Before, Kim Shin only dreamed of victory.

Mornings would breath fire in the sky, its heat unforgiving to acres of field in his vision. Their family land spanned to the horizon, stalks flailing even beyond his tall frame. Sweat trickled down the lines of his back, carved by consistent hard work and hours under the sun. The crick in his neck never faded, but he didn’t mind the soreness of his body. The fruits of his labor fed his family and their men.

He would finish helping in the land as morning gave way to afternoon, exchanging his tools with his sword. His father had expected much from him. Kim Shin was trained to wield the sword from the moment he could lift it from the ground, and they hand been one ever since.

He was twelve when he was taken by his father from the comforts of their estate. He returned after half a decade, to meet his sister. (He cradled her and felt that she was destined from greatness, but greatness in this lifetime was often marred with tragedy. He feared for her, vowing to train to protect her.

He didn’t foresee that he was destined for greatness as well.)

--

He woke to the sound of humming that enveloped the quietness of a small shack.

His first impulse was to grab the knife he kept at a hidden pocket by his thigh, but the cloth was rough against his skin. He was beneath the thin covers.

“Don’t move, ahjusshi.”

His eyes darted to the direction of the voice, and was met by a small body swimming in brown. The voice bore a hint of playfulness, and it momentarily reminded him of Sun. The tenseness of his muscles almost loosened, but the soldier in him wouldn’t relax.

“Will you slit my throat if I do?” He dared to ask, and he was answered by a huff in disbelief.

“Your wounds would sooner kill you than me.”

He willed his head to turn, even if pain shot from his spine to the base of his head. His joined cracked with his movement, and he squinted as his narrowed eyes met the speaker’s.

The first thing he noticed was her fingers, thin, long, reddened and scarred – a laborer’s hands, which was quite a surprise from the boldness in the tone of her voice. The hands were connected to the slight curve of her wrist, to slender arms, the gentle slope of cotton-covered shoulders, rounded cheeks, and sharp eyes. She watched him as he observed her, as if calculating the risk of either of them attacking the other.

She looked down at the poultice and makeshift bandages. His eyes followed her movements.

She crushed leaves into paste expertly, granules ground into fine cream. One of the strips of the cloth was dipped, and she moved to his side. It was then that he noticed the gashes on his abdomen, sown and approximated just barely, and its depth made him wonder how come he was alive.

“My men?”

“Alive.”

“The enemy?”

“Dead, burning.”

“Why did you not leave me to my men?”

“Because they know nothing about stopping you from bleeding to death. Halmeoni won’t take chances.”

The ease by which she pushed his larger frame was a testament of her strength, and he continued to watch as she expertly bound his abdomen and torso. Her hands barely brushed his exposed skin.

She finished in a span of few minutes. She grabbed her paraphernalia, making her way to the door.

“What’s your name?”

She paused, gazing at him with wary eyes. Turning back, a sinking feeling gripped Kim Shin.

“Hyeon.”

Her voice was barely a whisper, but Kim Shin was quite desperate for anything that he heard.

--

He rested his head on the tree trunk, letting its roots cradle him as he fed it blood in turn. His sides were burning with every move, vessels straining to spasm and muscles broken and gaping. He wondered if this was death, and if this was payment for his cruelty.

He was a young general, and he was tipping over the edge of hell.

From a distance, the battle continued. Smoke disguised the glint of metal from well-polished swords. Carcasses of men and livestock swam on mud and life. Shame bubbled from his chest, and blood-tinged vomit sprung from his pale lips. It hurt to move. It hurt to breath. He felt like his body was dipped halfway through the lake of death.

He heard footsteps scurrying against the wet carpet of leaves, and wondered if it was the grim reaper coming for him.

A hand hauled him from his lying position. He could feel breaths brushing his blood-soaked hair, his painful neck. Another hand – familiar, large, warm – supported his back as the other hand moved away, and he whimpered.

The haze was heavy in his mind, but he could feel his lips moving as he begged for the other hand to return. He felt them on his side, against his wound, and he struggled to open his eyes.

A looming figure of pale skin and thin limbs were holding him together before the last vestiges of consciousness left him.

He shot up from the mattress, and his sudden movement was followed by a sharp pain. In his surprise, he was unable to stop the groan that escaped his lips.

The door to his room opened in a flash.

The girl – Hyeon -- stepped inside, eyes wide and blinking. Her hair was in a disarray and her clothes were rumpled. Kim Shin realized that she was just by his door, too light into her sleep.

She walked towards him and dropped to her knees, her hands on his injury. There was no blood streaking his wrappings, and he heard her sigh of relief.

For a moment, she appeared more human versus the stiff, methodical apprentice she was when he first woke.

