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1. Soldier Lee Chan, Camp Messenger
Lee Chan has been enlisted in Lord Jeon’s army for three years.
He serves General Choi, who is a fine warrior and garrison leader. The General doesn’t hesitate to tackle him during sparring drills, but loudly insists he have more meat rations in his bowl during mealtime. Chan also figures he could probably also take down a dozen men on his own, if ever given the chance.
Chan considers himself the ideal messenger for their distant border camp—quick with his rapier and his reins, and on his feet if his horse is attacked. It’s a fortunate position. The wind is fresh against his face, and he doesn’t have to loiter around near the barren borders. Besides, not many in this grand empire can boast of having looked upon Lord Jeon’s face.
There is only one anomaly: Lord Jeon acts strange about the messages he brings.
Sits up in his throne when Chan is announced. Leans forward, fingers going white over the armrest of his throne like he’s trying to commit every word to his soul, even if the General had only said: Monthly border update. Everything as it was.
Sometimes he is even brought ahead of people who have been waiting for hours to petition His Grace. Chan knows that he has a divine face and a voice fit for the melodies of the Heavens. But really, this is out of hand.
This time, Lord Jeon had glared after Chan finished reading the scroll out (a meager message: Enough arrows to survive the month.) “Is that all?”
How strange. Confused, he had rolled his parchment back up as the other courtiers cowered under the abrupt chill. “That’s all.”
Lord Jeon had settled back into his throne with the sort of cold silence that reminded Chan why he commands the entire empire. He didn't even dismiss him. Only looked away to the braziers, jaw tight, hands dangerously close to the ceremonial sword balancing at the side of his throne.
He figures it all out when he returns to camp. General Choi is standing at the stables when he dismounts.
“Journey was good?” he asks, a faint crease forming between his brows as he pats the flank of Chan’s horse.
“All good, General,” Chan grins, bowing tightly before handing the message scroll back.
The General accepts it with a hard swallow, gripping it tight enough that the carefully-tied parchment creases in half. He shifts his weight for a few moments before saying it. “And His Grace? Is he doing well?”
Even more puzzled, and impatient to eat a hot meal after these many hours of travel, Chan scratches his nose. “He seemed normal. As—as warlords are.”
"Happy?"
Chan recalls the way his voice had cut down like a sheet of ice. "Um? Perhaps?"
“Not ill?” the General prods.
“No?”
“Good.” General Choi nods to himself, as if Chan isn’t even there. “Good, that means he’s wearing his furs properly.”
Clapping a hand on Chan’s shoulder—Chan winces, that’ll ache for a few days—he walks away mumbling to himself. About furs, like Warlord Jeon has not cut down armies thrice the size of his own, like he isn't the most feared man in every province from the seas to the desert. Like his parents used to nag each other, before leaving the house in the winter.
Oh.
This is the reality that he has been living for three years now. Carrying messages back and forth between lovers, except they are not lovers, because General Choi will not visit the capital, and Lord Jeon will not send a message back with him. And also, because Chan is too terrified of both of them to suggest these courses of action himself.
-
General summons him to take a message to the capital about the bandits and negotiations.
“Take this down to His Grace will you?” he mutters, graciously not bruising any part of Chan’s body this time. “Quick.”
It is the tenseness of his every muscle that prevents Chan from hesitating at all. He speeds the decree down to the fortress through the slushy snows of early spring, expecting the typical welcome. He’s already rehearsing his tone of speech by the time he is led to the grand doors of the Hall of Eternal Courage.
The steward announces him, as typical. Pauses. Pokes his head inside. There is a muffled conversation. Then the old man comes back out and flat-facedly tells Chan that he cannot deliver the message.
“Lord Jeon will not see you.”
“Not see me?” Chan squeaks. “I am here on behalf of General Choi, it is an urgent note from the border!” He picks his seal from his belts again, waving the tassel around.
“He says to tell your General that he may come here himself if he has a message to deliver.”
Chan decidedly does not tell General Choi this, mostly because he fears it might be taken as a personal attack, and he’d rather not arouse the man’s temper. He does mention that he’d been rejected at the gates. The General’s face goes gray.
