#war fic

The river didn’t speak, not the way people claimed it used to.

Elders said you could once hear it sing—before the soldiers came, before the schools erased the language from the walls, before the men disappeared in the middle of the night and returned hollow-eyed, if at all. These days, even the water held its breath.

So did you.

You knew the weight of too many things. Knew how to walk without sound, how to pass messages folded into bundles of herbs, how to lower your gaze just enough to stay invisible. You spoke only when you had to. Smiled less. Laughed never.

Your village, tucked behind the folds of the forest and pressed against a slow-moving river, had been quiet for months, too quiet. Rumors swirled like smoke. That the war was ending. That the Japanese army was growing desperate. That spies were being hunted, executed. You knew better than to believe or disbelieve. Hope was dangerous.

It was late June when you saw him for the first time.

You had gone to the river at dusk, carrying a small tin box of old poems your father had hidden before his arrest. The words inside still smelled like smoke. You planned to bury them under the cherry tree—your quiet rebellion.

But someone was already there.

He was crouched beneath the arched footbridge, sleeves rolled, washing his hands in the river. His uniform was foreign but familiar: olive with crimson insignia, polished buttons that caught the fading light. A Japanese soldier. You froze.

Your instinct told you to leave. Turn back. Disappear.

Then he looked up.

His eyes didn’t match the uniform.

They were Korean.

Dark, wide, startled. He stood slowly, not reaching for his weapon, just watching you. His face was unreadable—except for his hands, which trembled slightly before he hid them behind his back.

“Go on,” he said, voice low. Careful. “You were here first.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You simply nodded once and walked past him, heart pounding, mouth dry.

But when you glanced back, he was still standing there. Still watching.

You didn’t speak again for two weeks.

Not because you didn’t cross paths, you did, too often. At the well. Near the market. Once, along the narrow path behind the school where he helped a boy with a bleeding foot, his jacket stained with someone else’s blood.

He was different from the other soldiers. The village knew it. Whispered it. Some said he was a sympathizer. Others said he was cursed.

You didn’t know what to believe.

But he didn’t scare you.

That was the scariest part.

It was the third week of July when he approached you.

You had just delivered a message tucked inside a pouch of dried ginseng to the herbalist’s wife. You were walking home with a basket of radish and lotus root when his voice stopped you.

“You’re careful,” he said, leaning against the frame of the old storage shed near the woods. “Too careful. That’s how people disappear.”

You didn’t stop walking.

“You know who I am?” he asked.

“No,” you said.

He smiled. Just barely. “Then you’re a better liar than me.”

You didn’t answer.

He fell into step beside you without asking.

“I’m Jeon Jeongguk,” he said. “My father was a fisherman from Busan. My brother died last spring in Manchuria. I enlisted two weeks later. Not because I believed in their cause—but because if I didn’t, my mother wouldn’t be able to buy rice for winter.”

You didn’t look at him.

“I know who your father was,” he added.

That stopped you cold.

He saw it. “He used to read poems behind the market stalls. About tigers and moonlight. About swallowing your name so it couldn’t be taken.”

You turned. Your eyes met.

His were soft. Not weak, just tired. As if he’d been waiting a long time for someone to see through him.

“What do you want from me?” you whispered.

“Nothing,” he said. “Just…someone to talk to.”

You met at dusk after that.

Not every day. Never planned. Always accidental.

You didn’t touch. Didn’t flirt. The war left no room for those things. But you talked.

About the sky, the rivers, the things you remembered before the silence.

About the peach tree that never bloomed again after the soldiers used it for target practice.

About his mother’s old rice cake recipe that he could never recreate.

About the book of poetry you still kept hidden under your floorboards.

He listened like no one else did. Carefully. Without interrupting. He spoke like someone who had nothing to prove.

One night, under the shade of the bridge, you handed him one of your father’s poems. He didn’t read it out loud. He just held it to his chest, eyes closed.

“It smells like ink,” he whispered. “Like freedom.”

By the time the cicadas grew quiet, the quiet between you grew louder.

You knew what it was now. That thing pulling at your chest when he looked at you too long. That ache when he walked away before curfew. That panic when someone called his name too sharply in the market.

