BW C29

Chapter 29

While Hoeun was gazing at him blankly, Gilsang appeared.

“Young master, how’s the body? Think you can ride?”

“Uh…”

Hoeun couldn’t answer easily. After toying with the silk ribbon for a moment, he shook his head.

“Alone, it seems hard…”

“Then… should we rest a bit more before going?”

“No. I’ll ask the General.”

Hoeun spoke the word “General” with deliberate emphasis.

“…”

At that, Gilsang stared, nonplussed—what’s gotten into him, his look said. Hoeun gave him an awkward smile and turned back to Taemuk, swallowed hard, and smoothed his neatly tied hair again. Then, like a cat, he approached in quiet steps.

“Um… General.”

At Hoeun’s low call, Taemuk looked down at him. Specks of blood, scattered from a night of fighting, dotted one cheek and the corner of his eye.

It suited him—fittingly so. Black hair falling to his eyes and a chiselled jaw could not be more manly. Hoeun held his breath a second, then folded his hands at his lower abdomen and bowed.

“I—I apologize for the trouble yesterday. I’ll watch my health so I cause no further harm.”

“…”

“I heard there was fighting in the night—were you… hurt at all…”

Taemuk gave no reply. He only looked down at Hoeun with a cool gaze—so heavy that Hoeun felt pressed downward, as if the blood-soaked, muddy ground were swallowing his feet.

Even so, he did not sink; he stepped a half pace nearer. His shoe peeled from the muck with a rip.

“Um, p-perhaps… perhaps…”

His lips worked. He had prepared words, but they would not come. He had never had to ask favors of anyone. In that instant, one corner of Taemuk’s mouth slanted up.

“And if I were hurt, what then.”

“Sir?”

“Gonna suck me off right here for it?”

“…”

Hoeun froze, mouth parted. How could he say something so profane—out here, under open sky. His gaze, until now fixed straight on Taemuk, skittered aside. Sure enough, the soldier studying the map with Taemuk cleared his throat and edged back.

“…”

Heat spread over Hoeun’s face. He couldn’t tell whether it was fever or shame.

Or perhaps anger.

If Taemuk would be so high-handed, he would be so as well. With that, Hoeun drew a deep breath, looked straight at him with a chill face, and enunciated,

“Please give me a lift.”

“A lift—what?”

“Me.”

“To where?”

“On your horse, General.”

“…”

It was a look Hoeun had never seen—neither anger nor irritation, but sheer incredulity. Yet his odd behavior didn’t stop there.

“I’m still sick. V—very sick.”

It wasn’t a lie—his forehead was still warm. His head wasn’t spinning as yesterday, and he could probably ride alone—but he still had a fever. He took another step closer.

“If I collapse again, you’ll have to stop. We’ve already been delayed by monsters; it wouldn’t do to be delayed further.”

“And?”

“Please carry me. On your horse.”

Hoeun raised both arms high, like a child asking to be picked up.

“…”

Taemuk said nothing for a long moment, staring at him with a face beyond displeased—bewildered. Then he scrunched one cheek and asked,

“…Are you insane?”

It was a reasonable inference: yesterday, Hoeun had sworn he’d die before riding his horse; today he was the opposite. Only “insane” fit. But instead of anger, Hoeun nodded.

“When a fever’s bad, one’s mind can wander. Perhaps the strongest general in the world wouldn’t know.”

“…”

Taemuk was at a loss. Asking a madman if he was mad was pointless. Then Hoeun spread his fingers wide and rose a little on his heels.

Hurry. Quickly. Pick me up. Please.

He looked as if he were throwing a tantrum. Taemuk only stared at those pale, faintly pink fingertips floating in the air. As the odd standoff dragged on, a few soldiers a short distance away began tossing comments, as yesterday.

“General, aren’t we moving out?”

“Planning to stay till lunch?”

“Should we pitch the tents again?”

