BW C56

Chapter 56

There was a smell of raw water. The kind of cold, fishy odor that rose up by the riverside late at night. Hoeun found the chill of it against his skin oddly pleasant. It seemed to calm the heat consuming his body.

“Everyone, out.”

“But, Commander—”

“I said, out.”

Unlike before, the low voice came from directly above his crown. It was so near that he could feel its vibration ripple through his skin with every word. Now that he thought about it, his body seemed to be floating.

Several presences moved far, far away until they disappeared completely. Then, whatever had been wrapped tightly around him was removed. It was thick and heavy—not clothing exactly, but something closer to a blanket.

With that gone, the cool air brushing his body felt good, though somehow it made him uneasy. Hoeun was a yangban, an aristocrat, always accustomed to layers of proper attire. To be lying there naked only sharpened his discomfort. Unease, that was closer to the truth. He frowned slightly without conscious thought.

“……”

He felt someone staring at his face. Then, something blunt brushed across his knitted brow, as if smoothing it out. The touch was cautious, but nothing like the soft gentleness of a father or mother. That made him frown even further. The hand twitched in surprise, then slowly withdrew.

His body moved. Whoever held him was walking, and his limp arms swayed loosely with each step. Then came the sounds of splashing, the heavy swash of water. His body was slowly lowered.

“Ugh…”

Icy cold water engulfed him. Unprepared, Hoeun hunched his shoulders against the sudden chill.

“C-cold… so cold…”

He twisted and whimpered.

“Endure it.”

Hands pressed down his flailing limbs, subduing him. Instantly, dampness spread across his face—not from water, but from tears. How could they tell him to endure this? It wasn’t rebellion that rose inside him, but sorrow. He did not know who was causing him this suffering, or why. The unjustness of it welled so strongly that tears squeezed out, and with them came the thought of his parents.

“M-Mother… Mother, your son is s-so cold… so unbearably… cold…”

If only his mother could save him now. If only she could draw him out of this bone-piercing cold and hold him.

“……”

But his mother did not answer. In the past, the faintest whimper from him would have her at his side in an instant.

“Mother… Mother…”

Drowned in grief, Hoeun began to sob. Strangely, his fever only rose higher. Even while submerged in cold water, sweat oozed from him. Cold and hot at once—the contradiction made his mind waver and scatter.

“Haa…”

A sigh drifted across his forehead. Then fingers wiped away the tears at his eyes, and the sweat beading his temple.

The touch carried tenderness. It was a touch that cared for him. Hoeun let himself lean into it without hesitation. All his life he had been used to being touched, stroked, tended to.

As he rubbed his cheek against the broad palm, he belatedly realized the person holding him was warm. Not scalding hot, but warmer than the water.

Hoeun shifted his half-floating body closer, clinging loosely with weak arms. The water was still frigid, but where he touched that warmth, it was not.

At last, his sobs ended. Hoeun slipped back into a deep, heavy sleep.

“He can’t swallow even juk or herbal decoction. What should we do? At this rate, it could truly be dangerous, couldn’t it?”

The tearful voice nudged Hoeun up from that deep sleep into a shallow one. He felt he must have slept long, but he was not ready to wake. He needed more. Not his body, but his spirit demanded it.

“What if our young master doesn’t die of fever, but of starvation… what will we do then?”

The youthful tones broke with sniffles. But Hoeun, sunk in his heaviness, could not understand why the youth wept or what he feared. His mind would not work. His skull felt like solid stone—nothing but fatigue, weariness, drowsy heaviness.

“Leave it, and go out.”

That low voice again. The voice he had heard every day since collapsing. But Hoeun made no effort to place it. He did not even realize that he was the “young master” they spoke of.

To him, this was both reality and a dream, a tangible moment and an illusion all at once.

The boy’s voice faded with his sobs, and there came a clinking sound—the rattle of spoon against dish. Then fingers touched his jaw, prying his slack mouth open.

Upon it fell warmth—breath—then something pliant, soft, pressed to his lips. Soon, a liquid trickled into his mouth.

