BW C61

Chapter 61

Taemuk sat across with arms folded, staring at Hoeun with a dogged intensity. Then, just as Hoeun lifted his third spoonful, he couldn’t hold back and asked, “Why aren’t you eating the meat.”

Watching Hoeun pick out only the swollen grains and leave all the meat made him feel stifled to death. How was he supposed to recover like that. How was he supposed to put flesh on that stick-thin frame.

Taemuk picked up his chopsticks. Hoeun slid the earthen bowl toward him, thinking he meant to eat.

Taemuk tore off a portion near the leg, where the meat had cooked tender. The flesh came apart in fine strands like thread. He held it, thought for a moment, then split it again and dropped a piece onto Hoeun’s spoon.

“…”

At the unexpected turn, Hoeun looked up at Taemuk. Taemuk looked back at him, one brow slightly raised, as if to say, Why aren’t you eating it—do you dislike what I give you. Flustered, Hoeun brought the meat to his mouth.

It was mortifying and embarrassing over nothing. At home, even parents and brothers got scolded for not being allowed to put side dishes in his bowl, so he was used to such things—and yet, taking food from Taemuk was somehow different.

“Chilbok seemed unlike himself. Did something happen?”

Chewing the chicken well, Hoeun picked up the cut thread of talk. At that, Taemuk slouched, sending an arm back behind him. Angling his gaze off to one side, he spoke without much care.

“Just that… I have something I ought to say, and he’s acting like that to make me say it.”

“You have something to say to Chilbok?”

“No, to you.”

“…To me?”

Hoeun tilted his head. They had been talking all this while—what more was there? Was there something about the village he didn’t know? He had nothing more he wished to ask. But if Taemuk meant to tell him, he could listen.

Setting his chopsticks down, Hoeun readied himself to focus on what he would say. But Taemuk picked up the chopsticks again—only one. He gripped it tight, spun it once in the air, stared doggedly at the blunt end. Then, unhappy with something, he clicked his tongue and set it down again.

It was a baffling action. Wondering if something had gotten on the chopsticks, Hoeun looked toward them—when Taemuk, arm outstretched, suddenly snatched up the sword propped on the cabinet. He whisked it out.

“…”

Hoeun’s breath stopped for a beat. The sword was, exaggerating a little, as long as Hoeun was tall. Its edge was keen, and each time it swayed, the gleam sliced his retina sharply. Such a threatening thing hardly suited a table setting. Unawares, Hoeun drew in his chin.

Taemuk half-turned the sword and held the hilt out to him.

“Stab.”

Hoeun blinked at the blade now before his nose. Then, with a guileless face, he asked,

“Stab what? The chicken? But the sword is much too large to carve a chicken, is it not?”

If he tried carving a chicken with that, not just the bird but the tray would be cleaved in two. There was no need for a knife with meat so tender—so he thought—when Taemuk gave a short laugh.

“Not the chicken.”

“Then what?”

“Me.”

“…Sir? What do you mean…”

“I wouldn’t be bedridden for five days like you—but I’d hurt for half a day.”

In his characteristic indifferent tone, Taemuk went on. Then suddenly he frowned and smoothed it out—having realized what he hadn’t thought of.

“On the premise you don’t touch me.”

“…”

Hoeun only fixed him with a steady gaze, making no particular reply. However he read that look, Taemuk nodded and, in a tone that said he had expected as much, said,

“Right—half a day wouldn’t be enough. Then stab me whenever I heal. You can make it five full days. Longer if you like. Ten stabs or so should do.”

“…”

Hoeun’s mouth fell slightly open. Was he telling him to stab Taemuk with that sword, ten times, over five days? Had he understood right? Why? Why do such a thing—to what end, with what purpose?

Even so, at the savage flash of the blade, Hoeun subtly leaned his torso away. He had no wish to be near a sword.

“Why would I stab the General.”

“Because I…” He swallowed, then continued. “Because I hurt you.”

At that, Hoeun only looked at him again without a word. His long lashes moved slow—flutter, flutter. Whenever Taemuk said or did something without an obvious reason, Hoeun’s response was always like this. He was trying to understand.

“Are you saying—since you hurt me, I should hurt you too?”

“Yes.”

“So—you mean to say I should take revenge.”

“Oh, that’s right.”