You loved him.

Slowly. Quietly. Like water filling a bowl. Not all at once, but completely.

But the river didn’t speak.

Not when the first soldier noticed him slipping food to a starving child in a hanbok.

Not when a commander found a poem in his jacket, your father’s words, written in Jeongguk’s hand.

Not when the soldiers called him traitor. Not when they stormed his barracks.

Not even when you screamed his name as they dragged him through the village square.

The river was gentler that night.

The sky wore no stars, but the moon was wide and watching, pale as porcelain. It cast a silver trail on the water, rippling like lace with every small breeze. Crickets sang from the reeds, low and tender, as if they, too, knew to whisper. And beneath that silence, carved into the ink-black hush of midnight, floated a single wooden boat.

Yours.

You and Jeongguk sat at opposite ends, the space between you heavy with all the words neither of you had yet dared to say.

You had stolen the boat, borrowed, really, from the back of the miller’s hut. It was old, chipped at the edges, still smelling of rain and old rice straw. But it held your weight, and it floated, and tonight, that was enough.

You’d spent the afternoon in silence. After the old woman at the market had been beaten for keeping Korean books, the village had turned hollow. No one lingered outside. No one smiled. You hadn’t seen Jeongguk in three days. You’d begun to believe you wouldn’t again.

And then he’d appeared just as the moon rose, his voice soft and breaking: “Come with me. Just tonight.”

Now here you were, drifting along the river like ghosts who still remembered how to breathe.

He didn’t look at you at first. He only leaned back, one hand trailing in the water, eyes fixed on the blur of trees above. His uniform jacket was gone, replaced by a loose white undershirt, sleeves rolled, collar open. He looked like the boy he might have been in another life.

“I used to imagine this,” he murmured.

You turned your head. “What?”

“Peace. Stillness. Just…sitting with someone, knowing no one’s coming to take it away.”

He laughed softly. “Feels like I stole it.”

You looked at him fully then.

“No,” you whispered. “You didn’t steal it. You survived long enough to find it.”

The wind shifted. A night heron cried somewhere downstream. And still the boat drifted, aimless and slow.

“I’m afraid of how much I care about you,” he said suddenly.

He looked down, hand tightening over the edge of the boat. “I don’t know when it happened. It wasn’t fast. It was like watching frost melt. Like turning pages in a book and realizing too late you’ve been writing your own story into it.”

You said nothing. Your throat burned with words too heavy to form.

“Y/N…” he whispered. “I want to kiss you, but not if you’ll carry the grief of it for the rest of your life.”

Your chest cracked like glass.

You moved across the boat, slow and unsure, and sat beside him, knees brushing.

“I’m already carrying the grief of everything else,” you said, voice thin. “Let me carry something beautiful, too.”

He looked at you, his eyes deep and storm-dark, as if memorizing the lines of your face was the only thing that still made sense.

And then, gently, like a prayer spoken with trembling hands, he kissed you.

It wasn’t perfect. His lips were cold. Yours were chapped. Your hands shook where they held his shoulders. But it was real. And it was yours. And in that moment, the war didn’t exist. There was no empire. No soldiers. No blood. Just the two of you, suspended in moonlight, wrapped in the hush of something almost holy.

When you pulled away, he kept his forehead against yours.

“If we make it out,” he whispered, “let’s run. Anywhere. Just you and me. Someplace the river remembers how to sing again.”

You closed your eyes. “Okay.”

But some part of you already knew.

There would be no running.

Now, in the present, the memory gutted you.

You sat in your room, your wrists still sore from the rope, your knees scraped raw. Your mother hadn’t spoken since they dragged you back. She only wept quietly in the corner, as if sound would summon them again.

Jeongguk was gone. Taken. You didn’t know where. You didn’t know if he was even still alive.

But you remembered the kiss.

The boat.

The moon.

His trembling voice saying okay as if he believed in it. As if belief alone could alter fate.

You pressed your hand to your chest, fingers splayed over your heart, as if that could hold the pieces together.

Outside, the river didn’t speak.

But you did.

You whispered his name into the darkness.

Over and over.

As if it could still find him.

