BW C68

Chapter 68

“Ch-chew it… swallow it…”

Hoeun’s cheeks turned pale. Why in heaven’s name would he chew off a finger? The encampment had pigs and chickens aplenty to butcher and eat. Still, Taemuk’s words meant he would neither cut nor eat his fingers, which in itself was relief enough.

“Then why… my hand?”

Without answering, Taemuk scooped ointment with his forefinger and applied it gently onto Hoeun’s shriveled fingertips.

“…”

The turn of events was so unexpected Hoeun’s brows arched like gulls’ wings. Why on his hands, he thought—when,

“Ow…”

A moan slipped from him unbidden. He had thought his fingers merely wrinkled from water, but each touch of ointment stung faintly, as if tiny, unseen wounds had opened.

At that sound, a line etched between Taemuk’s brows. When applying balm to his rear, Hoeun had given only a grunt or groan, but now came a soft, “Ow.” Stooping his back deeply, Taemuk set about carefully treating every fingertip.

“Your flesh is too soft. You can’t handle kitchen work, or anything like it. From now on, don’t try again.”

“But…”

“You go to every length to resist what’s asked of you. And yet here you are forcing yourself into the very things you’re not asked to do. Why?”

“That’s because…”

Hoeun lowered his eyes to the hand being treated. To suffer from such a trivial hurt—shameful. Chilbok had scrubbed twice as many cucumbers without complaint. Indeed, as Taemuk said, his hands were far too tender.

“I only… I only wanted to be of use. I thought if I did something, even these weak hands might gain a little worth…”

At that, Taemuk gave a short laugh. A scoff. The reaction made a crease form above Hoeun’s eyebrows. It felt as though his efforts had been dismissed. Taemuk—a Military God, the strongest of all Military Gods—no doubt had never known even a speck of what it meant to feel “useless.” And yet, was it not the virtue of those above to look kindly upon those beneath them…?

As Hoeun tried to pull his hand away, saying treatment was quite enough, Taemuk’s voice cut back, sounding like he thought the question itself was foolish:

“Was washing cucumbers ever your true worth? Your worth is staying by my side.”

“…”

Hoeun’s eyes widened a touch. He looked again at the hand clasped in Taemuk’s—a hand pressed close to his, held firm.

Yes, he thought. That was the truth. He had forgotten for a moment. His greatest use was not scullery work. It was being Taemuk’s guide. Not the tangible acts of guarding a storehouse or cooking or carrying—but that which was unseen, not counted as work, and yet indispensable.

“You are right. I am your guide, General…”

Hoeun smiled faintly.

“…”

Taemuk said nothing more, focusing on his work. Only when every one of Hoeun’s fingers was coated, sticky with ointment, did he finally release him.

Hoeun gazed quietly at his profile. Then realized—his hand was warm. Warmer than it should have been. Not scalding as before, but certainly hot. Without even realizing it, Hoeun slid a half-palm’s length closer to sit by his side.

“Today… you didn’t exert yourself?”

“Not particularly.”

Snapping the lid of the ointment jar closed, Taemuk answered indifferently. Hoeun swallowed dryly, then asked timidly,

“Even so… should I hold your hand? Just in case.”

At once, Taemuk’s hands stilled from capping the jar.

“Though you haven’t used energy today, perhaps… it’s best if I… caught it beforehand. To be safe…”

As he spoke, Hoeun brushed the long tie of his braid that had fallen forward back over his shoulder. “Beforehand,” he’d said. He himself scarcely knew what he meant. A guide’s role was to restore a Military God if wounded, or if overexertion had drained his life-force. To supplement when lacking, never to bolster what was whole. So what sense was there in “beforehand”?

Hoeun pressed his eyes shut tight, cursing himself. Foolish. He should not have said it. Surely Taemuk would laugh at him for it.

And yet…

“…Do as you like.”

The answer was wholly unexpected. Hoeun’s lashes flew upward. He looked down at Taemuk’s hand, resting large and dark atop his thick thigh.

Any Military God could never refuse when his guide clung close.

No exception, not even our Captain.

The words Chilbok once said returned to him. Truly, he thought, I am his guide. His chest filled, tight and brimming.

Smiling, he reached out… only to halt in midair.

