Jianyuan Era, Year 2. The 2nd Day of the 2nd Month. Dragon Raises Its Head.
The snow in Chang'an had melted. The icicles under the eaves, which had dripped water all winter, had finally finished dripping. Fuzzy yellow buds emerged on the willow branches, soft like chick down. The wind blew from the south, carrying the scent of thawing earth, humid and mixed with the earthy smell of grass roots. The capital was also thawing—people's hearts were stirring. The Prince of Liang's remnants hadn't been fully purged, the Princess's money was still flowing in the shadows, and although Empress Dowager Dou had retired, those in the court who were watching were still waiting. Waiting for him to leave, waiting for me to collapse. Spring had come. He was leaving.
The sky hadn't lightened yet, but I was awake. Not woken by anyone, but pressed down by something in my chest, pressing since last night, growing heavier. I lay there for a long time, listening to my heartbeat. My fingers unconsciously traced the crack along the bed frame—a crack that had been there since last winter, the wood shrinking and splitting into a fine line, rough to the touch. One, one, one. Steady. But that thing in my chest remained.
He hadn't slept last night. He was in the study looking at the map until midnight. When I went to find him, he was standing before the map, his finger pressing on the position of the Yin Mountains. The candle flame jumped behind him, casting his shadow on the wall—huge, covering half the wall. He didn't turn around, but he knew it was me.
"Xingye."
"Mm."
"Leaving tomorrow."
"I know."
He turned, looking at me. Candlelight danced in his eyes, illuminating his face brightly. His face had new angles—cheekbones more prominent, jawline harder, lips pressed tight like a blade. Standing under the candlelight, he appeared taller and more solitary. But beneath this face, he was still that person. The youth who smiled in the snow of Shanglin Park saying "you smiled."
"Xingye."
"Mm."
"If I don't come back—"
"You will."
He looked at me for a long time. Then he smiled. Faint, genuine. He reached out, touching my cheek. His fingers were cool.
"Good."
Mao Hour. The drums sounded. The drumsticks struck the hide surface with a thunderous boom, shaking dust loose from the city walls. The gates of Chang'an swung open; the Forbidden Army lined both sides of the road, their armor reflecting cold light in the morning glow. The Feather Forest Guards led the way, drums and horns sounding together. The supervising officer stood before the column holding the tally, banners snapping in the wind.
Liu Che rode a horse at the very front. He wasn't wearing ceremonial robes, but armor—dark colored, copper studs polished bright, several scratches on the shoulder guards left from training. His helmet covered his forehead, revealing only a pair of eyes. Those eyes were bright, sharp as a blade's edge.
I stood on the city wall, watching him. The morning wind blew, carrying the scent of dust and pollen; fine powder landed on my cuffs, golden yellow like crushed gold. He raised his head and saw me. Across such a distance, I couldn't see his expression, but I saw his eyes—he looked at me once. Very short, just a moment. Then he turned his head and continued forward.
The hundred officials knelt in farewell, shouting "Long live!" The sound echoed on the city walls, wave upon wave, like iron waves hitting the shore. He didn't look back. The column was long, so long the end couldn't be seen. Flags fluttered in the wind, embroidered with one character—"Han." The drumbeat traveled from the front of the column to the back, then echoed back again, reverberating in the wilderness. I stood on the city wall, watching his back grow more distant. Sunlight shone on the official road, making the entire road appear white. His back grew smaller and smaller in the light, finally becoming a dot, disappearing on the horizon.
The wind stopped. The flags ceased fluttering. The drums faded. Only I remained on the wall. My hand clenched the wall bricks, knuckles turning pale, devoid of warmth. The moss in the brick seams was damp, cold seeping in from my fingertips. On the distant horizon, there was nothing. Only the gray sky and an empty road.
"Xingye." Ajiao's voice came from behind, very light.
I didn't turn around.
"He will come back."
"I know."
"Are you crying?"
I raised my hand to touch my face. It was wet. I didn't know when the tears fell, dried by the wind, leaving only streaks.