As if it could still bring him home.

The cell was not made for people.

It was a toolshed behind the garrison, half-eaten by time and termites, its walls too thin for winter and too cruel for warmth. A single rusted chain was bolted to the floor. It held no dignity. It held Jeongguk.

His hands were tied in front of him, wrists blistered raw. His left eye was swollen shut, lip split and blood dried in a thin crack at his chin. The cold pressed into him like a blade. He didn’t shiver anymore. That part had passed.

He didn’t speak, either. Not since they’d thrown him here two nights ago.

He only thought of you.

And your name, god, your name. The one thing he didn’t speak, didn’t give them. They had asked. They had screamed. They had pressed the heel of a boot to his ribs and twisted, but he kept you buried beneath his tongue like a sacred thing. Like if he said it out loud, they would know how to kill him.

“Who is the girl?”

They had asked again and again.

And each time, he told them the same thing.

“No one.”

But you weren’t no one.

You were everything.

You were the river on a quiet night. The trembling kiss beneath the moon. The girl who looked at him not like he was a soldier, but a boy worth saving.

And that was why he would not say your name.

They punished him even though they knew who the girl was.

Still, he refused to speak your name.

Not even now.

Not even as his body failed him, slowly, bone by bone.

Who are you to him?

They asked with laughter in their mouths and rifles in their hands.

And though he bled, though he broke,

he answered only with silence.

Because to him,

you were not a name to give.

You were a prayer to protect.

A memory too sacred for their bullets.

A kind of love they would never understand.

You didn’t sleep.

You paced your small room, barefoot, every board creaking beneath your steps like the bones of ghosts. You didn’t speak to your mother. She wouldn’t look at you anyway, not out of anger, but fear. You had become someone too dangerous to love openly.

But you knew where he was.

You knew what they were doing.

And you knew he wouldn’t give you up.

That was what terrified you most.

Not that he would name you, but that he wouldn’t.

Because he would endure anything to protect you.

And people didn’t survive long that way.

It was the boy from the rice mill who told you.

Late afternoon. You’d slipped out to trade roots for firewood when he brushed past you, eyes wide, voice quick and low:

“They’ve moved him to the back. Near the garrison. The old shed.”

Then, softer,

“They say he hasn’t eaten. They say he might not make it.”

Your heart stilled.

Then broke.

That night, you lit a single candle and wrote one final poem.

You tucked it into your sleeve.

You didn’t tell your mother where you were going.

The path to the garrison was lined with ash trees. In spring, they bloomed pale and soft. But now they stood bare, brittle silhouettes against the dying sky.

You walked quietly. The guards were drinking. You had waited until the rice wine festival, when they always let their vigilance go numb. Still, your hands shook.

You were not brave.

You were just in love.

And that, sometimes, is louder than fear.

The shed was smaller than you remembered. When you pushed the door open, it creaked like it, too, wanted to weep.

And there he was.

Jeongguk.

Broken. Breathing.

His head lifted slowly, disoriented, as if his body no longer remembered how to respond to sound.

When his eyes found you, everything stilled.

For a moment, you thought he was going to cry. But he didn’t.

He smiled.

A shattered, tired smile that made your knees give.

You dropped to the floor beside him, careful, frantic, whispering his name like a prayer, like an apology, like a lifeline.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he rasped.

“And you shouldn’t be dying.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.”

You pulled the cloth from your sleeve and pressed it to his lips. Water. Just enough. Then food. Small pieces of rice cake you had hidden in your coat, trembling as you fed him.

He chewed slowly, painfully. But he didn’t stop looking at you.

“You’re safe?” he asked.

You nodded. “For now.”

“I didn’t say your name.”

“I know.”

“They beat me for it.”

“I know.”

You reached for his hand.

He pulled it away at first, ashamed. But you caught it, gently, and pressed your forehead to his palm.

“I wrote you something,” you said.

He watched as you unfolded the note.

The poem was short. Simple.

If they take your name from the wind,

I will carve it into stone.

If they break your hands,

I will carry the things you can no longer hold.

If they kill you—

They will not kill you in me.

Jeongguk didn’t cry.