“This cannot be delayed any further. I must go, then,” he tells Lieutenant Xu. “You know the protocol for leading camp. I won’t be long. Keep them on their toes for me.”
Thank the Heavens, Chan thinks, watching him ride off. Surely the long matter will be resolved now.
Once Lord Jeon has their General in the fortress, he certainly will not be let go until they work out…whatever it is that’s the issue. Besides. If Lord Jeon keeps ignoring urgent decrees in this manner, it cannot be long before the empire collapses.
For now, Chan retreats once more to the kitchen tents. The matters of a Warlord’s romance are most tiring.
And then General Choi leaves the fortress, returning to camp with a haggard face and eyes that look far older than he is. When he speaks with Lieutenant Xu, Chan overhears the words ran and no I didn't tell him.
And Chan begins to fear for their camp.
2. Soldier Kim Mingyu, Officer
Mingyu has never seen anyone devour his stew at the rate His Grace is going.
He had been consuming it at a modest pace, until Mingyu, fearing the silence, blurted out that General Choi had hunted for it.
Because he had. Gone out with his arrows late in the evening yesterday, face tormented and twisted, and returned with a massive felled beast slung over his shoulders. Enough to feed the Warlord’s entire procession.
The General had reprimanded him for the words, but Lord Jeon had finished the bowl three seconds later and demanded another helping. Perhaps he is hungry. He is rather imposing, and a Warlord needs his nutrition to have the strength to project such an image constantly.
Or perhaps the stew really is that good. Mingyu had worked hard on it. He’s been expecting a promotion in the ranks soon—General Choi has written him several recommendations, even reached out to those by capital nobles he detests to see if something can be done. Maybe this is how he secures it at last?
Mingyu dares another glance up.
The bowl is empty again. His Grace is staring intently at their General, as if wishing to devour him.
Surely the entire batch of stew hasn’t run out yet—
Mingyu freezes.
It all slides perfectly into place. The concubine selections and General Choi’s sullen moods. The way Lord Jeon had arrived at camp upon his horse, raked an expectant gaze over the place, and upon being greeted by Lieutenant Xu, immediately became displeased.
“And where might your General be?”
Lieutenant Xu had sighed, as if he’d expected it. “The canyon. He is conversing with the villagers.”
Later, after the sun has dipped, the General leads His Grace into his tents.
After about twenty minutes, Chan calls him over where he is ducked behind the posts of the nearest tent.
“Look! He has yet to emerge!”
“What?”
“General Choi!” Chan whispers loudly. “He has yet to emerge from His Grace’s tents!”
Mingyu flushes, scandalized. “Think he’ll stay?”
Chan makes a rough sound in the back of his throat. “You wish. The General would never.”
Indeed, after another ten minutes of loitering, the General parts the flaps of the tent. He spends a moment at the threshold, staring at the moon, before carefully walking away. He looks more exhausted than he’s ever seen him, like every step is taken with a boulder on his back, or his boots are thick with mud. It makes Mingyu tired too.
When Lord Jeon leaves the next morning, expression thunderous, the General does not look him in the eye, but gazes after him, as if memorizing a silhouette he will never see again.
Mingyu’s father was a rice farmer in the southern provinces. He has long since learned the merits of patience, of watching the fields from a distance, waiting for the right time to flood them with the riverwater.
Love, he thinks, is something of the same vein. The watching. The waiting.
But he thinks enough of those two things has already happened, in this case. If General Choi would just go to the capital already, everything will probably turn out fine. One does not keep the warlord of an empire waiting!
3. Xu Minghao, Lieutenant
Choi Seungcheol is a buffoon, and it is only because he is perhaps the most good man in the realm that Xu Minghao hasn’t lost his mind yet.
Perhaps the term buffoon is harsh. Ignorant pebble may be more sound (or rock, most likely, since he’s far too large to be a pebble).
Xu Minghao has plenty of beautiful metaphors in his repertoire—his father was a court poet in a noble’s employment, and his mother a novelist—but all of them seem to fall short to describe this situation.