"No," I said. "The wind blew."
She stood by my side, saying nothing. The wind blew from the north, carrying the scent of dust and rust. He was gone.
Xuanshi Hall. The Dragon Throne was empty. I sat beside where he usually sat—not on it, but next to it. Memorials were piled on the desk; the first one was from the Northern Frontier, saying the great army had passed Shangjun, all going smoothly. I read it three times. Not reading the content, but looking at the characters. His handwriting, hard as if carved by a knife. Straight strokes, no dragging, like the man himself. I put down the memorial, picked up the brush, and approved it. My hand was steady.
When Ajiao arrived, it was already evening. She wore plain clothes, holding a bowl of soup. She stood at the door, not entering. The setting sun shone from behind her, casting her shadow on the floor, long and thin.
"Xingye, you haven't eaten all day."
"Not hungry."
"Liar."
She said nothing. Walking in, she placed the soup on the desk and sat opposite me. The soup was hot, steaming, the aroma of mutton drifting over; my stomach cramped. But I didn't move.
"Xingye," she said, "do you know how my mother waited for my father when he went to war?"
"How?"
"She didn't wait. She did her own things. Ate when she should, slept when she should, scolded people when she should. She said waiting is the most useless thing. You wait here, he fights there. You wait until you're thin, he doesn't know. You wait until you cry, he doesn't know. Better to take care of yourself. When he comes back, seeing you well is better than anything."
I looked at that bowl of soup. White mist rose, blurring my face.
"Your mother said that?"
"Mm."
"Did she do it?"
Ajiao was silent for a moment. "No. She was right, but she couldn't do it. Every time father went to war, she lost weight. When he returned, they hugged and cried together."
I smiled. Very light, very short.
"Then what are you teaching me?"
"Teaching you—" she thought for a moment, "teaching you to drink soup. If you miss him, drink a few extra mouthfuls for him."
I lifted the bowl and drank a mouthful. Mutton soup, very fresh, with ginger, spicy, scalding from the throat all the way to the stomach. The stomach warmed, and so did the eyes.
"Is it good?"
"Good."
"Then drink another mouthful."
I drank another mouthful. The soup was hot, numbing the tongue. But I remembered the morning he left, he drank a bowl of soup, also mutton soup. He said he wouldn't get to drink it in the Northern Frontier. When he put down the bowl, he looked at me. That glance was short, but I remembered it.
The 7th Day after Liu Che left. The first battle report arrived.
"The great army has reached Yunzhong; the Xiongnu have retreated a hundred li."
I read it three times, placed it on the desk. Hand steady.
The 10th Day. The second battle report arrived.
"Vanguard engaged Xiongnu scouts, beheading two hundred."
I read it three times, placed it on the desk. Hand steady. Heartbeat faster, but hand steady.
The 15th Day. The third battle report arrived. This time not a victory report.
"Grain route attacked, loss of three thousand shi of grain."
My hand paused. Three thousand shi. Enough for the great army to eat for five days. I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath. When I opened them, my hand was still steady. Who attacked the grain route? Xiongnu scouts? Or—traitors? I put down the report, stood up, walking to the map. Finger pressing on the position of Yunzhong. Yunzhong. Shangjun. Chang'an. A line. The grain route started from Chang'an, passed through Shangjun, to Yunzhong. In between, mountains and rivers, places just pacified, not fully submissive. Although the Prince of Liang was deposed, his remnants remained. Although the Princess was confined, her money remained. Although Empress Dowager Dou retired, her chess game wasn't over.
"Qingxing."
"Here."
"Issue the edict. From today, increase the grain escort guard by thirty percent. Before each grain batch departs, report to the Zhonggong first. All grain transport officers must be registered."
"Yes."
She ran out. I stood before the map, finger pressing on Yunzhong. He was there. He didn't know about the grain route attack. I couldn't let him know. What he needed to do was fight. The rest, I would handle.
