BW C151

Chapter 151

“I’ll bring one right away. Dongja-nuna, you can have this.”

He handed Hoeun’s unfinished bowl to Dongja, who sat opposite him. Dongja, having polished off her own meal long ago, accepted it cheerfully.

“Hehe, thanks, Chilbok. Thank you, young master.”

Taemuk looked between the three of them. Something about the exchange—the ease, the rhythm—felt practiced. As if this were something they did all the time.

Chilbok dashed across the snow and soon returned with a large persimmon.

“It might be frozen from the cold. Warm it slowly as you eat.”

“Mm, thank you, Chilbok.”

“The spoon’s here.”

Chilbok handed Hoeun the persimmon and then produced a tiny spoon from his pocket—polishing it hard against his sleeve until it gleamed before offering it over. Hoeun received it with a soft smile.

“Thank you.”

Chilbok added that he should ask if he wanted more, then trotted off across the snowfield. Hoeun watched his retreating back for a moment, then held the cold persimmon close to the campfire.

It didn’t thaw easily. Still, Hoeun showed no impatience, simply waiting quietly. Watching this, Mansu fetched a forked twig and slotted the persimmon onto it. Hoeun pursed his lips in a soft hoo, accepted it with both hands, and began rotating it diligently over the fire.

“……”

One of Taemuk’s eyebrows lifted slightly. The feeling that rose in him was irritation—no, something stranger, something like being left out.

Chilbok, who knew Hoeun wouldn’t refuse a persimmon.

Dongja, happily finishing the rice Hoeun couldn’t eat.

Hoeun, accepting the persimmon with innocent delight.

Mansu, quietly taking care of him.

All of it too natural.

Soon, warmed by the fire, the persimmon grew soft. Hoeun drew it toward his lap and began peeling only the top—like opening a little lid.

Underneath: soft, glistening, deep-orange flesh. Hoeun scooped a piece with his spoon and offered it to Dongja.

“Would you like some?”

Dongja, face still buried in the taro stew bowl, waved a hand blindly.

“You eat it, young master.”

“Yes, then.”

Hoeun didn’t offer it to anyone else—only Dongja. As though he knew no one else would take it.

He placed a spoonful of persimmon into his mouth. The sweet, melting flavor made his eyes curve with quiet pleasure. The ripe fruit was soft yet pleasantly sticky, and before he could chew more than a few times, it slid smoothly down his throat. He didn’t mind; smiling faintly, he scooped another spoonful.

Watching him, Mansu asked in curious amazement:

“Young master, do you really get full off eating only things that just melt like that?”

“Yes.”

“How can you like fruit more than rice? Strange, very strange.”

Hoeun only smiled with his eyes, but Taemuk frowned.

“You like fruit?”

But before Hoeun could respond, Mansu answered for him.

“Of course he does. He’d die for fruit. Apples, melons, pears—he eats those real well, so Chilbok saves them up and brings them to him. And that’s not all. He eats dried persimmons great, and chestnuts too. That’s why last time Dongja gathered a whole bunch of chestnuts and gave them to Chilbok—to roast and eat with the young master.”

Taemuk stared at Mansu with a deepening frown, then turned back to Hoeun.

“Since when?”

This time, Gilsang—quietly eating his taro stew beside them—answered instead.

“Since he was little, they say. Rice and tteok make him sick half the time, but fruit? He’s never once gotten sick from that.”

“……”

Taemuk shot Gilsang an annoyed glare for answering without being asked. Then he suddenly turned to Seongim beside him.

“You know too? That he likes fruit?”

Seongim gave a brief nod. Taemuk’s brow tightened further. His metal spoon bent slightly in his grip—though he did not notice.

His gaze swept from left to right—Dongja, Mansu, Gilsang, Seongim—before finally landing on Byeonguk.

“…You didn’t know, right?”

There was a glimmer of hope on his face. But even Byeonguk nodded.

“I did know. He once gifted me fine chocolate, so I gave him an apple in return. He ate it well, sir.”

“……”

Taemuk bit the inside of his lower lip crookedly. His gaze swept back from right to left, over every soldier, and finally landed on Hoeun—who sat beside him, eating persimmon with pure, untroubled innocence. Peeling just the soft lid of the skin, scooping the flesh so gently it was clear he had done this many times.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“…Pardon? Tell you what?”

