BW C195

Chapter 195

As they remained like that, Hoeun rested his cheek against Taemuk’s chest and asked,

“Did you kill all the Shikgoe?”

“Who knows.”

“Are you going out again today?”

“…Who knows.”

Taemuk’s eyelids blinked slowly.

Hoeun gazed up at him quietly. Between Taemuk’s lashes, sorrow, grief, guilt, and anger clung heavily, layered one upon another. As he took in each of those emotions, Hoeun tightened the arms wrapped around him.

“If you want to go, then go. But until the sun rises, you have to stay with me. Like this.”

“…Alright.”

Taemuk gently stroked the back of Hoeun’s head. Then his hand slowly moved downward, trailing along the length of his braided hair, until the smooth silk ribbon brushed softly against his fingers.

He liked touching Hoeun like this.

And Hoeun liked it too.

To be loved—to be cherished—was always something that brought joy.

Breathing softly, Hoeun fumbled until he found Taemuk’s hand and held it. It was smooth, without a single scar—yet he knew better than anyone how often that hand had been torn and battered.

Hoeun carefully stroked it, rubbed it, tended to it with quiet devotion—hoping, even a little, to ease Taemuk’s pain.

Then suddenly—

The chest he was leaning against swelled sharply, as though filled with air.

Before Hoeun could even look up, his hand was seized.

“What happened to your hand?”

Only then did Hoeun remember the burn on the back of his hand. He had completely forgotten it, having felt no pain.

“I spilled porridge while eating.”

He answered casually, brushing it off despite everything that had happened. If Taemuk found out Dongja hadn’t been eating, he would only worry more.

But Taemuk’s expression twisted sharply.

“Porridge? The kind you eat?”

“Yes.”

“…You really find all kinds of ways to get hurt, don’t you.”

Grinding his teeth, Taemuk brought Hoeun’s hand closer, inspecting the burn with obsessive care.

A burn—on these hands.

These delicate, beautiful hands.

His already heated mind burned hotter with anger and irritation.

“That’s because of you, General. You didn’t eat with me, so I ended up spilling it.”

Hoeun muttered petulantly, tapping his heel lightly against the wooden floor.

It was a complaint—a childish protest, asking him to stop wandering outside and stay by his side.

A part of him also wanted Taemuk to feel sorry.

“So—”

Hoeun began to speak further, but suddenly snapped back to his senses.

What had he just said?

To someone carrying the weight of eighty lives?

His breath caught for a moment before he abruptly lifted his upper body and wrapped his arms tightly around Taemuk’s neck.

“No—no. That’s not it. It’s not your fault. I made a mistake. It’s my fault.”

He clung to him, pulling him closer, adjusting his hold as if he would never let go.

Like a frightened squirrel.

And truly—Hoeun was afraid.

Afraid that he might have hurt Taemuk.

Afraid that he had added yet another wound to a heart already torn to shreds.

“……”

Taemuk said nothing.

Then, with a faint smile, he gently patted Hoeun’s small back.

The way Hoeun fretted over something so trivial, fearing it might hurt him—it was unbearably endearing.

“It’s alright. Really. Let me see your hand.”

“……”

“Hurry.”

At his urging, Hoeun slid back down between Taemuk’s legs and obediently held out his hand.

Taemuk examined it carefully, then let out a deep sigh and began to rise.

“Let’s put some medicine on it.”

But Hoeun shook his head vigorously and clung to his neck again.

“Later. Not now.”

“Hoeun.”

“Not now. Right now, I’m just going to stay in your arms.”

“……”

With no choice, Taemuk sat back down, supporting Hoeun as he clung to him.

Even then, he continued inspecting Hoeun’s hand before suddenly reaching into his coat.

He pulled out something white and square.

A handkerchief.

The one Hoeun’s mother had embroidered with pink azalea flowers in each corner.

Hoeun’s eyes widened.

“You… carried that with you?”

“…Yeah.”

Taemuk answered shortly and began wrapping the handkerchief around Hoeun’s hand.

The cold air was harsh—he worried it might sting the wound, or make it worse. Hoeun’s skin was so delicate it seemed it could be scratched even by the wind.

Furrowing his brow, Taemuk carefully tied the cloth.

Hoeun watched him intently.

