BW C25

Chapter 25

“I’ll eat well.”

Hoeun offered a faint smile as he thanked the cook, at which the cook’s shoulders gave a small start.

“Ah, yes. If… if it’s not enough, say the word.”

“Mm.”

It likely wouldn’t be lacking, yet Hoeun nodded anyway.

Once the cook left, Hoeun looked down at the massive rice ball, then turned his head to glance at Taemuk, who was neither too near nor too far.

Seated among the soldiers, Taemuk was eating a rice ball with his characteristic blank face, and at the sight, Hoeun’s brows rose without his knowing.

Taemuk was a general. That rank was exceedingly rare, and exceedingly high. Not just high—in the military chain it stood at the very top. On the field, this meant he could be regarded as a king.

So it would be only proper to have a separate meal table brought; at the very least, a six-dish setting at every meal. Yet here he was, eating Jumeokbap-rice with subordinates in a circle.

It had long seemed to Hoeun that Jeokudae felt less like an army and more like a vast family—a large clan with cousins near and far living together. The fact that all called Taemuk “Captain” rather than “General” added to that feeling.

How long had they all been together? How close were they? Risking life and death together daily, perhaps they were even closer than the “family” Hoeun thought of in the abstract.

As he drifted in such thoughts, Taemuk happened to lift his head. Startled, Hoeun quickly turned away lest their eyes meet, then moved to eat his own rice ball. But—

“Ah…”

The moment he opened his mouth, the corner split with a tiny crack—sharp pain flared. The wound left by taking Taemuk’s flesh into his mouth had not yet healed.

How could it have healed? Whenever it began to knit, he would take Taemuk into his mouth; whenever a scab began to form, there would be another kiss—no wonder it worsened by the day.

“Mm…”

Face scrunched with fine pain, Hoeun pressed his lips with his sleeve. Someone was watching him, but he did not notice.

Once the sting dulled, he turned the rice ball about and took a tiny bite from a less angular side.

The rice ball was rice mixed with seaweed and pressed, stuffed with stir-fried kimchi; it was quite tasty. Still, after a few bites, it stuck in his throat.

Just then, another cook came around with ladles of soybean paste soup. There was hardly any solid in it, but it steamed warmly, and to Hoeun’s sore mouth and throat it was more welcome than the rice ball.

He ate what was given with diligence—not from hunger, but because it felt as if that were what he ought to do. It felt like courtesy to Jeokudae, to the cooks, and to Taemuk.

But when he had eaten about half the massive rice ball—

“Haa…”

Strength left his whole body. He couldn’t go on. He was never one to eat much, and being unwell took what appetite he had.

Above all, eating alone felt a little bitter.

He had never in his life eaten alone—always with his parents, or brothers, or with Deokwoo. Stuffing bland Jumeokbap-rice into his mouth with lips clamped tight made his chest feel stifled.

“Mmm…”

Holding the more-than-half-left rice ball, he glanced about. The soldiers had already finished theirs in no time; some scraped seaweed or kimchi from their fingers with their teeth, as if they wanted more.

Would it be wrong to offer this to them? Deokwoo would happily gulp down what he left, but offering leftovers to others—it wouldn’t be proper, would it? Still, should he ask?

He deliberated, then decided against it. No one would welcome it, he felt.

“I’ll… save it for later.”

Murmuring to himself, he set the rice ball down on his handkerchief. But his hands shook. He looked at his own palms.

Red lines ran across the white flesh—reins-marks. Unused to riding, he had gripped the reins with all his might; the marks remained.

They didn’t particularly hurt, but seeing the trembling, he thought he must have overdone it. He pressed and rubbed his palms. Then, suddenly, he noticed a small handful of flowers blooming at his feet—such a vivid, lovely color that his eyes went to them on their own.

“Balloon flowers…”

He gently stroked the purple petals with a fingertip. His mother loved flowers, and following her to look at this and that had taught him a fair number.