“I told you, no sudden movements.” She glared at him, her voice lace with irritation.

“I apologize if my nightmares are inconvenient for you,” he bit back, the wound beginning to throb inwardly.

She must have seen a hint of pain in his face – the ticking of his jaw, perspiration on his forehead, his constricting pupils – that caused her glare to soften into a searching look.

She disappeared from view, only to return with a fresh pot of tea. She served him a cup, mumbling an apology.

“Your nightmares are not an inconvenience. I…we just fixed you.”

Her confession reminded her of a mistaken child – the way his sister would throw a tantrum and deflate at the sight of their father – and a hint of smile threatened to overcome his lips.

“Who brought me to you?”

“Your man – Woo-Sik. He knew halmeoni. He brings food in exchange of medicine.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“Who doesn’t know you, General?”

“And you dare to speak to me like this?”

“I am stronger and faster than you think.”

He remembered his dream – the savior, the angel. It was no dream.

Gratitude spilled from his lips, and he was rewarded with a bright smile.

Kim Shin couldn’t look away.

--

Woo-Sik was his man’s father, but his loyalty had been with Kim Shin from the moment he was bestowed to him as his second in command.

“The old woman knows what she’s doing and knows not to tell.”

“Father would put the gods into shame with his wrath if word reaches him.”

It was a fortnight after the day he woke. His body was still sore, but the wound had closed well enough. The girl – Hyeon – told her not to strain himself, and would dare to tighten the bindings should he dare to roll from his mattress by even an inch.

She would even punch his arm to make a point.

Two bottles of fermented drink appeared between them. The men both looked at the newcomer.

“Hyeon, drink with us.”

The woman shook her head. “I have to tend to our new herbs. You drink your weight because you’re off to battle soon.”

A sinking feeling made Kim Shin’s stomach drop. He took one of the new bottle and drank unceremoniously.

“You will shrivel your insides with that, General,” Hyeon warned.

Kim Shin shrugged, “I will be off to battle, just like Hyeon said. This may be the last I drink.”

“Surely it won’t be,” Woo-sik asserted, but his hands reached for his own bottle. “You’ll go to battle, win a war, win a noblewoman.”

His eyes couldn’t help but turn to Hyeon, who was casually leaning behind them. Her face was devoid of any trace of emotion, and anger began simmering in his chest. She was casually leaning at some block of wood, not even daring to catch his eye.

He couldn’t determine if he was angry at him for feeling for a child or if he was angry at her for not even caring.

--

He was off to war again after seven days.

He stood in the middle of the room in his undergarments, taking everything into memory. The mattress. The peeling paint. The thin walls. The worn wood. The sound of crickets. The quiet blowing of morning air. It had been the longest of his rests in his lifetime to date, and he wished he could extend his stay even for one more day.

The door slid open, and Hyeon peered at him from beyond the threshold.

“Woo-sik is arriving soon,” she reminded him, crossing the distance between them. She took his armor from the ground, coaxing his hands to take them.

An unspoken understanding was exchanged between them as she helped him wear his armor. Kim Shin would place the parts where they were meant to be, and Hyeon would tie and put the pieces together. Her hands, once strong and certain, were gentle and slightly trembling as she finished.

“How young are you, Hyeon?” Kim Shin asked.

“Seventeen.”

In his head, he counted. A decade’s worth of seemed so small compared to the distance about to lie between them.

“Hyeon,” he called her again.

Her eyes spoke of volumes of emotions she would not dare to speak, her lips pursed to a thin line. Of course, she would think of decorum right now. She is Hyeon – strong but fragile, crass but polite, harsh but kind – a well of contradictions he would dive into without hesitation.

“I will not marry a noblewoman,” Kim Shin declared. “I would be a slave of war and of the crown.”

“Of course,” a slight curl appeared on the corner of her lips.

“I would beg the king – the gods – not to be bound to any woman or family.”

His hands cupped her face – touching her skin for the first time. Its softness would fuel his dreams in the spare minutes he could sleep when he finally went to battle.

“Do you understand?” It is you. It will be you. It will always be you.

Hyeon brushed the bottom of his eye with her thumb, and nodded.

--

Five winters passed before Kim Shin finally returned.

He rode his horse to the field that circled the old shack that he considered home (not even guilt from not seeing his sister could compare), and exhilaration pulsated in his veins as he neared it. His first war had just ended, and he escaped the celebrations. He rode through the day, unmindful of his disgusting appearance as he let the breeze of spring blow on his dirt-streaked face.

He arrived just as the sun was about to set.

He left his horse at the back of the shack, tying it to the largest pole.

“She is by the buckwheat’s.”

The familiar voice of Hyeon’s master – halmeoni, as they all called her – answered his question. The old woman was looking at him with searching eyes, somehow unnerving him. To his surprise, the old woman’s eyes watered.

