BW C27

Chapter 27

“So.”

“Doesn’t look like he can ride any farther.”

“Then load him.”

“Load where? We’ve got no cart.”

“Then carry him.”

“Who?”

“Anyone.”

Taemuk jerked his chin at the dozens of soldiers—there were plenty of men here to lift someone, that was the point. It wasn’t unusual; on battlefields it was common to carry the wounded.

But Hoeun refused.

“General, I’m f—fine, I can ride.”

He forced strength into his voice, and tried to push off the ground to stand—but his arm buckled, his balance vanished, and his body pitched toward the hard, rough tree. Just before his head cracked against the trunk, Gilsang caught him and set him back down, then looked to Taemuk and spoke.

“He’s your guide, Captain.”

“And?”

“How could we be the ones to carry the Captain’s guide.”

“…”

Taemuk’s mouth pressed shut. Gilsang’s words were rather impudent—when ordered, one obeyed; backtalk could be grounds to take a head for insubordination. Taemuk only twisted his lips in displeasure and said nothing, nor did he give assent.

“…”

Watching him, Hoeun lowered his eyes. There was not a speck of concern for him on Taemuk’s face. He understood it well—he himself loathed his own weakness; how much more must Taemuk? To have a guide so feeble as him—of course he would dislike it.

And yet… the ache in his chest wouldn’t be helped. The inside of his ribs throbbed. So he truly was nothing to Taemuk.

“…”

Taemuk stared at Hoeun in silence for a while, as if weighing how to deal with that lump of baggage. Then soldiers around them began to put in a word.

“How can a body go that pale.”

“Right? Looks like all the blood’s run out.”

“Listen to that breath—falterin’—a newborn breathes stronger than that…”

“What if summat happens like this?”

At that, Taemuk frowned.

“What would happen, for fuck’s—”

But the soldiers didn’t stop.

“People die of fever, Captain. We only shrug off a bit o’ slicing pain ‘cause we’re used to it.”

“Sure enough. Die of colds, die of indigestion, die of hunger.”

“Eh? If it’s hunger, we’d die too—”

“Oh shut it. Anyways, the young master’s been raised pampered—looks weaker than most…”

“Shouldn’t be sitting on the ground like that, right? He’s a noble.”

“D’we all get hauled off for caning now?”

“What caning these days—more like a firing squad.”

Their talk wandered off the track.

“…”

Taemuk still didn’t answer. So Gilsang tried again.

“Or d’we just let him ride? But what if he topples again? Fallin’ off a horse—arms snap, legs snap—if luck’s foul, the neck snaps…”

“Haa…”

“And if a horse from behind stomps him, his head goes—crunch…”

Gilsang held a fist by his own cheek in demonstration. Taemuk’s eyes went to Hoeun’s head—ribboned hair hanging limp, very small and round, soft at a glance. A head like that under a hoof would burst like a ripe persimmon.

With an irritable swipe of his fringe, Taemuk tipped his chin, grudging.

“Bring him.”

Gilsang quickly hoisted Hoeun up.

“I’m fine. I can ride. Truly.”

Hoeun kept muttering in a dying voice, but Gilsang didn’t heed him.

“Captain.”

At Taemuk’s side, Gilsang braced Hoeun at the waist—gripping tight lest he drop him.

“…”

For an instant, Taemuk’s eyes narrowed, then smoothed. He clamped Hoeun by the collar—“collar,” but his hand was the size of a pot lid, taking Hoeun’s whole upper body. He hauled him up onto the horse, and absurdly, Hoeun felt a strange sense of safety.

With one hand, Taemuk hoisted him with ease and all but tossed him down before himself. Hoeun sagged forward—about to pitch under the horse at any moment.

Taemuk hooked a finger like a claw in Hoeun’s collar and yanked him back. Hoeun straightened—for a moment. As soon as the finger slipped free, he slid forward again. Taemuk muttered, annoyed.