Instead of picking them, he bent close to smell them. Just as a faint smile touched his lips, a black shadow fell over his head.

“Doesn’t suit your taste, does it.”

It was Taemuk.

“Ah, G- General.”

Startled, Hoeun moved to rise.

“It’s fine. Sit.”

Taemuk stopped him, and at that, Hoeun awkwardly settled back down—then realized Taemuk’s gaze rested on the rice ball.

“No, it’s good. I’m just full…”

Hoeun dipped his chin. He was ashamed of not being able to finish even a single rice ball; a man, after all, ought to eat well, whatever it was.

“I… I’ll finish it.”

He bowed his head as he spoke—honestly, it was only talk. He had no confidence he could manage it, and in truth it was likely impossible. Yet Taemuk did not move on—standing as if to watch him eat.

“…”

Under his gaze, Hoeun reached for the rice ball—only for his trembling hand to drop it. It fell with a dull thud and broke apart. Leaves, grass, and dirt smeared the scattered grains and clumps.

“Ah, shit…”

Hoeun looked up at Taemuk, flustered.

“…”

Taemuk’s brow knit faintly—and he turned and walked away. Hoeun watched him go, anxiety tightening his face. Taemuk seemed angry; he prayed it was only his imagination.

Early evening found Hoeun sitting in formal seiza in Taemuk’s tent. They had encountered no monsters all day, and having found a decent place to camp, they had pitched the tents early.

While all ate supper, Hoeun went straight to Taemuk’s tent. The Jumeokbap-rice from lunch sat heavy in him; he could eat nothing.

“Haa…”

Exhaling hot breath, he pressed his forehead. Heat throbbed beneath his palm. With nightfall, the fever was spreading its hold; he needed rest, but there was no rest to be had—by day they were on the move, and by night… no rest then, either.

He wished he could at least lie down a little. But this wasn’t his space; it was Taemuk’s, and he couldn’t just lie down as he pleased.

“Mmm…”

Still—perhaps just sit comfortably for a moment. Taemuk would likely come late at night—he always did. Until then, a little—so he thought, just as—

Flap.

The tent flap stirred and Taemuk appeared. At the unexpected arrival, Hoeun’s hunched back straightened.

“Y-you’re here.”

In an instant, the fever-bright color drained from Hoeun’s face. The thought of having to do obscene acts again made his already knotted insides twist up tighter.

But what could he do—that was his work.

Unwittingly, he passed his tongue over the split at his mouth—and Taemuk strode to him, crouched before him, and set something heavy down with a soft thump.

A rice ball—the same as at lunch.

“Eat,” Taemuk said.

“…”

Hoeun stared at the snow-white, massive Jumeokbap-rice. Was he… looking after him because he hadn’t eaten supper? If so, he should be grateful—but he wasn’t in any state to eat it now.

“Thank you for bringing it. But could I have it in the morning? My stomach is a little—”

“No.”

“…Sir?”

“Eat it now.”

“…”

At that, Hoeun felt a foreboding. His back went cold; sweat beaded his palms. Taemuk jerked his chin at the rice ball and spoke again.

“Eat. Quickly.”

“…”

“You need to get used to the food here. No matter how noble you are, we can’t cook special meals for you every time.”

“…”

Hoeun’s lashes trembled. Special meals? He had never asked for such a thing; all he’d wanted in this place was a bowl of thin scorched rice water. It felt unjust—but he knew Taemuk would not hear his grievance.

Paler than before, he slowly picked up the rice ball.

“…I will eat with thanks.”

Softly offering thanks, he bit off a corner. It tasted just like the one at lunch—the same heft and size—or perhaps even heavier. It felt like lifting a boulder.

He chewed the rice and swallowed. Taemuk watched him with eyes gone bright.

Hoeun bit, chewed, and swallowed again—then again, and again. After a dozen-odd repetitions, half the rice ball was gone—and Hoeun’s stomach was full.