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I.
His Majesty is the most honest like this: in his sleep. His eyes shut tight, his tall form curled up on the bed, he is allowed to be who he truly is: a child in the body of a man.
For this short while, his reality is peaceful. Elsewhere, miles and miles away from them, it is an entirely different picture. Elsewhere, on Yuan’s borders, it is blinding fountains of light; it is his troops wailing in anguish as the enemies’ explosives crumple and peel off layers of their skin.
(And still, dying scorched is a much fortunate fate – because surviving means returning to Dadu, and returning to Dadu means facing the Emperor’s rage. And one could never be sure what that rage may encompass.)
It is almost a ritual, by now. Horse hooves scratch up dust as they arrive at the Palace gates, and a messenger from the field delivers news that is hardly news at all. In an instant, the maids will serve the Emperor wine and food, so swift as if all was made ready and awaiting this moment.
Tonight, after hearing the news, he visited Yang’s pavilion, and asked her to drink with him. As always, she tried to dissuade him.
And as always, it didn’t work.
She knew beforehand, what he was going to tell her. “Don’t stop me,” the Emperor said. “I only wish to enjoy some time with you.” His hands were on her shoulders, squeezing lightly, as he gave her a smile. With him so close, she could not escape the scent of alcohol permeating his presence – threading through all the intricate dragon patterns of his clothes and mingling with his every breath, fanning over her face.
It gave her a headache.
Now, as the Emperor enjoys a peaceful slumber on her bed, Yang lingers at the table. Before her, the wine bottle is still full. His Majesty could not finish it – not after he downed generous gulps in his chamber, enjoyed an abundant more with the Empress and other concubines, and finally, collapsed on the table here, having finished only the first cup of what was meant to be many.
Toppled, his cup spilled and spread wine onto the tablecloth. Yang stares at the wet streaks without seeing them. The longer she stays like this, the quieter the night feels, and the emptier, the more immense the room seems to be.
Instinctively, Yang wraps her arms around herself.
When she feels a sting in the corners of her eyes, Yang only lifts her cup, and hopes the burning liquid will dull the pang in her chest a little.
II.
Two months go by, and her mentor is allowed a temporary return from the field.
Yang sends him a message that they meet in the Imperial Library.
As the city drum tower announces the third watch of the night, she arrives at the room. There is a lone light from within, and it casts a soft, hazy glow over the paper panels of the doors.
Tal Tal is already waiting for her. Today, he is in plain clothes.
“Your Grace.” He bows as she walks up to him.
And their conversation goes as usual: Yang discusses with him the state of hunger in Dadu and plans for aid distribution. Eventually, they circle back to what they conversed about, the last time they met.
“He rejected it,” Tal Tal says, when she asks him if the Grand Councillor accepted the proposal.
With the state of the capital, aid distribution is necessary, yet inadequate in the long run. To prevent is better than to treat, he told her, once, when they were standing among a rich trove of treatises just like this, though it was back in the former Governor’s house. But if prevention fails, then treatment must come immediately.
Tal Tal doesn’t hide his disappointment. “He insisted that the treasury be allocated to more pressing matters.”
And it makes sense: In the Grand Councillor’s eyes, nothing could be more pressing than the conquests he and the Emperor have set out – the lands, the spoils of war, and the hails from the Yuan people that still pervade the two’s dreams, even now. Famine relief measures, such as setting up new rice farms, however…
Yang hasn’t been any luckier: She made the suggestion to the Emperor during his bouts of sobriety, and when those became rare, she persisted with it through his wine-filled hazes.
The result stayed the same, every time.
“I have a question,” she says after a long pause between them.
“Years ago, when we arrived at the Palace gates, you asked me if I would regret entering this place.
“Then, I pledged that I would not.”
He lets her words sink in. “Have you changed your mind?” he asks, his voice calm, measured as always. It is reassuring.
On her mouth is a small smile. “I was going to ask you the same question.”
“Back then, could you anticipate this?” she asks. “That the Grand Councillor would choose this path?”
Tal Tal takes a moment. “My uncle has always been a warrior. The battlefield is where his soul belongs. He, of course, also harbours many ambitions.”
He gazes down. On his lips is a bitter smile. “Though I did not expect him to take things this far.”
Then, Tal Tal says, “I suppose I could ask you the same about His Majesty. Have you foreseen this?”
“I should have,” Yang says, and again, wishes the pang in her chest would ease. “But it’s too late.”
For once, that rare emotion surfaces in her gaze. She wonders if he could see it, if he could see her.
He does, she knows. Because then, he asks, “Your Grace. Do you have something on your mind?”
She does not answer. Instead, Yang steps forward.
With him so close, she can almost study the details of his features.
For the Noble Consort, there is almost no boundary she has not trespassed. And yet, as she reaches a hand out, she knows she has crossed a line like never before.
When her palm comes to rest on his cheek, Yang sees the gradual widening of his eyes, the small, gentle way his lips part. His skin is warm, so warm to her touch, and she feels him more real, more close than ever.
She senses that sting in the corners of her eyes again.
“I do.” Her voice is barely above a whisper.
He does not shift away. “Your Grace,” he says – words of caution.
“I do not regret entering this Palace.” Her gaze is tender as she looks at him. “And neither will I regret this.”
Tal Tal shakes his head. His eyes are bright and warm. “You could not.”
With him so close, she can really study the details of his features. There is a small cut on his cheekbone, scabs forming atop. Over the past four years, he has been fortunate enough to avoid serious injuries – after all, his battle prowess is hardly matched.
She strokes the small wound, her thumb almost a phantom on his skin. Yang wonders to herself how she has managed to go so long without this.
She says, “I could. If you let me.”
The beats of her heart go untamed.
“Will you let me?” she asks.
For the first time, his lips move against hers – careful, gentle. As they kiss, her fingers slowly thread through the strands on his nape, and his palms, slowly circling her waist, are secure and warm.
She doesn’t know when it happens, but now, there are damp tracks down her cheeks. Naturally, like it should be nothing at all: He brushes his lips there and chases them away.