What We Have and What We Have Lost

tw: brief suicidal thoughts, verbal abuse, war and mentions of death

It was impossible to think in this sticky heat; but they had had but five hundred arrows left to defend themselves with. 

In disbelief, Seung read the report once more, feeling the paper stick to his thumb. The sun had risen just an hour ago, and yet its warmth was already making his hands clammy, “Is this really all that we have?” 

He tried to keep his voice steady, but they wouldn’t last a day with that number. So his hope to survive this siege for another month? A passing dog would laugh at the idea.

The scribe kept his head bowed, and Seung could only imagine the terror he was going through. To depend on a boy of nineteen to defend this fortress when the nation’s armies had already fallen…he only had pity for the man. Letting out a sigh and brushing back the hair latched to his dewy skin, Seung spoke once more, “Is more being made?”

“Yes, but we are running out of wood and metal, young master.”

Wetting his lip, Seung asked, “How many houses have we torn down for fuel and weapons?”

“About three hundred, Young Master.”

“Any more and there’ll be a riot,” came a small quip. Seung looked over the scribe’s shoulders to see Yule walk in. 

He was almost as scrawny as he had been when Seung had first met him, albeit now with long, awkward limbs that had grown too fast for the rest of his body to keep up with. The little orphan boy he’d taken in all those years ago was still there, as pitiable as ever. 

Seung quickly covered the report with his arms as Yule sat down atop his desk, “How many times have I told you not to do that?” He scowled, “And how many times have I told you to stay out of–”

“Am I wrong?”

He could only purse his lips and glower, because Yule was right; the mood within the fort was already tense given the rising summer heat, not to mention the insects, drought, and frustratingly humid climate that followed soon after. These days, it was difficult to even breathe with how thick and heavy the air had become, which had rendered everyone sluggish and miserable.

Seung knew that he couldn’t keep defending a place in which the people had already given up, but with what could he raise their spirits with? Pinching the bridge of his nose, he ignored the sweat that had beaded there and turned back to the scribe, “Could we…perhaps try sending out a secret party to gather some lumber…?” He suggested hesitantly, though he already knew the answer to that. With the enemy army surrounding them in a perfect circle, nobody would volunteer for such an obvious suicide mission. Well, Yule might, but that boy was as stupid as he was brave.

The scribe stared at him blankly, and Seung exhaled silently, “Well, thank you for letting me know. Go rest now—you never know when the fighting will start again.”

The scribe bowed once more, and left. Chewing on his lip, Seung organized the papers into a neat pile, while Yule arranged his brushes, “You should lower the enlistment age to fourteen.”

Seung ignored him, “Did you eat anything today?”

“Some tea. Though, I think it was supposed to be soup,” he laughed, then turned to look at him, “Did you?”

A nod was all Seung gave him. Clearly not satisfied with the answer he was given, Yule cleared his throat annoyingly loudly, “I’m bored. Is there anything else I can help with?”

“You can help by not being a bother,” Seung responded absent-mindedly as he looked over the details of yesterday’s records, “Others will be here soon, and there’s nothing for you to hear. Go play with the other children.”

“But I–”

“Yule, you’re giving me a headache.”

“...alright.” And with that the door shut and closed.

Soon, one of the village elders came in to inform him of their empty wells and dwindling food supply. It came as no shock that in this feverish warmth, everything would dry and spoil twice as fast, but what left him bouncing his leg and chewing his lip was the sheer magnitude of this issue: people were barely scraping by with tea made from barks and grass. When Seung suggested they try pickling any leftover vegetables, the old man responded that they had no vinegar left. He then suggested they continue to shoot down the birds that come to feast on the fallen soldiers, to which the man said that no birds came anymore. 

Defeated and embarrassed, Seung could do nothing but ask for more time to think, and for the people to hold out for rainfall. He’d already opened his personal storages a year ago, and the bags of grain he’d buried for urgencies had been emptied months ago. Even the soldiers, who’d been guaranteed priority when it came to food, were starving. Furthermore, more and more men were passing out, having stood far too long under the sun.

After the elder came a captain, who told him that infection and disease were spreading amongst the troops. With the cats killed by enemy fire or eaten, rats had been allowed to run rampant amongst the rotting carcasses. Seung thought on this for a little while before asking the man to first isolate the sick, and to gather people to catch these rats with a net and a long bamboo pole, as to keep these catchers from catching disease. The pests could then be roasted and eaten by the soldiers and the families of the children both. Hopefully, this could make a small dent in the starvation and disease that were plaguing. 

A few more came and went—deserters, damaged infrastructure, more illness, more hunger—but Seung could answer or solve very little. In the end, most exited his study looking disappointed, but not surprised. 

‘What had I expected from him?’ Their expressions seemed to say, unanimously, ‘We’re all going to die anyway. Why did I think speaking to him would make a difference?’

Finding it hard to stay seated in this heat, Seung stood up, despising the way his clothes stuck to his skin, chafing against it. He then made his way out the door, shielding his eyes from the sudden blaze of light.

Summer had always been warm and wet, yes, but he never remembered it being so torturously scalding. Breathing shallowly, he descended the stairs, scowling when a gust of hot wind struck against him. Now down on the streets, Seung walked through them quickly, because that kept him a tad cooler than standing still. Trying not to grimace at the putrid smell of decaying bodies, rotting food, and human waste, he sped towards the wells, where most of the townspeople had gathered.