“Ha—fuck—unbelievable.”

“…”

Hearing it, Hoeun tried to hold himself up—no easy task. To ride, one needed strength in the core and thighs; as he was, moving a finger was an effort. As he rustled weakly and listed sideways—two hands slid under his armpits, and his body flipped.

“…”

Taemuk’s face was right before him. Hoeun froze a moment, then slumped forward again—his crown thunked against Taemuk’s chest. However he fell now, he wouldn’t roll under the horse.

But Hoeun was not comfortable— not in the least. He would rather fall. He lifted only his head and looked up at Taemuk.

“General. Please—please let me down…”

“…”

“I’m— I’m fine. I can ride. Truly…”

He kept whispering feebly, even pushing at Taemuk’s chest with a hand. At his continual fidgeting, Taemuk knit his brow in vexation.

“Hold still.”

“Sorry—”

“Shut it.”

He yanked Hoeun’s head into him. Buried in the black, rough uniform, Hoeun let out a muffled groan. After a few more weak squirms, he went limp. The fever spun his vision; when he finally went quiet, Taemuk took the reins behind Hoeun’s back and said to the men,

“Move out.”

The horses started forward. Taemuk led, the others followed. Gilsang saw to Hoeun’s horse as well.

“Hah… hah…”

Leaning on Taemuk’s chest, Hoeun panted. Strangely, the fever rose higher, as if he’d been given leave to be as sick as he pleased.

Even while groaning, he kept glancing up at Taemuk. Taemuk stared straight ahead. Whether what he held to his chest was baggage or Hoeun, he seemed to care not at all. He did not hide the irritation in his eyes.

Of course he’d be irritated—on a road none dared get ahead of him on, some weak invalid had the gall to coil himself in his path—how could he not be.

Looking up at him, Hoeun spoke in a sunken voice.

“I’m sorry.”

“…”

“I’m truly sorry. I didn’t want to be sick…”

He hadn’t meant to be a burden—not this soon, not this uselessly. Bitter desolation tugged his eyes downward.

“Truly sor—”

“One more word and I’ll throw you for monster feed.”

Taemuk answered low.

“…”

Only then did Hoeun close his mouth. With him quiet, Taemuk nudged the horse’s flank. It began to run.

With the jolting, Hoeun, who had been slipping little by little, ended up pressed flush against him; earlier only his head had been tucked in—now his whole chest touched.

Pressed so to Taemuk, strangely, his body jolted less. He smelled the now-familiar scent of Taemuk; the heat of him, not merely warm but hot, besides. And he felt a steadiness beyond words—as if sprawled at ease across a wide bed.

“…”

In that uncanny ease, his eyes drooped. He couldn’t tell whether the sleep that fell on him was from fever—or from Taemuk’s broad, warm hold. Soon he sank into deep sleep. With each strike of hooves on earth, the silk ribbon tied in his hair fluttered like a butterfly.

“Young master. Young master, open your eyes.”

Hoeun slowly woke to a voice calling him. Young master— not his name, but a form of address he’d heard so often his body answered on its own. He opened his eyes to a black, wavering ceiling—canvas. A tent. He had been gone from home only days, and already that ceiling felt familiar. After a moment of blankness, he turned his head; beyond the hazy blur, a shape stood.

“…Deokwoo?”

“Sir? Bellflower?”

“…”

“Would you like some bellflower?”

The voice was unfamiliar—male, but younger and clearer than Deokwoo’s. Hoeun blinked a few times before placing it.

The cook—the boy who had once given him jangjorim with scorched rice water.

“Ah… it’s you.”

Hoeun struggled up to sit; however ill, to lie down with someone before him was not proper. Sitting up, the surroundings came into focus: mats, bedding, desk, candles— all things that had become familiar. It seemed to be Taemuk’s tent. But Taemuk himself was nowhere to be seen. And light pooled through the gaps between tent and ground.