Jeon Wonwoo has attempted to transfer him six times now.
Each time, the official decree arrives at camp. Each time, Minghao writes a careful letter back to the capital about how he feels he is still learning valuable skills from General Choi. Parrying while upon a horse. Aiming arrows at night. Resisting the repeated invitations of the Warlord of the empire—he doesn’t ever write that last one, because their camp would probably be dissolved, and Minghao rather enjoys his job.
Perhaps it is because Choi Seungcheol is a butcher’s son, that he only knows how to cut off the parts of his life he doesn’t want to confront.
In his heart, Minghao knows this isn’t true. Seungcheol hyung, who will face every threat head on. Who once punched a nobleman for obstructing their supply routes with his carriages. Who is ready to raise his sword at anything and anyone who puts his camp in danger.
Enough pride to hold his head high, to stand at the edge of the canyon and stare down at the river as if it is his own. Not enough to believe he can be loved. He wears armor over his heart, perhaps because he is afraid of infecting others with his affection just as much as he fears wounds of the flesh. There is too much goodness in him, too much innocence he tries to hide behind the blood and the sword. And a rather hefty dose of stupidity along with it.
He receives Seungcheol’s letter at dawn.
Lieutenant, I think I’m being kept in the fortress for another few days.
He snorts. This was a given. As if Jeon Wonwoo would allow this creature to escape the jaws of his fortress, after finally managing to ensnare him. He’ll be shocked if Seungcheol leaves before the marital threads are tied.
Well, this is untrue. Seungcheol hyung, if desperate enough, will scale walls as tall as the clouds to escape. He wonders only what will drive him to it. Probably that sense of duty that has defined him ever since Minghao knew him, ever since he rode back into the woods to retrieve a fallen officer he suspected was still breathing, despite every warning to leave him behind. Reached down for Minghao's hand and dragged him from the brush.
He turns back to the letter.
Tend to the camp well, and…
Back to the matters of camp again. For a moment, Minghao ponders the idea of not replying. Because if he replies, then Seungcheol will write another one. And surely, if Jeon Wonwoo catches his favorite writing a letter to Minghao, when he has not received a reply himself for the past many years—well.
Then there is the thought of Seungcheol waiting alone, in the fortress, for news of the garrison he loves so much, with those big black eyes probably staring at the sky waiting for a bird to magically drop a scroll into his lap. Minghao lifts his quill.
Try to think of yourself, for once in your life, he thinks of writing. But he knows what Seungcheol will write in response.
I am, I am! I’m eating well and drinking well. But about the new commission of swords we’ve…
Like a river that rages on and on without care for the banks which try to caress it, try to hold it back.
-
His father used to say that summer was an auspicious time for unions. When the peonies and osmanthus bloom, and the sun is a warm blessing in the sky.
Seungcheol hyung gets called to the capital again, for Lord Jeon’s birthday.
Minghao knows him well enough to know that he’ll try to be noble about it. He watches him mount his horse, sunlight blooming across his silhouette in the dawn, jaw clenched tight in that facade of bravado he keeps over himself like a curtain.
Still, he smiles down at Minghao. “Stay healthy, Lieutenant.”
Minghao hums ruefully, hoisting up a satchel. “I’ve packed you some robes, hyung.”
Seungcheol manages a huff, broad shoulders straightening as he sets the satchel behind his saddle. “Yah, you’re weighing my horse down.”
Red will suit him well. Knowing him, he won’t even see the robes until he needs them.
He watches General Choi Seungcheol descend into the canyon, little by little. The river runs upstream. He will reach the fortress in three days.
It’s alright, Seungcheol laughs, when Minghao asks him about drills for the next month. I’ll be back soon.
Xu Minghao has seen the empire. The sweltering deserts and the dew-dripping mountains. Lakes set alight in the sunset, and fields rustling with green-gold crop. There have been noble armies and barbarians, rusted armor and pink silk brocades more delicate than the translucent petals of the water lilies.
Minghao smiles down at the canyon, where a paper boat is meandering its away down the current.
No matter what, the prospects from the borderlands are his favorite.
fin.