“That you like fruit.”

“……”

Hoeun blinked wide, round eyes at the sudden question. He looked at Taemuk, swallowed the persimmon in his mouth, and then apologized in his quiet, composed tone:

“I’m sorry.”

“……”

The apology came so quickly, so unhesitatingly, that Taemuk felt ridiculous—like a child pitching a fit.

Then Dongja, oblivious as ever, scolded him between noisy slurps of stew:

“What’s he got to be sorry for? Captain, you’re just slow. How do you not know? The young master can’t finish a bowl of rice, but he’ll gulp down a whole pear. All of us know that. You’re the only one who didn’t.”

“……”

Her words stabbed straight into him. Taemuk exhaled sharply through his nose, a burst of steam exploding out like a dragon’s snort.

“……”

Hoeun glanced at him anxiously, spoon frozen mid-air. Seeing that, Taemuk snapped irritably:

“What are you staring at? Just eat.”

“……”

“Eat.”

“Yes.”

Uncertain whether it was an order or a kindness, Hoeun resumed scooping the persimmon. Taemuk watched him intently.

The way his pale cheeks moved as he chewed—it was unfamiliar, almost strange. Beef, pork, chicken—he barely touched them, always nibbling, never finishing. Yet fruit? He ate it eagerly. Even loved it.

Grinding his teeth, Taemuk pressed a hand to his forehead. He felt… wronged. He had increased the food budget just to put something nourishing into this delicately raised young master—and he was eating fruit. Things that grew on trees.

Thinking this only made the irritation worse.

“What are you, a sparrow? You fill your stomach with this sort of thing?”

“But it tastes good. Would you like some, General?”

It had been petty provocation, yet Hoeun accepted it calmly and even offered Taemuk a spoonful.

“No, you eat—”

Taemuk turned his chin away from the spoon. But then his expression suddenly sharpened. He stared into the thick forest.

“……”

Everyone fell silent. Taemuk remained frozen, eyes fixed on the trees. Those seated around him stopped moving—Dongja scraping her bowl, Seongim lifting his spoon, even Hoeun, his lips touching the persimmon, went still.

Taemuk sprang to his feet. Then he strode boldly toward the forest. Gilsang snapped upright.

“Enemies, sir?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No. It’s only a few.”

Taemuk answered without even glancing back. Then he moved—long strides cutting through the snow—vanishing between the dense trees. All that remained were his footprints.

“……”

Hoeun stared blankly at the forest into which Taemuk disappeared. He hadn’t even had time to stop him. He should have offered to go with him—should have followed.

Once again, he had let him go alone.

Slowly, he looked down at the bowl Taemuk had set aside. Steam still rose gently; the rice was hardly touched.

“He didn’t… even finish his meal…”

He murmured, then turned his gaze back toward the forest. Gilsang comforted him gently.

“He said it’s only a few. He’ll be back quick. Please eat, young master.”

“…Yes.”

Hoeun nodded, but he could no longer eat the persimmon.

Fortunately, Taemuk had not lied—he returned quickly. Hoeun had expected him to emerge drenched in blood like a demon again, but this time only his hand and sleeve were stained.

Hovering near the forest, Hoeun ran to him at once.

“Are you hurt?”

“…No.”

Taemuk glanced at Hoeun’s worried face, then turned away awkwardly. He reached up, intending to push his bangs back, but seeing the blood on his hand, he let it fall again.

In the past, he wouldn’t have cared if blood smeared his face. But with Hoeun watching so closely—he couldn’t bring himself to.

…Couldn’t? Why couldn’t I?

Taemuk tilted his head, puzzled by his own reaction, but found no answer. He tightened his brow briefly, then shook the blood from his hand onto the snow.

A white handkerchief appeared before him—embroidered with a tiny flower. Hoeun’s handkerchief.

“Please wipe it.”

“No. I’ll wash it.”

Taemuk rejected it instantly. Hoeun’s handkerchief felt forbidden—too white, too soft.

If he held it, it felt like it would stain forever.