BW C28

Chapter 28

“…Is it morning?”

“Yes.”

“…”

Hoeun was taken aback by the cook’s answer. He had slept straight through the night. Then what about Taemuk? He hadn’t done the “work” that had to be done every night. That was his only use.

“Where is the General?”

“Outside. Shikgoe swarmed all night and gave everyone a hard time.”

“M-mansters?”

Hoeun’s eyes nearly popped. Monsters—he hadn’t known at all. He shuddered at himself for sleeping dead to the world without even noticing the uproar. It had been shameful enough to hide in a crevice at the stream; now he had slept soundly under a pitched tent.

What now. How to apologize. How to make amends.

“I should go out—”

Throwing off the bedding, Hoeun moved to push himself up, but the cook stopped him.

“Ah—no. Gilsang said you must stay here.”

“But…”

“Please have this.”

The cook offered a wooden bowl. Inside, a black liquid rippled. Hoeun stared down, wondering what it was.

“Decoction.”

“…A decoction?”

“Yes. Medicine. For a fever.”

“Where did this come from…”

Hoeun tilted his head. How had they procured a decoction here on a mountainside? Could it be—perhaps—Taemuk, worried for him—he was thinking just that when—

“It was in your baggage. Gilsang said to bring it down for you.”

“In my baggage?”

“Yes. It said medicine for fever; someone wrote out exactly how to decoct it, how to take it, when to take it—every step.”

“…”

At once, expression washed from Hoeun’s face.

It was his parents.

His father and mother.

He realized it had been a long time since he’d thought of them; there had been no room, what with monsters and Taemuk.

Suddenly the longing bit deep. Being sick made it worse. He had been sick all his life, but never alone. Mother was always there—or Father—holding his hand, worrying, whispering he would be all right.

At the memory, his nose stung at once; tears rose in a heartbeat. The cook looked startled at Hoeun’s trembling.

“A-are you crying? Are you that sick?”

“No. No— not crying.”

Sniffling, he swallowed the tears and dabbed them away with his sleeve. Then he took the decoction in both hands.

“Thank you. I’ll drink it well.”

Hoeun gulped down the black liquid at once. The bitter taste sliding down his throat was so familiar. The cook, watching, stretched his lips sideways and groaned, ugh.

“You take that bitter stuff so easily…”

“Have you had decoction?”

It was a thoughtless question. The cook’s shoulders jerked, his fingers fidgeted, and he mumbled with his head lowered.

“…Tasted it when I brought it down. Not much—just a dab on the pinkie. Just a little. A little.”

“Did you?”

“T-to check if it was spoiled…”

“I see.”

“No, truth is—I w-was curious… ‘Cause it was for you, I thought it must be precious and maybe tasty… I’m sorry…”

“It’s fine. But it really is awful, isn’t it? I’m used to it, so I’m all right. I’ve had more of this than meals.”

Hoeun answered with a small smile, then drained the rest without leaving a drop. Strangely, he already felt strength returning—not from the medicine, but from the thought of his parents’ worry and love.

When he set the bowl down, the cook took it and stood.

“Then I’ll go out now.”

At that, Hoeun grabbed his sleeve with a startled face.

“Don’t go out. They said monsters came.”

Whether the cook was a Military God or a guide, he was likely a guide, being a cook—and younger than Hoeun. What if he went out and was hurt? What if he lost his life? If there was a need for someone to fight, it should be Hoeun, not him, who went.

But the cook said blandly,

“Oh, the Shikgoe were all killed around dawn. Everyone’s getting ready to leave now.”

“Ah…”

Hoeun let go of his sleeve. The cook looked at him with an unreadable expression. Embarrassed under that gaze, Hoeun changed the subject.

“What’s your name?”

“Uh… Chilbok.”

“Chilbok?”

“Yes. Seventh child, so Chilbok. Ilbok, Iibok, Sambok… then Chilbok.”

“Ah…”

Hoeun nodded as if he understood, then smiled at him—no, at Chilbok.

“A lovely name. Thank you for the decoction, Chilbok.”

“…”

At the sudden thanks, Chilbok tucked his chin in, pursed his lips, his cheeks flushing red; his grip whitened on the wooden bowl.