The 20th Day after Liu Che left. A guest came to Ajiao's shop. A young man, wearing commoner's clothes, but with calluses on his fingers—not from labor, but from holding a brush. He brought a copper mirror to repair, broken into five pieces. Ajiao took it, glanced, said it could be fixed. Asked when he wanted it. He said no rush.
Ajiao later told me that after that person left, she found a small piece of silk cloth in the mirror fragments, with one character written on it—"Dou" (窦). She burned the cloth, telling no one. Only me.
"Xingye, someone is watching you."
"I know."
"Aren't you afraid?"
"Afraid. But I must do it anyway."
She looked at me for a long time. "You are like him."
"How?"
"Neither afraid of death."
I smiled. "Not unafraid of death. There are things more important than death."
She thought for a moment. "What things?"
"Before he left, he handed the empire to me. I can't let him return to find nothing left."
Night deepened. I sat alone at the desk, before me the unfinished copper mirror. Fragments covered the table; the largest piece reflected my face—thinner, cheekbones prominent, dark circles under the eyes. The person in the mirror didn't look like an Empress, but like someone waiting for news. I reached out, fingertips touching the mirror surface, cold. A chill rose in my heart—he was in the Northern Frontier, I was in Chang'an. Separated by mountains and rivers, I could only wait. But waiting didn't mean doing nothing.
Jianyuan Era, Year 2. The 3rd Day of the 3rd Month. Shangsi Festival.
Chang'an was lively, everywhere purifying, bathing, feasting. River lanterns floated on the moat, one by one, like stars falling into water. Willow catkins floated in the wind, white like snow. I didn't go. I sat in Xuanshi Hall, reviewing memorials. Memorials piled like small mountains on the desk, each one to be read, each one to be approved. He was bathing in blood in the Northern Frontier; I was bathing in ink in Chang'an.
In the evening, Ajiao came. She held a bowl of soup, placing it on the desk.
"Xingye, today is Shangsi Festival."
"I know."
"Aren't you going to bathe?"
"No."
"Then at least drink a bowl of soup."
I lifted the bowl, drinking a mouthful. Shepherd's purse soup, fresh, carrying the taste of spring. The river lanterns outside had drifted far, invisible. Willow catkins still floated, landing on the lattice windows, clump by clump, like snow.
"Xingye."
"Mm."
"What do you think he is doing now?"
I looked out the window. On the distant horizon, a line of light. Didn't know if it was lantern light or starlight. He was in the Northern Frontier. The wind on the steppe was strong, sand stinging the face. He rode a horse, leading the column. Armor covered in dust, face covered in dust. But his eyes were bright.
"Fighting," I said.
"Don't you miss him?"
I said nothing. I missed him. Missed the warmth when he held my hand, missed the sound of him calling my name, missed the curve of his eyes when he smiled. But I couldn't say it. If I said it, I would collapse.
"I miss him," I said. "But he is fighting. What I can do is not miss him. It is to do well what needs to be done while he is gone."
Ajiao looked at me for a long time. Then she smiled.
"Xingye, you have really changed."
"How?"
"You used to be someone who fixed things. Now, you are someone who guards things."
I said nothing. Outside, willow catkins still floated. He left when the Dragon raised its head; now, the catkins were flying. When the Dragon raises its head again, will he return?
Jianyuan Era, Year 2. The 10th Day of the 3rd Month. The 38th Day after Liu Che left. The fourth battle report arrived.
"The great army confronts the main Xiongnu force at Yin Mountain. Decisive battle imminent."
I read it once. Hand steady. I put down the report, stood up, walking to the window. Outside, Chang'an's spring was deep. Willow catkins floated in the wind, white like snow. Peach blossoms bloomed, pink, tree upon tree. The river lanterns had long extinguished; only moonlight remained on the moat's surface, shattered into pieces of silver white.
"Xingye." I called his name in my heart. "You must come back alive."
The wind blew, scattering the willow catkins. He didn't hear. But I felt he did.
[End of Chapter 37]