BW C26

Chapter 26

Hoeun’s hand holding the rice ball drooped limply. Just as he opened his mouth to say something—

“Gen—”

“Eat.”

Taemuk cut him off.

“…”

Tears filmed Hoeun’s eyes. With a trembling jaw he took another bite—much smaller than before. Even that he couldn’t swallow, so he only held it in his mouth.

“…”

Taemuk raised one brow, as if to say, What are you doing? The look was frightening enough, but Hoeun simply couldn’t get anything down.

“I… can’t eat any more.”

His voice was muffled; his face had gone markedly pale. Even his breathing was wrong—ragged and uneven.

At last, the rice ball slipped—plop—from his hand. It hadn’t crumbled, packed as tightly as it was, but rolled along the mat, picking up dirt and leaves.

Watching it, his vision spun. Then—

“Urgh…”

His upper body lurched. He clapped a hand over his mouth, darted a glance around, and thrust his face into the brazier. As blackened coals met his face, what had risen to his throat surged back up. With no water and only rice crammed down, the vomit was thick. His hands, gripping the brazier, went bone-white.

Huurk—ghk—huurkk…

He retched for a long time, until even what he’d eaten at lunch came up.

“Cough, cough…”

Lifting his head by sheer effort, he coughed hard and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Having emptied his stomach, he felt a little easier—but it seemed he’d vomited up his strength as well; his limbs had no power. The fever he hadn’t quite registered beneath the bloat rose around him like flames.

“Hah… hah…”

His head sagged lower, lower—when a large hand caught his chin and thrust half a rice ball before his eyes.

“Eat. Again.”

“…”

Hoeun blinked slowly; tears weighed his lashes.

“Why do… you… torment me… like this…”

He asked in a hoarse voice. A smirk touched Taemuk’s mouth. Pressing his thumb along Hoeun’s jaw, all bone and no flesh, he said,

“Torment you? I’m only concerned. It would be a disaster if the guide I found with such trouble starved to death.”

“…”

It was a lie no one could swallow. There was not a sliver of concern in Taemuk’s actions—only malice, malice, malice.

Now that it had come this far, anger rose in Hoeun as well. He slapped Taemuk’s hand—boldly. The rice ball flew. Taemuk’s face froze cold. Meeting it with a blurred gaze, Hoeun spoke.

“What you’ve done to disgrace me until now… I could accept as a Military God taking his guide.”

“…”

“But this—this is not it. This is a wrong act with no gain. How can a general so cruelly torment a subordinate—how can…”

“…”

Taemuk looked at the rice ball on the ground, then turned his eyes to Hoeun. There was no expression on his face—brutally blank.

“I can’t torment you?”

“…”

At that, Hoeun’s face slackened, stunned. He hadn’t expected the answer; he was at a loss for words, mouth working soundlessly until Taemuk closed his jaw for him—and then, with a surprisingly gentle touch, stroked his cheek.

“Why not. You people torment so much.”

“…”

Hoeun couldn’t tell who “you people” were, how much “so much” meant, or what “torment” was supposed to be. He felt only wronged, and bitterly so.

“What sin… have I committed against you, General…”

He whispered, voice threaded with tears. They rolled down his white cheeks in a steady stream. Taemuk watched without a flicker.

“Who knows. Maybe your sin is being born like this.”

“…Sir?”

“Or maybe your sin is that someone born like this— is my guide.”

Releasing his face, Taemuk toyed with his ribbon. The fine silk folded and crumpled in his hand. His black eyes went strangely cloudy, as if seeing some other place.

Then, in a flash, they sharpened like an arrowhead. At once, he yanked the ribboned hair back.

“Urk…”

Hoeun’s neck fell backward; the long, slender line seemed about to snap. Rising, Taemuk took the back of his head and drew it toward his loins.

“Open your mouth. If you won’t eat rice, you’ll eat something else.”

At that, Hoeun squeezed his eyes shut.

1. On the driven spear 

Clop-clop, tack-tack.

Hooves sounded, on and on, front and back, left and right—muffled, then crisp, then gone altogether.

“…”

Holding the reins, Hoeun stared fuzzily at the horse’s mane. His mind was fogged. He couldn’t tell if it was morning or afternoon. He couldn’t remember how he had dressed or mounted.

It was all the fever.

He had hoped it wouldn’t come—yet the fever had come.

Had he slept, he might have staved it off, but last night Taemuk had been unusually insistent; he had to take his flesh, and his lips, and even his fingers into his mouth, over and over. The memory was blurred, but he thought he hadn’t slept—only blacked out as the sky grew light.

On top of that, he’d vomited up the rice ball, his throat stung, his gut throbbed…

“Haa…”

His own breath felt hot enough to burn. Cold sweat dampened his brow; his fingers, gripping the reins, kept loosening.

I want to lie down.

I want to sleep.

The craving surged and surged. He despised himself for it—after lying down every day of his life, he still wanted to lie down? He loathed himself for struggling with a fever like this.

There were soldiers all around, wrapped in bandages from the stream fight— and here he was, with a paltry illness…

Get a hold of yourself. Don’t let go.

He bit hard at his lower lip—then, suddenly, something seemed to pop—sting.

He didn’t even blink. Taking Taemuk into his mouth night after night, this sort of wound meant nothing now.

Then—

“Young master.”

Gilsang, riding beside him, called.

“…”

Lost in the heat, Hoeun didn’t hear.

“Young master.”

At the second call, he looked to Gilsang.

“Y-yes?”

“Yer… yer lip’s bleeding.”

Gilsang pointed to his own mouth with his forefinger. Hoeun touched his lips; something wet came away—bright red.

“Ah—sorry, I’m sorry.”

He hurriedly wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Gilsang looked at him with an unreadable gaze—something pitying, something tender.

“You don’t owe me an apology.”

“…Do I not.”

Hoeun smiled faintly; Gilsang didn’t.

“You don’t look well. You’re not sick, are you?”

Asked in concern—at which Hoeun shook his head hard, startled. Even if he were dying, he could not say the words I’m sick.

“I’m not sick. Not at all… not sick.”

He forced his eyes wide to regain focus—and then, in a flash, his head went cold; his already hazed vision puckered into creases, and his body pitched forward.

“Hey—young master!”

Gilsang’s voice sounded far away.

Fortunately—or not—Hoeun came to quickly. But somehow he was sitting on the ground, not on a horse. A great tree loomed behind him; his legs were stretched out; his hands held leaves, not reins.

“Young master—are you with us?”

He lifted his eyes to the voice. Gilsang knelt on one knee before him. Behind him, Jeokudae’s line had halted; all were looking down at Hoeun. His horse, empty-saddled, looked down at him too.

Hoeun felt his heart drop. He had, after all, become a drag on their feet.

“I—I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

He apologized in a hoarse voice and reached for the tree to rise, but Gilsang pressed a hand to his shoulder.

“Don’t get up. You’re burnin’ up.”

“I’m all right.”

“No, you ain’t.”

“But…”

He was trying to push away Gilsang’s hand when hoofbeats clattered close and someone came through the soldiers.

“What is it.”

Taemuk.

“Captain—the young master’s got a raging fever.”

Gilsang turned so as not to block him. Taemuk’s gaze fell on Hoeun, flushed red with heat. Even leaning against the tree seemed too much; his neck and waist drooped so thinly.

But Taemuk did not worry.

“Haa…”

He only sighed. Hoeun glanced up at his face. He saw it there—annoyance, vexation, bother, encumbrance. Hoeun pressed his lower lip tight between his teeth.