Given that there was not enough to drink, the people had not bathed in weeks, and Seung could tell. The stench was the worst here, and combined with the wails of children and the groans of the starving, he couldn’t help but think that this is what Buddha’s hells must look like.

“...that’s the lord of this fortress, is he not?”

“Yes, some lord he is. I bet he and that little boy he keeps around– what was his name, Yule? I bet he and that Yule are fattening up on meat and rice cakes while we grow mold down here.”

“Shh, he’ll hear.”

When he had come back inside, Seung rushed to a window, leaned over and wretched up stomach bile. He then shut the blinds, doing his best to avoid the smell of his own mess and scorching sunlight.

He wanted to apologize—he really did—for his inability. For his disgusting lack of skill. He wanted to kneel in front of everyone and weep for their forgiveness. Or, jump off the fortress walls and be done with it. But what difference would that make? The enemy army outside would trample everyone here under the hooves of their horses regardless of anything he did. 

Seung stumbled back to his desk, his head swimming. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten anything solid, and what little was in his stomach kept trying to come back up. This steampot of a room didn’t exactly help, either, but he had nowhere to escape to. 

More than anything, he wished for a bowl of buckwheat noodles in a chilled broth, with a generous serving of cucumbers and sesame seeds placed atop it. He’d eat it with both his feet in a running creek, enjoying the feel of a fresh spring breeze on his neck.

But that wasn’t something he could think about right now. Slapping himself on the side of his face, Seung shook the thoughts from his head. Everyone was hungry and hot and suffering. He couldn’t daydream while searching for a way to keep them all alive. Steeling himself, he began recording the meager supply numbers onto the last blank pages of his book as a sharp pounding began at the base of his skull.

Then, came a knock. Before he could say anything, the door creaked open, and Yule stepped in, red in the face and panting.

Pushing a smile onto his lips, Seung wiped the sheen off his forehead with his sleeve, “It’s hot out. You should—”

“Let me join the fight.”

He blinked, “What did you just say?”

Yule seemed hesitant the second time around, but pushed forth determinedly, “I want to be on the walls. Fighting.” He swallowed, seemingly mustering up the courage to speak, “I can help—you know I can.”

Seung let a silence pass before answering, “No.”

“Seung.”

“Yule, I said no.” 

Stepping closer, the boy began to ramble, “You always said that if we can do something, we should! I can’t just stand here, helpless, as everyone else risks their lives!”

“Are you insane? You are fourteen years old!”

“My age won’t matter if the castle is overrun! Please, Seung, you know I can help!” Yule placed both hands on the table, which Seung eyed with contempt, “You need as much help as you can get! Seung, just please—”

Seung’s expression remained stern, “Use your talents to guard the people inside; I’ll take care of everything else.”

Crossing his arms, Yule blew a piece of his hair out of face, “How? We’ve got what, a thousand arrows at most? If it comes to it, you can harvest enemy arrows from my corpse and use that.” After seeming to mull something over, he added, “What’s the point of lecturing me about heroes and virtues if you’re going to turn me into a coward!?” 

So this was what it was about? Yule was willing to throw away his life for a children’s story written about him later on?

“Very well, then,” Seung said in a low, quiet voice. Gripping the brush tightly, he spat out, “Do as you wish.”

Yule’s expression brightened the entire room, “Really?”

“Yes.” He slowly rose from his chair, making the other boy take a step back in response, “Go. Fight. Die, if you’re so desperate for it.” He resumed jotting down numbers, though he wasn’t focused on anything he was writing. 

“I’m not—”

“You are,” Seung spoke with an odd calm, “And that is fine by me. Shall I open the gates? If you want to play at being a hero that much, I won’t stop you. However.” He slammed his brush down onto the table, sending ink splattering everywhere,“Don’t bother the people who want to live. If you want to die so badly, do it by yourself.”

Yule’s eyes began shining with tears, and Seung knew, in the back of his mind, that he should stop here.

But he didn’t. 

Picking up the brush again, he hissed out, “Well? What are you waiting for? Go set our century’s expectations for heroism.” He nodded towards the door, “Know I won’t bother waste time retrieving your body. The crows and vultures will take care of that.” 

“Fine! I’ll go die then!” His voice trembled with emotion, “I’ll go die and you won’t ever have to handle me again!”

“By all means. We need fewer mouths to feed.”

Just as returned to his ink and paper, he heard Yule dash out and slam the door behind him. Which was fine. He needed to learn, after all. 

But Seung didn’t realize that would be the last time he’d speak with the boy; days later, Yule would sneak out of the fortress and into the surrounding forest, with a pick and woven basket for foraging, and never return. 

The moment he heard of the news, Seung would rush towards the gates–armed with but a dozen arrows– demanding that they be opened so that he could bring Yule back. When others denied him, he would try to climb over the walls using a ratty piece of rope, only to be held down by those same people.

He would struggle, and when his strength failed him, he would curse and scream to be let go. And when his throat was too torn to speak, he would sob apologies into the ground. But what good would late remorse amount to than empty words? He would need to learn.

Summer would pass like a snail, and winter would come slowly, but when it did, it would linger on far past its welcome. The hum of insects would replace the coughs and moans of the sick, while the sweltering heat would be swept away by a biting snowstorm. People would then clasp their frozen hands together, praying for spring, when they could feel the sun’s warmth against their face once more.

Seung’s side, which had once bustled with needless chatter, would be hauntingly silent. But he would know better than to pray.