“You have more battles to fight, General, but for now you must rest. Welcome home.”

She passed him a head of cabbage before disappearing to the well-worn path to her home.

Placing the vegetable in front of the shack’s door, he walked down his own path.

The first he saw of her was her hair, which was braided to her waist as her hand played with her wooden sword. She was bending down, catching the last of the sunlight in her skin. She was swimming in her light colored, well-worn clothes, but she still made the most beautiful sight.

“Hyeon.”

He saw her shoulders stiffened, and knew that she could recognize him. Her wooden sword was dropped to the ground, and she slowly turned her head to the direction of his voice.

Everything about her was so familiar and so different.

He readily caught her as she came to him, arms wrapping on his neck so tight. He was out of breath, but he didn’t care. She smelled clean and fresh, and he pulled back because he didn’t even wash but she held on to him. She held on to him.

They didn’t separate until the moon was high in the sky.

--

He washed his battle worn body as she prepared food, her humming and the smells of the boiling soup making his stomach growl.

He approached her, chest glistening with water from his bath as he embraced her from behind. He felt the fluttering of her heart against his ness, which had him smirking.

“I see you’ve learned more recipes when I was away.”

“I have more time in my hands instead of saving soldiers from the brink of death.”

He dropped a kiss on her neck, and she shuddered.

“Stop, or I’ll burn dinner.”

“I’ll have you for dinner.”

His bluntness surprised her, evident by the sudden turning of her head. If he were any normal man, she would have hit his head.

“Hands off, general. I want real food.” She bit back teasingly.

Chuckling, he moved away, opting to set the table with her mere setting. He sat at the head of the table, patiently waiting as she finished the last of the cooking.

When she sat on his right and reached for hand, he wondered if there is a lifetime when they could freely dine together with small bodies that were half-him, half-her.

--

She wasn’t a child anymore.

That night, she came to him with a confidence that could be only gained with a degree of self-assurance. With ease, she peeled off the cotton top covering her slim frame, loosening the ties that hold her skirt against her body. She stood in front of him, bare and bruised but still the most glorious thing his eyes set upon on. Her footsteps hit the mattress with certainty, her legs unshaken by the implications of her actions. When she was close enough, without hesitation, he pulled her against his chest.

(His kiss was searing, coming to her with a thundering force. He took control with the first contact, hunger undulated after waiting for her. He had won wars for the crown, but this – this moment – this is the definition of victory. This is the crashing of souls, the melding of fates, the spark that turned to flame.)

She kissed him with a fervor he did not expect, limbs clutching him with possessiveness. She fought his tongue with her own, unafraid to crash her teeth with his. She bit his lower lip when he tried to overcome her. She pressed on him, uncaring about the bandages that circled his torso. He could feel a gash threatening to reopen, but her touches served as balm to his war-torn body.

(She was trying to get her message across. She wasn’t his to devour; it was her hunger that had to be satiated, and she is the greatest price he would gain.)

Her lips familiarized every inch of his skin she could reach, and he could not control the moan she elicited from him. Her chest rumbled in silent laughter upon hearing his reaction, her hardened s brushing against his chest. Her abdominal muscles tightened as he felt her, and the pooling warmth on his navel couldn’t be denied anymore.

He rolled them over, his arms caging her smaller ones beneath him. His mouth took her left , his tongue playing with the marbled . Her hands caught his hair, pulling on them as he feverishly. His finger reached for her lower lips, relishing the feel of her wet folds as they explored the new territory. In and out, his finger acquainted with the walls of her womanhood.  He pressed on her , and her answering moan was music to his ears.

His eyes gazed on her face, watching her on the verge of coming undone.

Raising his body, his manhood entered her waiting lips.

Her walls molded into him in an embrace. Her trembling hands gripped on his thigh, and he enclosed them on his own.

“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice gruff in lust.

The wide-eyed innocence that he once associated in her was gone, replaced by the veil of desire.

He moved, ing on her unhesitatingly. His eyes remained on hers, drawn to her every shuddering breath and every sound of pleasure coming from her slightly swollen lips. Sweat glistened against their skin, and a drop from his forehead fell in the middle of her chest, rolling down the slope of her neck. With the moonlight streaming from the thinnest of slits of the wall, she shone. She was vibrant.

He lunged at her again, his movements faster and harder. Her cry resonated against the walls of the makeshift haven as his fingers bruised her hips. He grunted as his buttocks hit her thighs, lowering his body against hers as he gained speed. He remembered the first time he rode to battle, and the exhilaration bursting from within the cages of his ribs at that time would never compare.

In a , they came almost simultaneously.

