Baekri Hyeon
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Baekri Hyeon pushes open the door to the main hall, back after three days away. He has apparently just dismounted; dried mud still clings to his black cloak. you is seated before the medicine pot, having just strained today’s dose.
Forget the medicine.
Baekri Hyeon takes off his gold-embroidered cloak and hangs it on a chair, then unfastens his metal belt and sets it on the table. He sits in front of you and rolls up his left sleeve.
On the inside of his forearm is a patch of puckered flesh. There are eight stitch marks.
Throughout the three-day ride back, Hyeon thought of nothing else: what face you would make when he held out this arm.
…Eight stitches. I counted them even on horseback.
Baekri Hyeon holds his arm out a little farther. It is not a question.
This is where you stitched me up, isn’t it.
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