“Ah…”

His hand was still slick with ointment. It coated not just the fingertips but every finger. If he grasped now, the mess would stain Taemuk’s hand.

“…”

Seeing this, Taemuk frowned, as if regretting even having treated them.

Hoeun looked between his hand and Taemuk’s. Then, abruptly, he rose to his feet, standing directly before him. Taemuk frowned up, as though to ask what he was doing.

“P-pardon me.”

Apologizing softly, Hoeun clambered awkwardly onto Taemuk’s lap. He meant to embrace him—just as once he had when riding with him upon a horse. To encircle his waist, rest against his chest—that, surely, would please him. Perhaps even bring him support.

Hoeun climbed diligently. Yet the moment his knee touched Taemuk’s hard thigh, he slipped, sliding right down. With hands greased in ointment, he could not clutch at him, arms flailing uselessly in the air.

“Fool…”

With a sigh, Taemuk’s great hand came to support his back. His other gripped his hips. He pulled upward, drawing Hoeun entire into his embrace. Hoeun’s cheek landed against Taemuk’s bare chest with a smack, leaving him stiff with shock.

“Ah, um…”

“What. Is this not what you wanted?”

“…Yes, but still…”

This was the pose he had envisioned—but pressed against him so close, flesh to flesh, discomfort prickled all over, unfamiliar and awkward. His hips shifted, shoulders squirmed, arms twitched restlessly. Until Taemuk’s voice rumbled low, scolding,

“Can’t you keep still? What kind of noble fidgets so?”

“…”

Silenced, Hoeun dropped his arms and forced calm. This was only the continuation of his “cling-close stratagem.” Thinking so, his discomfort eased a little. The awkwardness, though, remained. And the blush.

“N-next time, I should hold your hand before the ointment.”

He muttered nonsense, certain Taemuk would ignore it. But instead—

“…What does it matter if a little ointment smears.”

The deep voice sank down onto his head, vibrating through collarbones beneath his ear, resonating into him. The sound was oddly comforting.

Hoeun’s body relaxed. Against his cheek, Taemuk’s smooth skin felt wholly different from his own—it was like wearing an armor of flesh, or the leather of some beast, tough yet supple. Fascinated, he rubbed his cheek against it.

Thump.

Something pulsed in Taemuk’s chest. What was it? Pressing closer, Hoeun listened. The sound deepened, steady.

Thump, thump, thump.

At last, he realized it was the beat of Taemuk’s heart.

So—you have a heart, too.

It was obvious, and yet astonishing. For Taemuk felt nothing like an ordinary man. Not quite a monster, but rather like a god. And here, the god’s heart beat in his ears.

Hoeun nestled closer, sliding fully into his embrace, pressing his ear now against that chest, listening harder.

The beat grew stronger. Whether from pressing nearer, or truly quickening, he could not know.

Chapter 6. Gathered Winds

“Haa…”

Stroking a horse’s mane, Hoeun let out a deep sigh. Then, gazing at the broad plain stretching endless before him, sighed once more.

It had been two whole days. Two days of doing nothing, letting time slip by.

After washing cucumbers that day, Hoeun had naturally sought out Chilbok again. But at the very sight of him, Chilbok shooed him away in alarm—told him not to come near. Other cooks nearby did not speak outright, but their eyes upon him were no warmer.

Not hostile, nor hateful—but fearful.

Hoeun took it to mean they worried he might spoil the food. Thus, he had not insisted on helping further. And so he spent the days with nothing to do—wasting time.

“What in the world am I supposed to do…”

He murmured, combing the horse’s mane gently with his fingers.

Perhaps he should read. But no—how could he, while all around were so busy, all but him? Even if Taemuk told him to do as he pleased, he could not accept that of himself.

“…”

Then should he build strength instead? Learn swordsmanship, or the handling of firearms—something of the sort.

The thought sparked his eyes bright.

“Yes… That could be it.”

At last, something he could do. A chance to make himself of worth as a man of his own. But then—

“…Sigh.”

His face soon fell again. To learn took a teacher. A master. He would have to ask someone. But Gilsang had already done too much for him. Dongja and Mansu were both busy. Chilbok too. And Taemuk—Taemuk was busiest of all.