Perhaps misunderstanding that gaze, Taemuk spoke as if offering an unasked excuse.

“I didn’t wipe blood with it. Only water. You said it was a delicate flower.”

As he spoke, he lightly tapped the embroidered azalea at the corner.

“……”

At that, Hoeun’s eyes grew warm.

The handkerchief was spotless—without a single stain. It had been neatly folded, leaving crisp cross-shaped creases, and the embroidery was perfectly intact.

Taemuk had taken great care of it.

It was only thread—but the fact that he had remembered his words, that he had handled it so gently—

It made Hoeun grateful.

And it made him ache.

Someone who cherished even the flower on a handkerchief—

How had he ended up in such a cruel, blood-soaked battlefield for so long?

How had he come to bear the weight of so many lives as a General?

“…General… how did you become a General?”

“What kind of question is that.”

“You weren’t always a General, were you?”

Only now did he find himself asking.

He had been curious for a long time—but only now did he have the courage.

No—now he needed to know.

He was bound to him by fate. He could heal the wounds on his body—but not the ones in his heart.

Perhaps if he knew his past, he could at least comfort him. Hold him.

“……”

Taemuk did not answer easily.

So Hoeun met his gaze and whispered softly,

“I want to know. The moment you first stepped onto the battlefield.”

“……”

“No—the time when you had no choice but to step onto it.”

“……”

Having finished tying the knot of the handkerchief, Taemuk straightened up.

His expression was dark—irritated, perhaps, or pained… and strangely, almost afraid.

Noticing this, Hoeun placed a hand over his and soothed him.

“If you don’t want to talk about it, you don’t have to.”

“It’s not some grand story…”

Taemuk turned his head toward the far end of the courtyard. His eyes were clouded—not seeing the present, but the past.

“……”

Hoeun waited silently.

After a long while—after repeating and retracing his thoughts, after swallowing dryly—Taemuk finally spoke.

“It’ll take longer than sunrise. It’s a long story.”

“That’s good. Then I can hold you longer.”

Hoeun hugged him tightly, as if to prove it.

Taemuk let out a dry chuckle and returned the embrace.

“…Yeah. Then we can stay like this longer.”

Slowly breathing in Hoeun’s scent, Taemuk began his long story—

Not grand, nor extraordinary—

But long.

14. Through the Blood-Soaked Past

That day, the snow fell heavier than ever, and the cold was harsher than ever.

It was so cold that his cheeks cracked, and the tip of his nose froze. He could neither laugh nor cry. If he so much as scrunched his face, it felt as though his eyes, nose, and mouth might all shatter and fall apart.

Taemuk, who had just turned eight, struggled with his still-small body as he carried hay.

It was feed for the horses.

Among the countless tasks he performed, feeding the horses was the most important. The master of the house, who owned them, cherished the horses as though they were his own children.

Each season, he fed them different fodder. He even mixed salt into their water, raising them with utmost care.

Of course—

What the master did was merely supervise with exaggerated devotion.

In truth, it was Taemuk who raised them.

Still—that was how it was.

“I’m back.”

Carrying an armful of hay, Taemuk stepped into the stable.

The horses lined up inside neighed in response, tossing their heads and snorting eagerly.

“I know. You’re hungry, right? Just wait a bit.”

Murmuring to himself, Taemuk approached the feeding trough.

Standing on his tiptoes, he placed the hay inside and generously scattered feed mixed with beans and barley.

As if they had been waiting, the horses immediately buried their faces into the trough.

Watching them, Taemuk smiled with quiet satisfaction.

Then—

“Ah.”

He suddenly hurried over to the nearby water trough.

As expected, the water he had filled that morning had already frozen solid.

“…It’s all frozen.”

Sniffling once, Taemuk grabbed a rake out of habit.

Turning it upside down, he struck the ice repeatedly.

Fortunately, only the surface had frozen—soon it cracked, and water bubbled up beneath.

With lips pursed in concentration, Taemuk broke apart even the ice clinging to the edges.

His hands were cracked and raw—white and red from the cold.

Just then—

“What are you doing?”

A young voice called out from behind him.

Taemuk stiffened.

He did not turn immediately.

Instead, he took a few slow breaths—

Then turned.

“…Young Master.”

Standing there was the Young Master.

Born around the same time as Taemuk—

Yet sharing nothing but age with him.