But his breath hitched like it was trying to.

“Y/N…”

You leaned forward.

This kiss was nothing like the first.

This one was quieter. But deeper. He couldn’t lift his hands to hold you, so you held him instead. Held the back of his neck, held the weight of his pain, held the years he had not lived freely. His mouth tasted of iron and ash. Of boy and man and martyr. But it was still him.

Still yours.

And when you pulled away, you rested your head on his shoulder.

“I’ll come back,” you whispered.

“No.”

“I will—”

“They’ll kill you.”

“I’d rather die than lose you.”

He said nothing.

Because he knew that love, yours, his, was a kind of death already.

Not the kind that buries.

The kind that lives on after.

You left just before the sky began to turn.

Your hands stained with his blood. Your lips with his name.

The river did not speak.

But that night, it remembered.

The morning after you left him, the birds didn’t sing.

Not a single warbler. Not even the crows. Only the brittle hush of wind through dry grass and the quiet drip of last night’s rain falling from the eaves. As if the world itself had swallowed its voice, mourning something it couldn’t name yet.

You awoke with your clothes still damp and your hands trembling. You had dreamt of him all night: not bleeding, not chained, but laughing. That quiet, rare sound he made only for you. You reached for it in sleep and woke up weeping.

You should have stayed away. You knew that.

But love had never asked for permission, it simply arrived. And you had followed it like a child chasing fireflies into the dark.

That morning, the consequences came swiftly.

Two soldiers stood outside your home before the sun fully rose. One of them spat on the ground. The other dragged your mother by the arm as you screamed, pulled, begged.

They said nothing.

They didn’t need to.

They knew.

You were thrown to the ground in front of the village again, knees scraping the same earth that had once cradled your first steps.

And Jeongguk—

He was there too.

They had dragged him from the shed. He no longer walked; he was carried. His eyes were open, barely. But when he saw you, something flickered in him. Not surprise. Not pain. Just a sorrow so deep it didn’t belong to this world.

Like he had already started dying before they ever touched him.

“Traitors,” one soldier barked, yanking you up by your collar.

You didn’t speak.

Because what was there to say?

You loved him.

And somehow, in a world built on silence and borders, that had become the greatest betrayal of all.

They didn’t kill you. Not yet.

But they made a show of it.

They dragged Jeongguk through the village square like a warning. They tied you to a post beside him. The ropes bit your wrists until your skin burned.

And then they made him watch.

Each lash meant for you fell louder than the one before. Not many. Just enough to bruise, just enough to silence your breath. But it was not your pain that broke him.

It was the sound you made when you tried not to scream.

You caught his eyes between each strike.

He was sobbing now, silently, tears streaking the dust on his cheeks. His mouth moved but no sound came.

You knew what he was saying.

Stop.

Please.

Let her go.

Take me instead.

They didn’t care.

You collapsed after the sixth.

They took you home. Or what was left of you.

Your mother lay beside you in the dark, holding your hand as if that alone could stitch you back together. She didn’t speak. She just wept like the river once had, endlessly, without sound.

And Jeongguk?

He never returned to the shed.

They moved him somewhere colder.

Somewhere no one spoke of.

The next time you saw him, it was through a crack in the storage barn where they’d locked him days later.

You snuck out again, against every plea, every sob from your mother’s throat. You didn’t care anymore. The war had already taken so much. Let it take your fear, too.

He sat in the corner, knees drawn, wrists limp in the cuffs. His head hung low, chin to chest. He looked…smaller. Like the walls had pressed in and crushed something inside him.

“Jeongguk,” you whispered through the boards.

He didn’t move.

“Jeongguk, it’s me.”

He lifted his head slowly.

And when he saw you, his face twisted, not in relief, but in pain.

“Why did you come?” he rasped. “You shouldn’t—”

“I had to. I couldn’t leave you like that.”

“You should have,” he said, voice cracking. “Because now they know what you are to me. And they won’t stop until they tear it out of both of us.”

Tears filled your eyes. “I don’t care.”

“I do.”

You reached through the wooden slat, fingers barely brushing his.

His hand didn’t meet yours.

“You can’t give up,” you whispered. “You can’t let them win.”

