BW C55

Chapter 55

 

“Ugh…”

Hoeun hunched his shoulders, swallowing down a groan. His entire body hurt. Of course, the part that hurt the most was one he could not even bring himself to name. Clamping his mouth shut, he struggled to adjust to the pain. His hands, gripping the side of the tub, whitened and reddened in turns.

How much time passed like that? At last, the pain dulled a little.

Unable to sit up on his own, Hoeun leaned against the wall of the tub and poured water over his arms and shoulders. His limbs were blotched all over, mottled as though diseased. Most of the wounds were from Taemuk’s hands, or perhaps his mouth. As for the rest, he could not recall where they had come from.

“It hurts…”

Murmured softly as he washed himself, the words slipped out. He could not remember the last time he admitted aloud that he was in pain. He had always swallowed it down, disgusted with himself for showing weakness, wounded in his pride. But this time, he could not hold it back.

Ah—no, it had not truly been so long. He had muttered it hundreds of times beneath Taemuk’s crushing weight.

All at once, Hoeun recalled those black eyes gazing down at him from the bedding, and he squeezed his eyes shut tight. A shudder raced along his forearms. Even while submerged in steaming water, he was cold.

“Haa…”

Hoeun wiped his forehead, uncertain whether the dampness was sweat or water, and sighed deeply.

Now what? Must he remain with Taemuk like this? How would he be able to face him? What if it happened again? Tonight, or tomorrow, would he have to accept him once more?

Lost in such thoughts, Hoeun suddenly gave a faint, bitter laugh.

Perhaps he would never have to see Taemuk again. Having behaved so recklessly toward a superior, he might well be cast out. Or worse, punished. But what sort of punishment? Would they throw him out as bait for a Shikgoe?

At that dark thought, Hoeun remembered the skirmish back in the small village. As much as Taemuk had been injured, many other soldiers had been as well. He wondered if they were all right—Gilsang, Dongja, Mansu, or those soldiers whose names he did not yet know but whose faces he remembered. As for Chilbok, he had only heard his voice, but at least the boy sounded unharmed…

Groaning, Hoeun shifted, leaning against the opposite wall of the tub. His backside ached so much, he could not stay long in any one posture.

As familiar faces flashed through his mind one after another, Hoeun returned again to the fundamental question.

Why had neither Gilsang, nor Dongja, nor Mansu stopped Taemuk from killing that nobleman?

‘I must stay and protect you, young master. If I die, then another attendant will come. If that one dies, another will follow. Even if all of us perish, you must remain still, unharmed.’

‘You mustn’t be hurt, you mustn’t die. Please stay by our commander’s side for a very, very long time.’

Gilsang’s words surfaced. A loyalty toward Taemuk that Hoeun, who knew nothing about him, could not fathom. For Taemuk’s sake, they were willing to risk their lives to protect not even Taemuk himself, but Hoeun—his bonded retainer.

Was it because they all bore such loyalty that they could not oppose Taemuk’s actions? Or had it happened so many times that it became familiar?

The questions circled endlessly, unanswered. Hoeun sensed there was something he did not know, but could not even guess what it might be.

Still, a man killing another man was not permissible. That really was a grave sin…

“Haa…”

After pondering long and hard, Hoeun gave another deep sigh. He was exhausted. Weary. His body ached, and his heart ached. The long-sought “destination” had at last been reached, but nothing turned out as he had hoped.

He pressed his face into his palm as he wiped at his cheeks.

“Father… Mother…”

When body and spirit were worn down, naturally one thought of their parents. He longed for them. He missed Deokwoo and Nureongi too. He yearned for those who cherished him most in this world. He wanted to return home to them. Foolish thoughts, perhaps, but irresistible, for here Taemuk offered him no care.

He regretted becoming an iin(guide).

He loathed being Taemuk’s iin.

He loathed that Taemuk was his military god.

If it were possible, he would take it all back. He would undo everything.

“Haa…”

Once more, Hoeun sighed as tears or water traced down his cheeks—he could not tell which.

“Young master, I’ve left clothes outside for you.”

Through his hazy consciousness, Hoeun heard Chilbok’s voice. Only his voice. He was saying something more, but it was hard to catch. Hoeun wanted to answer, but his mouth would not form words.

