk. Yet perversely, Hoeun felt his heart plunge again—thud—straight down. Knowing he wasn’t a monster didn’t erase the fear.

“Ah… f-forgive me. I was startled…”

“…”

Taemuk didn’t answer the stammered apology. He only stared, and because the only part of him free of blood was the whites of his eyes, Hoeun could read that gaze with piercing clarity.

Under the pricking heat of it, Hoeun dropped his eyes—just as blood dripped from Taemuk’s jaw.

“Blood…”

Up close, the state of him was far worse. The black uniform gleamed slick, as if soaked through with blood. He stood straight, seemingly uninjured—but how had he ended up so drenched? Then again, the carcasses they’d passed were no ordinary sight.

Did he look like this every time he fought? No wonder the ugly rumors called him a killer.

Hoeun, forgetting his manners, stared. Then, belatedly, he drew a handkerchief from deep in his robe and held it out.

“W-would you like to wipe—”

The handkerchief was clean, spotless white, with a little flower his mother had embroidered in one corner. He used it to dab sweat—mostly cold sweat. But—

“Put it away.”

Taemuk’s voice cut coolly through, and the white square fluttered with the abruptness.

“…”

Hoeun clutched the handkerchief tight. In that moment, Taemuk strode past him.

“Uh, I…”

He reached as if to stop him, though he had nothing to say—but Taemuk moved on with a brusqueness that bordered on contempt. After a hesitation, Hoeun followed, fretting aloud about his condition.

“I saw many monster corpses on the way. I heard you handled them—are you hurt, anywhere?”

“…”

Still no answer. Hoeun bit his lower lip.

He knew dismissal well—the kind that said, That’s just how you are, you can’t do anything, what could a weakling like you do. But this—this pretending not to see, not to hear when he clearly could—was a new sort of slight.

Wondering what it would take for Taemuk to notice him, he saw the sleeve of the uniform was torn—split from arm to back in a long rift.

Was he wounded? How badly? Had he been treated?

“Um, General.”

“…”

“General!”

“…”

“Gene—ah!”

Trotting to keep up, Hoeun caught his foot on a root bulging from the ground and fell. His cheollik flared like wings as he hit with an ugly thump, but Taemuk did not so much as pause.

“…”

Lifting only his head, Hoeun watched him recede. Taemuk did not look back.

Night deepened; soldiers filed into tents. Some sprawled without even canvas, snoring on the grass. Armed men patrolled between tents now and again.

“…”

Without a place to settle, Hoeun glanced about, then carefully lodged himself between roots that looked the least uncomfortable and cleanest. Even with thick grass underfoot, the ground was hard, uneven, and sometimes pricked.

Uncomfortable—but… he felt a little glad, because he could feel with his skin that he was outside, not at home. He still hadn’t quite believed he had come into the wider world. Since becoming a guide, it had all felt like a dream.

“So many stars…”

Leaning on the tree, he looked up—then hunched at a hollow gust that swept over him. Was the night wind always so cold?

He had never been anywhere at this hour but home or the hospital. Truly, everything was a first.

He smiled faintly—and a second wind scolded that smile away. The chill stung his eyes, and he squinted. It was only just autumn, but perhaps being in the forest made the cold feel keener.

“…Cold,” he murmured, stroking his cheek, already cool to the touch. Surely his parents had packed heavy clothes, but in that mountain of baggage, he hadn’t a prayer of finding his own.

He could bear a night’s chill—but afterward was the trouble. A feeble body would surely catch cold or fever again. Then he would burden others—someone might have to carry him.

He would hate that.

He curled in on himself to dodge the wind when—

“Young master.”

Someone called him. He snapped his head up at the title no one had used here. Gilsang stood there.

“Come this way.”

“Yes!”

Relief brightened his face as he got up—perhaps Gilsang pitied a fool like him enough to save him. Trotting over, he said, “Um… Sergeant. Please don’t call me ‘young master.’ I’m just a private, and you’re a sergeant.”

He pointed to himself, then to Gilsang. One of Gilsang’s brows climbed.

“A private? Who? You?”

“W-well, strictly speaking, not even a private.”

He tossed the silk tie of his hair back, abashed. Gilsang shook his head, as if that wasn’t the point.

“How could I be casual with the Captain’s guide.”

“…”

The Captain’s guide. Shy pleasure warmed him—then faded. Taemuk didn’t seem to recognize him as a guide at all; he could still see the man’s back walking, as if he couldn’t hear Hoeun’s calls.

He sighed, hidden from Gilsang, who said, “Follow me,” and set off. Hoeun hurried after.

“Where are we going? Is there a place for guides?”

“No. Pairs stay together.”

“Then I…”

“Yes. To the Captain’s tent.”

“Ah…”

A thin sigh—holding many feelings.

Taemuk’s tent was neither large nor gaudy. Perhaps his rank as general made it larger than the others’, but there was nothing special about it—an overnight shelter.

A half-dozen lamps lit the interior softly; on the ground lay mats like woven reed-screens instead of wooden flooring, with bedding spread wide on top.

A small desk sat to one side, stacked with papers covered in writing he couldn’t make out. On the other side lay a heap of uniform cloth, wrinkled anyhow—in the candlelight, he couldn’t tell whether it was stained with blood or still wet from washing.

And Taemuk… was not there.

“Haa…”

A sigh of relief—yet worry stirred; it wasn’t polite to be in a man’s quarters uninvited, tent or no. Gilsang had told him to wait, but even so…

He was about to step out when a gust slapped the tent so hard it seemed it would collapse; strangely, the wind didn’t come in.

“…”

Seen like this, it almost felt cozy…

He hesitated, then gave up the notion of leaving and stood in a corner. After a while longer, fatigue won and he crouched down.

Where had Taemuk gone in the middle of the night?

When would he return?

What should he say when he did?

He set his cheek on his knees—and his eyelids grew heavy at once. The flap’s rustle in the wind, soldiers murmuring outside, the crunch of someone stepping on grass or twigs, the wash of leaves—sway-sway—sleep seeped in with the sounds.

He had never slept crouched—but he was so spent he thought he might manage it.

Just then, whether in a doze or on the cusp of sleep, he felt a shadow fall across his head and opened his eyes. There—

“…”

Taemuk stood—bare-chested, wearing only a black over-robe. Before, he had been drenched in blood; now he was soaked in water—he must have washed in a stream nearby.

“Uh… ah…”

Startled, Hoeun gulped air in a broken hitch—and without meaning to, looked at Taemuk’s body.

Between the robe’s edges, the muscles showed—thick upon thick, both on the chest and the stomach. Wet, they gleamed—heavy, somehow. It was astonishing, that he could carry that and walk as if it were nothing.

His shoulders were so broad and dense; bone from neck to shoulder looked iron-hard, and his chest so large it cast a shadow below.

Hoeun blinked out of his trance and moved to stand and greet him. But the words stuck—because it wasn’t only above. Below, too, he wore nothing.

“…”

He had never seen another man’s parts. He had brothers, but they were so much older they’d never bathed together, and he had never relieved himself beside anyone.

So what dangled below Taemuk struck him as very… new, and curious.

Was that what a man’s thing was supposed to look like? Was that normal? But it looked so different from his—

He realized he was staring and jerked his eyes away—skipping the greeting altogether.