He laughed once, bitterly.

“They already did,” he said. “The moment I saw your blood on their hands.”

He leaned his head back against the wall, eyes closing.

“I think I’ve forgotten the sound of your name,” he murmured.

You choked on a sob.

“You know my name.”

“But the river doesn’t,” he whispered. “Not anymore.”

He turned his head. “Promise me you’ll run, Y/N.”

“No.”

“Promise me.”

“I won’t leave you.”

“Then they’ll bury us both.”

You pressed your whole body against the slats, wishing you could dissolve through them.

“I’d rather be buried beside you,” you said, “than live a hundred years without you.”

Silence.

Then, softer than breath—

“I don’t deserve you.”

“You deserve everything.”

A pause.

Then he moved. Just enough. Just far enough for your fingertips to meet through the crack in the wood.

That night, you stayed until the sun began to rise.

Saying nothing.

Holding his hand through the wall like it was the only truth left.

The sun didn’t rise the morning they came for him.

Not truly.

The sky stayed dim and shrouded, as though the heavens themselves had turned their faces away. Mist clung to the trees. The soil, soft with last night’s rain, held the sound of bootsteps like a secret.

They dragged Jeongguk from the barn by his wrists.

He didn’t struggle.

His feet barely moved beneath him, one of them injured, swollen. He hadn’t spoken since the day you last touched fingers through the wall. Not a word. He hadn’t eaten. Hadn’t begged. Just sat in silence, waiting for a name they could never beat out of him. Yours.

The soldier spit near his feet. “Filthy dog.”

Another struck him. Jeongguk’s head lolled, but he didn’t cry out.

“Let him walk,” one barked. “Let the village see what a traitor looks like.”

So he walked. Or something like it. Carried more by will than strength.

Through the square. Past the market. Toward the clearing where they executed those who spoke the wrong language, wrote the wrong words, loved the wrong people.

And when he looked up—

There you were.

Already waiting.

Already kneeling.

Already bound.

Your cheeks were bruised, lip cracked. But your eyes were calm, almost tender. You didn’t cry when you saw him. You didn’t smile either.

You just breathed out the only thing you had left.

“Jeongguk.”

And that was it.

That was all he needed.

He fell to his knees beside you, breath stuttering like a child’s. His voice, hoarse from silence, trembled.

“You promised you’d run.”

You leaned your forehead to his.

“Why did you come?”

“I couldn’t leave you behind.”

He let out a soft sound, half sob, half laugh.

“You should have,” he whispered. “You were supposed to live.”

You shook your head. “I did. Every moment with you was living.”

And when you kissed him, it was quiet.

Not desperate.

Not afraid.

Just true.

The kiss of two people who had run out of time, but not of love.

They made a show of it.

Pulled the village from their homes.

Said you were an example. A warning.

But no one listened. Because the village wasn’t watching the soldiers.

They were watching you.

Two children of a ruined country, kneeling in the dirt, heads bowed, lips still stained with each other’s names.

The commander read the charges.

Jeongguk turned to you one last time, and said, “I’m not afraid anymore.”

You smiled through tears. “That’s because you’re not alone.”

And when the guns lifted,

When the orders were shouted,

When the smoke bloomed across the morning like a cruel dawn,

You leaned your head to his shoulder.

And Jeongguk reached for your hand.

And that was how they found you both.

Fingers entwined. Foreheads touching.

Still.

Silent.

Together.

The bodies were buried outside the village walls.

No grave markers. No names.

They thought time would forget you.

But they didn’t know the river.

They didn’t know it held your voices in its current, carried them past the fields, through the reeds, into the sea.

And on certain nights, when the wind is soft, the old women still say they hear it.

The girl who dared to love.

The boy who refused to speak her name.

The lovers the empire couldn’t erase.

Not from memory.

Not from the river.

Not from each other.

It follows König and Y/N — two souls who find peace, not in victory, but in each other’s presence. It’s a tale of devotion that endures through silence, grief, and time itself — love reborn through letters, memories, and the daughter left behind.

More than a war story, it’s a testament to the quiet power of humanity — to live gently, love fiercely, and remember tenderly.