BW C8

Chapter 8

 

Deokwoo’s head lifted so high it seemed it might strike the ceiling. His feet, finding no purchase, flailed as if swimming.

“Good heavens…”

Mouths fell open as people stared. A man as big as a door had soared into the air—so strange it tipped from wonder to the uncanny.

Stranger still was Taemuk, who held Deokwoo up with one hand. Even two hands would have shocked the crowd; in one, he cradled him like a small wild thing.

Still gripping Deokwoo without so much as looking at him, he straightened slowly, tilted his head, and murmured to Hoeun,

“‘Young master’?”

He was echoing Deokwoo. His voice was so low the air nearby seemed to cool, and a curious lilt—almost a sneer—ran through it.

At last, Taemuk looked at Deokwoo and tightened his grip. Veins rose thick on the back of a hand as broad as a pot lid.

“Ghk—kgh…”

Under the crushing pressure, Deokwoo thrashed like a man in seizure. Taemuk watched him with an unfeeling gaze, as if he might snap his neck then and there.

“What—what are you doing! Let him go!”

Hoeun cried out, aghast. Taemuk’s ink-black eyes shifted to him.

“…”

For a fleeting instant, the corner of Taemuk’s mouth quirked. Then, with a look that said, You asked me to, he flung Deokwoo away. Deokwoo flew across the hall like a kite caught in wind. Screams scattered in his wake as bodies leapt aside and toppled.

He only stopped when he struck the wall—then dropped, limp, to the floor.

“Deokwoo!”

Hoeun tried to run to him, but Taemuk still held his nape. Hoeun glared up, eyes blazing.

“Let go!”

“No.”

It was the sulk of a spoiled child—not the speech of a full-grown man, much less a general. Hoeun flushed scarlet.

“H-how dare you behave like a brigand! I said let me go!”

“No.”

Eek— Hoeun twisted, but Taemuk didn’t budge. Teeth grinding on helplessness, Hoeun seized Taemuk’s wrist. He knew his paltry strength couldn’t win—but there was nothing else to do.

And then—at the instant Hoeun clamped down on that thick, hard wrist—Taemuk jerked his hand away as if burned. It was strange, but Hoeun had no time for puzzlement. He bolted to Deokwoo.

Deokwoo lay sprawled, groaning. Hoeun slid to his knees and steadied him.

“Deokwoo. Deokwoo. Are you all right?”

“Are you all right, young master?”

Even then, he worried for Hoeun. Hoeun shook his head.

“I’m fine. You—are you hurt?”

“That is…”

With effort, Deokwoo raised his head and looked at his ankle. Hoeun followed his gaze. One ankle was twisted off to the side—wrenched on impact. Hoeun’s face went white.

“W-we need to go to a hospital.”

“What hospital? It’s fine. A hot compress will fix it.”

“No. That won’t do. We’re going now.”

Hoeun tried to hoist him. With his meager strength, he couldn’t lift even one arm. After several failed attempts, he appealed to those gathered around.

“Please—help. The hospital—he needs to go to a hospital. Please.”

After glancing at one another, people edged in to carry Deokwoo. Hoeun thanked them over and over, clutching Deokwoo’s hand tight.

And Taemuk…

“…”

He stood where he was, staring down at his own wrist—where Hoeun had gripped him—until Hoeun disappeared from the hall.

“I’m fine, young master. Why cry?”

Deokwoo’s ankle was fractured. Thick, heavy bandages wrapped it round and round; a black handprint ringed his throat where Taemuk had seized him.

Throughout treatment, Hoeun had kept his mouth clamped shut. When Deokwoo finally lay back on the hospital bed, the tears broke loose.

His heart still hammered. He had never known such threat, such fear. A life so quiet and bland only made the aftershock crash over him twice, ten times as hard.

“I—I’m not crying. It’s just, just…”

He tried to excuse himself, then sniffled hard. Deokwoo soothed him, worried.