Taemuk’s brows lifted faintly—a hint of welcome. The word “revenge” was apt beyond measure. But unlike him, Hoeun’s brows crumpled.

“Why should I take revenge.”

“Then what do you want to do,” Taemuk asked, tilting his chin slightly. His look said that if there was something he wanted, he would grant it. Still failing to understand, Hoeun said,

“Just… offer an apology. Isn’t that enough?”

For a moment, Taemuk’s hand gave a small tremor. It was a tiny motion, but the whole blade wavered, so it could not be missed.

“…An apology?”

“Yes. An apology.”

“…”

Taemuk closed his mouth. The silence puzzled and disconcerted Hoeun.

“Are you… not sorry to me?”

Could that be it? I hurt you, so I’ll let you stab me—but I don’t want to apologize? Because of pride? Well—perhaps. Taemuk was a high man. He might get angry—what underling dares speak of apologies from a superior.

But then Taemuk’s gaze, which had been on Hoeun, crept away to the tip of the blade, as if abashed.

“Chilbok made a damned fuss that I hurt you.”

“…”

“The others, too—raising hell.”

While Hoeun lay ill, Taemuk had to endure Gilsang’s measured reproach, Dongja and Mansu’s noisy reproaches, and Chilbok’s flounder-eyed glares. Remembering them, he clicked his tongue.

Suddenly, Hoeun reached for the sword. Taemuk quickly half-turned it—angling the edge down and the blunt back up. Thus, Hoeun’s hand touched the spine.

His small Adam’s apple bobbed. A tingle of chill ran up his arm from the sword’s particular cold. It was his first time touching such a thing. Though there were several famed blades at home, his parents would never let him near them lest he get hurt.

The flashing edge was unpleasant to behold. The sword Gilsang had held toward monsters had been fine—but this, he disliked. It was a blade leveled by human against human.

Pressing the spine down, Hoeun said,

“It doesn’t matter what others think.”

“…”

“Are you sorry—to me, General.”

“…”

In truth, Taemuk had no need to apologize. He was a Military God and a general; Hoeun was a guide and a subordinate.

If Taemuk ordered Hoeun to die, used as bait for monsters, then that was what he was to do. Just as the slaughtered villagers had tilled those fields at the nobleman’s command, so too were Hoeun and Taemuk’s ranks laid out.

In such a relation, apology—being sorry—neither could exist nor needed to.

Hoeun knew this well, and yet he wanted to be certain of Taemuk’s heart. Only then did it seem he could sketch a future for their relation.

“…”

Taemuk parted his lips as if to speak—but closed them without saying anything. He frowned, as if the conversation was uncomfortable. Then he lifted the sword that Hoeun had been pressing down and held it out again.

“Just stab me. It will be more satisfying than getting an apology.”

“It is not satisfying.”

“Why. Is that not enough?”

“That’s not it.”

“Then?”

“I don’t want the General to be hurt.”

Hoeun slowly shook his head. Then he lifted the scabbard and offered it to Taemuk—meaning, put away the sword. But Taemuk did not take it.

“Why.”

“Sir?”

“Why don’t you want me to be hurt. I hurt you.”

At the question, oddly accusatory, Hoeun set one end of the scabbard on the ground. It was heavy for what it was. With a face more tired than before, he gave his answer.

“Because the General hurt me does not mean I must hurt the General.”

“Then?”

“Just… say you’re sorry.”

The talk had returned to the beginning. From the start, that was all Hoeun had wanted. No—he had not even wanted that. He had not expected Taemuk to act like this at all. He had thought only that their relation would head for ruin, and that days by Taemuk’s side would not be easy.

Instead, Taemuk watched his mood, applied ointment to him, and saw to his meal. They had wrestled over whether to give him trousers, but that too was because he was wary that Hoeun might leave.

And—though he was advancing a bizarre logic of, You are in pain, so I will be in pain too—still, he seemed to recognize that he had hurt him.

All of it was unexpected. In Taemuk’s position, subordinates become more trivial than grass underfoot—especially on a battlefield.

In any case, Hoeun did not particularly desire Taemuk’s apology—but if he had to choose between stabbing him with a sword and receiving an apology, of course it would be the latter.

“…Is that all?”

Taemuk asked, a look of incomprehension.

“Yes. That is all.”

Hoeun nodded, neat and firm.