“Young master. Are you… are you very angry? Even so, please don’t hate the commander too much. He also… it’s just… he must have his circumstances… so, um…”

The voice broke and stumbled. Hoeun could not tell if it was because his own ears opened and shut with weakness, or if Chilbok truly spoke so haltingly.

“No, forgive me. I’ve spoken out of turn…”

Chilbok apologized without cause Hoeun could understand.

“Young master. Shall I bring you some drinking water at least?”

To his continuing words, Hoeun answered no. Or at least, he thought he had. He was not sure if it had been a real reply or only a delusion.

“But isn’t it too long you’ve stayed in there? The water must be cold already. Shall I heat it again for you?”

Hoeun tilted his head. Not really, but only in thought. He could not make sense of Chilbok’s words. What water? What did he mean?

Ah—that’s right. He had been soaking in the tub… but since when? And when had he gotten out? He had no memory of leaving it. Now that he focused, everything before his eyes was black. Why black? Was it because his eyes were closed? Why were they closed? Had he fallen asleep without knowing?

His mind drifted on aimlessly, as though carried along by flowing water.

“Young master?”

Though he heard Chilbok’s call, he could not answer.

“Young master.”

Still, he could not.

“Young master—I’m coming in! I’m coming inside!”

Chilbok cried. A rustle, then the sound of something flapping aside, and a vague silhouette approached.

“Young master!”

This time, Chilbok’s voice was almost a scream. Yet even that cry sounded muffled and dull. How strange—it was plainly close, and yet so far.

Then soon after—or was it longer? Hoeun lost the sense of time—

“Choi Hoeun!”

A solid, heavy voice called his name. Then a large hand hefted him up, and only then did he realize he had been under the water.

Dimly, Hoeun realized he had fallen into another fever. One of the worst yet. Even in half-consciousness, he felt the heat of his body, the oppressive heat of his breath. It was as if he were sealed inside a great steaming pot, being boiled alive.

As the burning heat surged, Hoeun furrowed his face without knowing. Just then, a hand pressed to his forehead.

It was huge, firm, and cool enough. At once, the fever seemed to ebb a little, smoothing out his frown.

But whose hand was it…? It wasn’t his father’s, nor his mother’s, nor his brothers’. Of course, not Deokwoo’s either. It felt too familiar for a stranger…

“He’s feverish. Not quite serious yet.”

The voice, sinking down on him from above, seemed to watch him carefully. That voice, as familiar as the hand—but his broken mind could not place it.

“…Is it serious?”

The owner of the voice pressed Hoeun’s forehead more firmly as he amended his words.

“Ah heavens, of course it’s serious. Any worse and he’d be dead, dead!”

Someone answered the question—an unfamiliar male voice, middle-aged, or perhaps older.

“…Dead?”

The familiar voice hardened. At the same time, the comforting hand withdrew. Hoeun grieved the loss, for the moment the hand left, his temperature climbed again.

“You said it would be fine just applying medicine. Then why would he die?”

“When did I say that? I said all I could do was apply medicine, not that it was enough!”

“That’s the same thing.”

“Ay, ay! You’ll drive me mad! Do you really think a bit of salve could heal this state? Look! Look at him! This young master’s been burned through with fever—our commander’s fever, mind you—and this frail little body has borne it all. And you think he’ll recover so easily? Hah?”

At one word, the speaker’s voice blurred for Hoeun—he could not tell who the old man was addressing. One crucial sound had gone unheard.

“Ah, see? Now your lips are sealed. Truly infuriating.”

“……”

“Why couldn’t you break things, as you usually do, rather than do this to a person—*to the retainer you fought so hard to find!”

The last syllables rang shrill as cymbals, their sharpness drilling into the ear. Hoeun reflexively hunched his neck in discomfort. But somehow, the familiar baritone rose again, curtly scolding the elder.

“Quiet. You’ll wake him.”

Thus subdued, the elder’s tone softened.

“With someone this frail, extra caution is vital. Especially when fever worsens—”

“It can trigger seizures, or brain damage.”

“…Eh? Ah—yes, yes, that’s right. But how does the commander know such things?”

“Someone told me.”

“Who?”

“No need for you to know. So tell me—what must be done? Whatever it takes. Quickly.”

“First, we must cool him. Prepare some cold water, cold as possible.”

“You heard him?”

The low voice turned aside, directing toward someone further off. Distant scurrying, several footsteps, suggested others ran off hastily to fetch it.