“Wh-what—th-there’s nothing to thank me for…”

“No, truly—thank you.”

“…What’s your name, young master?”

“Me? I’m Hoeun. Choi Hoeun.”

“Young master Hoeun…”

Chilbok repeated the name.

“Chilbok…”

Hoeun repeated his in turn. It was the second name he had learned in Jeokudae, after Gilsang’s. Ah—there was Taemuk, too—so it was the third.

Unthinkingly calling Taemuk to mind, Hoeun licked his lips; the characteristic bitterness of decoction lingered.

“Chilbok.”

“Yes?”

“Do you think… the General… is angry?”

“Why?”

“Because I’m sick.”

“Why would the Captain be angry because you’re sick?”

“Because, um—I, um…”

Because he had been a bother.

Hoeun couldn’t say it. It was too miserable to admit. Everyone knew it; there was no need to be ashamed now—but still, the words wouldn’t come.

But Chilbok rubbed his nose on the back of his hand and said, matter-of-fact,

“There are sick people everywhere here. Our Captain doesn’t get angry over that.”

“…Really?”

“Yes.”

Chilbok nodded with certainty. But Hoeun’s unease didn’t lift. The way Taemuk treated other soldiers and the way he treated Hoeun were quite different. Then Chilbok added something strange.

“Thanks to it, he got to stick to you all day, so it was good, actually.”

“What do you mean?”

Hoeun tilted his head. If he was sticking close, wouldn’t it be a bother—unpleasant? Taemuk had seemed so. It certainly hadn’t looked like anything one could call “good.”

“He got to be stuck to his own guide. What Military God dislikes his guide?”

“…”

“Whatever the Military God, he can’t turn away when his guide clings.”

“…”

“Even our Captain—he can’t help it with his guide.”

Chilbok spoke firmly. Hoeun only looked at him.

“Fate isn’t called fate for nothing.”

Saying that, Chilbok stood to go wash dishes. He bowed from the waist and left the tent. Hoeun stared at the flap as it fluttered, mulling over what Chilbok had said.

“Cling… close?”

He recalled nights spent with Taemuk. Come to think of it, the day before last, he had been crushed in an embrace while they kissed; even the first time he had used his mouth, Taemuk had pulled his arm to make him hold his waist.

Whatever the exact reason—he must have wanted to, so he did. Perhaps without knowing it himself—unthinkingly. Or by instinct.

“Mm…”

Perhaps, as long as Taemuk was his Military God, he could not dislike Hoeun. They were fate. How could one dislike fate? Such a thing had never been heard.

“Cling close,” he murmured…

After thinking for a long while, a small light seemed to land in Hoeun’s eyes.

He straightened his attire and tied his ribboned hair tight, then stepped out of the tent—and at once had to sigh.

“Ah…”

Monster corpses lay everywhere. Some hung from trees; some were hewn in half; some were crushed by rocks; in any case, it was a wreck. Thankfully, there were no human corpses in sight.

“…”

Hoeun looked back at Taemuk’s tent, which he had just left. It was splashed with blood, but stood intact, straight and tall. For such a bloodbath to have raged and that tent alone to stand untouched—it was strange. No wonder he had slept like the dead.

Sniffling at the fishy tang, Hoeun picked his way through the bodies. His shoes were soon soaked with the bloody water pooled between the grass.

Watching his step to avoid treading on corpses, he noticed suddenly that the monsters were somewhat smaller. The ones he had seen at the stream had been house-sized; those before him now were bigger than Hoeun but smaller than Taemuk. Their helmet shapes, too, were simpler.

Later, he would hear from Gilsang that monsters differed in appearance from troupe to troupe—like how humans had Easterners and Westerners.

Thankfully, the ones that had charged last night were neither so strong nor so clever; only their numbers had made it a troublesome fight; in any case, no one was gravely wounded.

“…”

As he walked with care, a monster with its helmet torn off, dead in grotesque fashion, caught on his toe. So far as he knew, only one person in the world killed monsters like that.

Taemuk.

Hoeun’s head jerked up and he glanced around. Not far away, soldiers were readying to depart; at their head was Taemuk—mounted, a cigarette at his lips, studying a map with another soldier.