“Hush now. You’ll set off another fever.”

“A-are you sure you’re all right?”

“I said I’m fine. Ah, a grown man with tears like this—how will you ever marry?”

Hoeun nodded as if understanding, breathing deep—hoo, hoo. Still, the tears kept coming, and the thin shoulders shook now and then, until at last he simply sobbed.

“I—I’ve only ever been the one in pain. I’ve never seen you hurt…”

It was grief, and worry, and rage, all at once.

He’d been to hospitals countless times for himself, but never as a guardian for family—or one who was like family. Only now did he understand why his parents—and Deokwoo—had always made such a fuss over him when he was ill. It felt as if his heart were being crumpled in a fist.

Watching the edges of Hoeun’s eyes flush redder and redder, Deokwoo let out a long sigh. He dropped his feet over the side of the bed.

“Long day, wasn’t it? Come lie down.”

Startled, Hoeun waved his hands.

“No, no. Stay put. The doctor said not to move.”

“How can I lie here in front of you, young master?”

“Shh. No backtalk.”

Hoeun scolded him with surprising aristocratic bite, scratching the back of his neck as he spoke. Deokwoo frowned.

“Stop touching it. Your skin’s bright red.”

Since arriving, Hoeun had not stopped worrying at his nape. He’d never had such a habit, yet today he kept touching, scratching, rubbing.

“Ah… Right.”

He dropped his hand at once—but his thoughts kept circling back. The place where Taemuk had touched burned. It felt as if that hand still rested there.

He reached up again, then dropped his hand under Deokwoo’s look. He tucked the blankets neatly around him. Deokwoo watched, then spoke in an unusually subdued voice.

“Why did that man do that?”

“Hmm?”

“Why did he hold you? He isn’t your partner, is he? He can’t be. A man like that—a partner? Absurd.”

Deokwoo clenched a fist. Hoeun, after a few ragged breaths, sank into the stool and wiped his wet cheeks.

“I… don’t know.”

Everything had happened too fast. In the rush to get Deokwoo out, he hadn’t seen what became of Taemuk. When a Military God and guide matched, they were to submit their names—he’d done nothing of the sort.

No—were he and that man even a match? Was the sensation at their touch real? The entire day felt like a dream—hazy, fogged.

Just then, someone entered. A familiar doctor.

“Master Hoeun.”

“Yes?”

“You have a visitor.”

“A visitor? Who?”

“A soldier, it seems.”

“A… soldier?”

Hoeun’s eyes widened, the tip of his nose still pink from tears.

In the corridor, as the doctor had said, stood a uniformed man. From behind, the red cloud embroidery on his cape made his unit plain at once.

Hoeun tensed—then eased. The man wasn’t as tall as Taemuk. Which meant it wasn’t Taemuk.

Thank goodness.

…Was it?

He swallowed and stepped up behind the soldier.

“Were you looking for me?”

The soldier whirled. Seeing Hoeun so close, he froze a beat—then saluted, a fraction late.

“Good day to you, sir.”

He was young, compactly built, clean-cut. His hair was very short; his skin, dusk-toned. Hoeun returned the greeting with a brief bow.

“Yes. And… you are?”

“Sergeant Oh Gilsang, Jeokudae. We crossed paths at the ceremony—do you remember?”

Hoeun blinked fast. Perhaps he had glimpsed him behind Taemuk; he couldn’t be sure. Taemuk swallowed every hint of presence around him. Regardless, the uniform said Jeokudae—so likely yes.

“I see. What brings you here, Sergeant?”

Hoeun assumed he’d come to apologize to Deokwoo—Taemuk had rank, after all; he would send a subordinate. It wasn’t proper, but Hoeun meant to accept it. Instead, Gilsang said something unexpected.

“Well, it’s time to go.”

“Go… where?”

“Where else? To hunt the Shikgoe.”

“Me?” Hoeun echoed, appalled.