“…”

At the pointed jabs, Taemuk shot a glare over his shoulder. Eyes scattered. Blood-caked as they were, their pupils glinted with mischief. He shoved his fringe back with an irritable hand and glared at Hoeun.

“Why would I put you on my—”

For once, Hoeun cut him off.

“Because I’m the Captain’s guide. If not you, who takes me?”

“…”

Taemuk froze, mouth slightly open. There were those in the unit who dared gainsay him—but Hoeun’s stubbornness was on a different level; so was his bearing, and his eyes—needlessly firm and straight.

“Haa…”

Taemuk looked up at the sky with a face that said, Can’t leave him, can’t kill him—what now.

“General.”

Hoeun called again. The whisper-soft, honeyed tenor wrinkled Taemuk’s brows to a knot. Grinding his teeth, he seized one of Hoeun’s arms and hoisted up. The light body dropped with a plop onto the front of his saddle; the skirts of the fine-silk cheollik flared and fluttered.

“…”

Startled, Hoeun hunched his neck. After a few panting breaths, he stretched his folded legs out and wriggled into place—like a brazen cat claiming a bed with a sprawl.

Taemuk gave a short, incredulous laugh. After a glance at him, he clicked his tongue and turned back.

“Move out.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Here we go.”

“We’ll hang back a bit—don’t mind us, Captain.”

The soldiers replied with voices tinged with laughter. Instead of snapping at them, Taemuk only clamped hard on the reins. They were his men, after all; he couldn’t rip their jaws off like monsters.

“…”

As the horse moved, Hoeun swallowed hard. He had managed to get on, just as planned—but now what?

Cling close, cling close, cling close…

Even repeating Chilbok’s words, nothing came. Just… fling himself into his arms? But his body wouldn’t move. Yesterday, out of his senses with fever, he hadn’t even felt shame; now his head was too clear.

Ah—if only he were truly, thoroughly sick… He was thinking just that when the horse, threading dense forest, sprang over a fallen tree. Fixated on Taemuk’s chest, Hoeun hadn’t braced; the rough jolt swept him up whole.

“Uagh…”

His hips lifted, and he smacked his face into Taemuk’s chest. He tried to get up, but it wasn’t easy; his hand slid off the horse’s back; he couldn’t very well grab Taemuk; his body kept rocking…

After a little fumbling, wriggling, squirming, he soon gave out. With his cheek pressed to that broad chest, he looked up and apologized.

“S—sorry. It startled me…”

“…”

Taemuk didn’t answer—eyes forward, face as blank as ever. Crestfallen, Hoeun dropped his gaze—then raised it again.

“…”

There was something—different about Taemuk’s face. He couldn’t say what—but different, nonetheless. Eight times out of ten, the face he’d known had been expressionless—he knew it well.

He recalled Chilbok’s words again.

“No Military God can turn away when his guide clings.”

Right—cling close!

Hoeun quietly slid his arms around Taemuk’s waist. It was the first time—he had ever touched him of his own accord. Taemuk’s brow knotted at once.

“Let go.”

“I—I’m afraid I’ll fall. I’ve not much riding experience…”

He stammered. It wasn’t an outright lie—he was afraid Taemuk would throw him off. If Taemuk pushed him away, he wouldn’t fall; for that, he hugged tighter.

But—

“…”

Taemuk said nothing, did nothing. His face still full of irritation, he didn’t grab Hoeun by the hair and smash him to the ground, nor crush the wrists at his waist.

“…”

A quiet smile edged up Hoeun’s lips. So the “cling close” plan worked—astonishing, delightful.

He wriggled nearer; soon their chests touched. Taemuk’s sigh brushed his crown, but Hoeun shamelessly coiled into his hold.

Today, the smell from Taemuk’s chest was more blood than his own scent. There was cold wind, and the wool of uniform. Yet it felt neither rank nor unpleasant—just like Taemuk. Thinking it the smell of a hero who saved the nation and its people, it felt almost an honor.

With one cheek buried in Taemuk’s chest, Hoeun watched the trees whip past—autumn fully upon them, reddening in silence.