BW C93

Chapter 93

 

Time drifted by, meaningless. Barely able to breathe, Hoeun kept sneaking glances at Taemuk, then slowly let his breaths out again. His back hunched, his posture loosening. Whatever the circumstances, soaking in hot water left his exhausted body heavy with drowsiness.

“….”

Sleep tugged at him. He wanted to let himself drift off. But suddenly, his eyes flew open—he remembered Taemuk’s wounds. He turned sharply to look at him.

Taemuk had his head tipped back above the tub, eyes closed. His chest was still marked with wounds, his shoulder still pierced from a monster’s claw. The bleeding had stopped, but the dark red holes looked painfully raw. And yet, it was strange—he stayed still, not laying a hand on Hoeun.

“….”

Watching him, Hoeun wondered if perhaps Taemuk was waiting—for him. For him to come closer first, to do his duty as a guide, to make himself useful.

Hoeun swallowed and whispered softly,

“Should I… hold your hand?”

At that, Taemuk’s brows twitched faintly, then smoothed out again.

“…Do as you like.”

Hoeun immediately clasped the hand Taemuk had resting on the rim. The instant their palms met, pain pricked sharply.

“Ow…”

He let out a short groan, unguarded. Taemuk’s head snapped up, and he pulled Hoeun’s hand toward him.

“I-it’s nothing,” Hoeun said quickly, twisting his wrist out of habit, but he couldn’t break Taemuk’s grip.

Frowning deeply, Taemuk inspected his palm. Across the small hand were red welts, like he had been struck repeatedly with a thin rod.

“What’s this.”

His gaze stayed fixed on the wounds. Embarrassed, Hoeun curled his fingers inward, but Taemuk forced them open again.

“Ah… I-I must’ve scraped it when I fell from the hospital…”

“…You fell from where?”

Taemuk’s expression was incredulous, as if he’d misheard. No—as if he couldn’t believe such nonsense. Hoeun scratched behind his ear with his free hand.

“Well… the monsters broke into the hospital, and there was no way out. So I went out the third-floor window, using bed sheets instead of a rope. I think I scraped it then.”

“Unbelievable…”

Taemuk wrinkled his nose. There were a hundred ways to get hurt, but this—this was ridiculous. He glared at the wounded palm again. The once-pale, soft hand now marred by rough welts offended him.

It wasn’t worry. It wasn’t sympathy. It was annoyance—annoyance that something of his had been damaged. And worse, it was a hand. The part of a guide most easily touched.

He wondered how much ointment it would take to mend it, scowling as he stared. Hoeun tried twisting free again.

“It doesn’t hurt much. I only noticed it just now.”

But Taemuk spoke in his low, distinct voice:

“Ow.”

“…What?”

Hoeun’s brows shot up. Ow? Such a small, childish word? It sounded absurd from Taemuk. Hoeun blinked at him blankly until Taemuk clarified.

“You said ow.”

“Oh, that… it just slipped out. It’s really nothing. My legs could’ve broken. My neck could’ve snapped. Compared to that, this is nothing.”

His expression said as much: compared to worse, this was truly nothing.

“….”

Even hardened men of the battlefield didn’t toss out words like “could’ve died” so easily. Yet this pampered young master lived with “it’s fine, it doesn’t hurt” always on his lips. Taemuk scowled, a dry taste in his mouth.

Hoeun gave up trying to break free, and instead clutched his hand tightly with both of his. The scrape stung, but he didn’t even wince. He only pursed his lips and stared intently, as though willing it to heal quickly, to mend soon.

Perhaps that wish carried power. Taemuk could feel the wounds on his back slowly closing. He gave no sign, though. If he admitted it, Hoeun might let go.

Of course, if he did, Taemuk could simply take his hand again. But for once, he didn’t want to.

Why, he couldn’t say. Perhaps because Hoeun, frail as he was, seemed even thinner tonight. Perhaps because he couldn’t forget the sight of him clutching him and weeping in the church, terrified.

“….”

With his hand still in Hoeun’s grasp, Taemuk let his gaze travel slowly over his body. It wasn’t a leer, not admiration. It was checking—making sure there were no other injuries.

Hoeun’s face was pale, but unmarked. His shoulders, round beneath the thin underclothes, showed no wounds. His back smooth, his arms slender. His chest revealed only ribs and nipples, but no injury.

And then, lower. His eyes traced further down—

Hoeun shifted suddenly, his sole flashing upward before returning to the floor. Taemuk’s eyes sharpened.

He seized the thin ankle and lifted it.

“Wha—”

Hoeun’s body lurched backward, nearly dunked headfirst, if Taemuk hadn’t caught his back with his other hand. His eyes bulged in shock, but Taemuk ignored him, inspecting his foot.

“What’s this, then.”

It was worse than the hand. His toes were raw and red, blisters swelling beneath them—some burst, dried with blood. The heels were the worst, gouged deep as though bitten by an axe.

“Ah…”

Hoeun curled his toes in, embarrassed. It was the first time he’d shown his bare feet to anyone. And feet were hardly the cleanest part of the body to reveal.

Even he was shocked by their state. He hadn’t realized they’d become like this. That he’d run, climbed, and sprinted in the rain with such feet was a miracle.

“Explain.”

Taemuk’s voice was edged with irritation. Hoeun stumbled for an answer.

“F-from walking so much…”

“Walking so much what? You tripped?”

“No, I didn’t trip… just… from walking. That’s all.”

“….”

Taemuk’s brows drew tight. Feet ruined just from walking? If he’d said he’d stepped on a grenade, that at least would make sense.

But then Hoeun, lost in thought, muttered softly as if to himself.

“Perhaps… if you added up every step I’ve taken since birth, it would still be less than what I walked today.”

“….”

Taemuk stared. What kind of joke was that? But Hoeun’s face was guileless. Taemuk let out a short, dry laugh.

“So your feet are wrecked just from walking?”

“Yes. I’m not used to it…”

“Of all the ways to flaunt being a noble, this takes the cake.”

It wasn’t clear if he was sneering or mocking. He’d thought it before: Hoeun’s body looked fine enough, but it was useless. Worthless as a soldier, as a man—no, even as a human being. A frail frame like an unfinished boy. It was a wonder he’d survived this long.

“It’s not because I’m a noble…”

Hoeun scratched his cheek. True, his parents had protected him carefully—but, well, maybe that was only possible because he was a noble. If he’d worked the fields since childhood, his feet wouldn’t have ended up like this after a single day.

He stared blankly at his own feet, which hardly felt like they belonged to him. Then suddenly, he broke into a faint smile. A laugh with no context.

“Still… I’m a little proud.”

“Of what?”

“Once they hurt like this, calluses will form, won’t they? Then next time I’ll be able to run farther, longer.”

“….”

Taemuk looked again at the foot in his hand. Small, pale, delicate. Veins faint beneath the arch, toes tinged pink. Calluses had no place there. Blisters and cuts didn’t belong either.

He glared at it a moment longer, then pressed his thumb hard into the sole.

“Ow…”

Hoeun flinched, wincing at the sting, but said nothing more. Taemuk clicked his tongue and stopped tormenting him, though he didn’t let go.

The foot fit neatly in his palm, strangely curious. Soft, pliant—even his nails tender, as though they’d never known use.

As he kneaded the small foot absently, Hoeun spoke out of nowhere.

“Do my feet… work for you too, General?”

“…What?”

“Well, you’re holding my foot instead of my hand. I wondered if that was more effective…”

“….”

Taemuk stared at him, expression unreadable, as if to say—what on earth are you even talking about.