It was water-like in texture but tasted bitter, sharply so. A flavor not unfamiliar to Hoeun. When the bitter fluid filled and lapped against his tongue, the lips drew away. He merely let it pool inside, unmoving. Then something blunt and rough brushed gently against his chin.

“You must swallow.”

He did not understand that the words were meant for him. A sigh escaped someone close by. Again, the lips pressed to his, but this time something slippery, thick, slid into his mouth. It pressed against the root of his tongue, forcing downward.

Unwittingly, Hoeun gulped. At once the bitter liquid was swallowed, and the slippery object withdrew. Again lips returned, again came the bitter water, again the gentle press at the base of his tongue.

Sometimes the medicine spilled from his lips, but someone always wiped it away. Not as soft or thorough as a mother’s touch, but close enough.

For the first time since losing consciousness, Hoeun opened his eyes into silence. Nothing touched his ears, no presence stirred nearby. Still not fully awake, he drifted, until suddenly his body jerked upright.

It had been so long since he’d risen by his own power. Yet it was not his own will; something surged hot and heavy from within. His mind remained sunken in sleep.

“Hrrgh…”

Hoeun pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, holding back a retch. However clouded his mind, he could not let himself vomit just anywhere. But then, someone beside him sprang up. Hoeun only then noticed there was someone present.

“Urghh…”

A sour, bitter fluid bubbled threateningly up his throat. It felt ready to burst from him. Groaning, he kept his mouth clamped. He knew he had to spit it out, but where?

Then something loomed before him. His sight was too blurred to tell what—perhaps a bowl, perhaps a brazier, perhaps a basket.

“Spit it out.”

“……”

“Spit it out here.”

At that, Hoeun released everything he had held back.

“Ughh—huff, urghhh…”

The press of liquid surged from throat to chest and poured out. It was pitch black. Hoeun did not even know what it was that he had vomited.

“After all the trouble to feed you…”

The one beside him muttered with irritation. Yet did not snatch away the receptacle beneath his mouth.

For a long time, his retching continued, only ceasing when he was completely emptied.

“Haa… haa…”

Thin tears traced down Hoeun’s cheek. He had possessed no strength to begin with, and now, drained, he was nothing more than an empty shell. His limbs, his waist, could not support him.

Breathing shallowly, he slowly leaned sideways, making no effort to resist toppling. Let him fall, let him break; it did not matter.

But before he could collapse completely, his head came to rest against something wide and solid, yet with a softness and warmth—like a chest.

In that hold, Hoeun thought of his father. He felt, for a fleeting instant, like a child nestled once more in his father’s arms.

“Father…”

He burrowed deeper, pressing his cheek against the warmth, murmuring in a rasp.

“Your son wants to go home… back home…”

Please, Father, take your boy home… Hoeun begged again and again. But no answer came, neither from father nor from whoever held him.

Instead, his eyes filled with another vision: a nobleman felled by an arrow through the brow.

He had seen this too many times. Not because he had in truth, but because he had dreamt it, again and again.

“Spare me… Please… spare me…”

Hoeun watched silently the details: the man’s rich robes stained dark with blood, his torn fingernails from clawing the ground, his sunken cheek, the uncertain wetness in his tangled beard—tears, or saliva perhaps.

But tonight’s dream was stranger. The nobleman bled far more than he had in reality. That day, the blood had pooled barely the size of a palm beneath the shaft. But now, blood spread everywhere.

The pooled blood swelled until it reached Hoeun’s own feet, rippling like a red sea.

A sea made of blood—it was horrifying. Hoeun could bear no more.

He clenched his eyes shut and whispered to himself.

It is only a dream. Wake up. I must wake.

And when he snapped his eyes open—

“……”

Through the murk of vision, a tall silhouette loomed. The figure was large at a glance.

“…Deokwoo?”

Hoeun called hoarsely, the first name to spring to mind. But—

“I’m not Deokwoo.”

The low voice rang in his ear.