His head fell on her chest as his seed mingled with her own. Her frantic heartbeats resonated against her ear, and the thumping from their chests connected seamlessly in his head. He attempted to move by her side, but her hands stopped him, one of her legs looping over his lower back. He was still inside her, but the warmth washing within him was lulling him not to move.

So they didn’t.

--

The lack of warmth by his side woke him.

The sun was yet to meet the sky, but he could easily see the faint shadow of her figure from the partly opened door. He sat quietly, pushing the blanket off his body as he crawled to her sitting form. He rested his chin on her shoulder, kissing the back of her ear. She shuddered against him, and she let herself melt on his waiting arms.

“Rumor has it that the king lost the favor of the gods.”

It was a conversation he didn’t want to have, but it was inevitable. (Another war – now with him and the king on different sides – would be inevitable).

“He hasn’t. Park Jeong Hoon is hindering the favor.”

“And you? Have you been hindering that favor as well?”

“I fight wars for the crown to preserve the king’s favor, and to fulfill promises to the old one.”

 She took his right hand to both of hers, tracing invisible scars incurred in the past few years. “Sometimes, I wish you wouldn’t.”

“You and her majesty share the same sentiments.”

Hyeon laughed in amusement, resting her head back against his shoulder. “How scandalous of you to compare me to a queen.”

“She is still my sister, but you are my queen.”

Mischievous eyes twinkled as she caught his own, “You are committing a grievous crime, general.”

“For you, I will,” he answered, capturing her lips once more as he pulled their bodies down.

--

By sunset the next day, they exchanged vows across bowls of clean water. He wore the simplest of his garments, while she her best one. They vowed, the moon and stars as witnesses.

(And the goddess of fertility, watching from the edge of the field, smiling despite her tears).

--

“War is brewing.”

It was their third day together. The two remained inside the room, opting to move outside only for sustenance and a bit of air. They ran down the fields on early mornings, rolling over proudly standing plants as they ravished each other. Food would appear in front of the shack upon their return, and both had suspicions on who is making their reunion a bit easier. They spent afternoons lying on the mattress, familiarizing themselves with the maps of scars on their own skin, or the landmarks of the moles on their back, or the slopes that their hands were inclined to hold. They savored the intimacy that they always longed for.

But at the end of it all, reality would always come knocking at the door.

“I wish I could keep you here, but I have no name to hold you in place.”

They were at their sides, Kim Shin with his hand on her waist and Hyeon with hers on the junction of his neck and face.

“I apologize for giving you mine without any bearing.”

“It’s not our fault for living at this time.”

Monents passed, and Hyeon continued with her ministrations, her other fingers joining. Her fingerpads brushed against the angles of her lover’s – husband’s – face. “Why are you tracing my face?”

“I have a feeling that you will be missing from me for a long time.” Hyeon sighed, as if in defeat. “Even then, I’d still love you.”

Kim Shin reached for her neck, his lips dropping a kiss on her forehead. Somehow, her sentiments echoed his, and he had to breath to stop the prickling beneath his eyelids.

“And I, you.”

--

(The last time Hyeon saw her halmeoni was when she first learned of the new life growing inside her.

The older woman gave her one look, reaching for a concoction from the depths of her skirt. “For the lightheadedness and vomiting. It is safe for the child.”

She almost dropped the bottle had the older woman failed to hold her hand.

She felt it first a fortnight ago, when tiredness would assault her in the middle of the day and she would lose her appetite. She forced herself to eat, because she couldn’t afford to be sick. News about the king and his general continued to be spread across provinces, and she had to be strong for him.

Now, she had to be strong for them.

The older woman was smiling at her fondly, “Make a beautiful family someday.”)

--

She knew it was the end when Park Jeong Hoon knocked on her door.

She struggled, fighting some soldiers he brought fiercely. She was still graceful and quick on her feet, but when the man dared to pierce her abdomen with a sword, she froze.

The sickening sound of Park Jeong Hoon’s laugh was the last she heard before losing consciousness.

--

The arrow pierced her chest, the same manner her sister’s heart shattered.

Even with the sword embedded in his chest, his shaking limbs carried his weakening body to her. He failed to reach her as her knees buckled and hit the ground.

Even with his blurring vision, he didn’t miss another growing patch of red coming from her skirt.

She isn’t, is she?

His questioning gaze was answered by her mouthed apology.

Splintered bones continued to crush his chest as he finally stumbled in front of her. Both of their hands were cold, and he attempted to give her (them) a bit of warmth, the only thing he could provide his family.

“I’m so sorry.”

--

(No one spoke of the fallen general nor the woman, but the goddess of fertility lit them candles, knowing that their story will unfold once more.

And so, she will wait for some of her favorite children to return.)