The pavilion is unusually silent. The servants sleep, and so do the children. The oil lamp casts a trembling light across the screens, drawing unstable shadows.
She has prepared the room as before: clean linens, screens arranged properly, a discreet fragrance in the air. Two years. Two years she has waited.
Yi Sun-sin enters, imposing, his steps steady, his face closed as always. He slowly removes his tunic, his torso marked by campaigns. His movements are precise, measured, almost ritualistic. She watches him, motionless, but her heart pounds. She speaks hesitantly, her voice low:
— "Two years without you… Every night, I feared the sea would steal your breath. But you returned."
He stops, staring at her with dark eyes. She lowers her gaze, then continues:
— "And I… I am still here. Do you remember? You ordered me to live. I obeyed."
A flash crosses his expression. The memory resurges violently: his wife pale, covered in blood, her voice faint as she swore she would hold on because he had commanded it. His face tightens, his breath deepens.
He approaches. His hand rises; she freezes, thinking it a harsh gesture. But his fingers touch her cheek instead, and his voice comes out rough, heavier than before:
— "Yes… I remember too well."
She closes her eyes for a moment, then dares a smile. Her fingers graze his chest, feeling his heart beating strong beneath her palm...
— "Then tonight… remember that I still live."
He does not answer. His jaw clenched, his body taut like a drawn bow. But he lets her approach. She lifts herself to him, and they embrace. They lie down. His movements are firm, almost rough. She, still fragile, guided by her desire, her hands trembling. Her breath quickens as she seeks his gaze, her voice pleading:
— "Look at me… not this time…"
He freezes. His instinct is to turn away, to retreat into his armor. But the images strike: her blood, her frailty, his order that she survive. He shakes. Then slowly, he yields: his eyes lock with hers. Not tender, not soft, but burning, harsh, implacably present.
She whimpers softly, her breath mingling with his, her eyes blurred with tears. That gaze shakes them more deeply than the act itself. The rhythm intensifies. His breath grows rough, his strength surges. But suddenly, his face tightens. The memories return stronger than ever: her pale skin, blood-soaked sheets, trembling lips.
Fear seizes him violent, unbearable. At the final moment, he pulls away abruptly. His body contracts, he spills against her, on her skin, her stomach, refusing to go deeper. A heavy silence falls.
She pants, stunned, her cheeks flushed. Her eyes search his, but he turns away, breathing hard, almost ragged.
— "Sun-sin…"
He closes his eyes, his expression hard, tense, as if locked in battle with himself. Then, hoarse:
— "Do not ask it of me. That gaze… you'll have it only once."
But his hand remains on her waist, heavy, unmoving, as if he cannot bring himself to leave.
She understands then, in that silence: it was not refusal, nor rejection. It was fear. A consuming fear of losing her, stronger than desire. She closes her eyes, a painful smile on her lips, and settles against him.