第二章 . BURDOCK ( 牛蒡 )
- summary: when you last set foot inside the palace seven years ago, your heart was shattered into a thousand pieces. now, after the dowager empress’s death, you find that you still cannot even dare to hope.
- pairing: yanjun x f!reader
- genre: historical, royals au
- word count: 7654
- a/n: so. excuses. i have none, and although writing has never been anything other than a hobby for me, i do feel incredibly bad for making the 50+ people who enjoyed this wait so long to see the second part out of fifteen. the truth is, i’m a terrible procrastinator. when i wrote chapter one in about three days, it was kind of a fluke. it was also during the summer, which enabled me to spend hours of my day whittling away at something to post on tumblr instead of “actual responsibilities.” i thought i might be able to sneak in chapter two and a little bit of chapter three during the last month or so of my summer break or at least by yanjun’s birthday, but because i ( shocker ) procrastinated, that didn’t happen.
and then school started, and things basically went to shit. but since i started working on a show, i’ve been again enabled with a bunch of free time with which to fluff up this plot bunny, and so here we are with chapter two. i can’t make any promises for when chapter three will be out, because we’ve seen how that works out when i try to give myself deadlines and no real consequences, but i hope you enjoy what i have for this chapter.
i do promise that i have a lot of muse for this story and do plan on seeing it through at some point in time, and i am again super sorry for the very long wait between chapters.
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YOU PRESUME THAT IF YOU too were born into a pitiful life where you had nothing to do but sit around and wait for a man to marry you, you would also be as bitter and vindictive as ladies Renyu and Yunge are. They have very little to do but crowd around you and make disparaging comments as you work, apparently slighted as they are by Yanjun’s decision not to wed them. Though your intention was to joke when you asked them to help, you’re still annoyed when the pair scoff and titter behind their fans in response. They were the ones who barged in, apparently undeterred by the heavy stench of fertilizer. You were well within your rights to ask them to work. You suppose that a hard day’s labor would do them some good. With any luck, it’d curtail their overblown egos — though you’re not sure who they would be without their pride.
You know very little about them at all, only that they hate you and that they were previously in the running to marry Yanjun, only to have lost out. Twice. Naturally, they’re rather sour about it. And while you’re no longer the woman Yanjun chose to share his life (and social class) with, they never sought to endear themselves to you as rivals or as scorned women. If you could afford to consider yourself scorned at all, that is.
Yanjun’s coldness still rings in your ears. It was a tone you hadn’t ever thought you’d hear from him.
And now you have to deal with two of the palace’s most obnoxious women. Renyu and Yunge always had a habit of taking their frustrations out on the ‘easiest’ targets. You can’t blame them for coming to you. It’s what they used to do, and all you had done back then was sit there and take it. Thinking it was better to avoid conflict, you allowed their verbal abuse in the hopes that your flesh would turn to rubber and it would begin to bounce off.
It never did.
But at least you now have nothing holding you back. Without the weight of the crown behind you, you no longer have to worry about playing nice and making friends. If anything, they’re the ones who ought to think twice before crossing you. The more female ginseng left to help you with your cramps, the better. It’s more than a little petty to withhold such a mundane and ultimately unnecessary (if very much preferred) remedy. A week of monthly pain, however, for all the strife they caused you seems like a fair price to pay.
Oh, you’re not bitter. Who would dare to suggest such a thing?
After all, you definitely didn’t feel annoyed when they greeted you with, “Well if it isn’t the little commoner girl!” Circling you like vultures, they exchanged clearly condescending glances as you potted your herbs. How could you be annoyed when you got a full look at their shocked faces upon your retort? Calling them the “harpies of Lin’an” to their faces is hardly the worst thing you could’ve come up with. But even such a mild insult from such a previously demure young lady could inspire surprise, and for that, you are glad. You look forward to shocking them in the future.
The future, of course, being in the next twenty minutes given that they’ve decided to loiter around. Likely to test your mettle or something of that nature. Lady Yunge certainly does little to disprove your assumption. “I’m surprised you saw fit to return. You know that the job is a rather… stressful one, yes?” As she fans herself, her awful perfume wafts over to you. You breathe through your mouth. “Can you truly handle such a thing? I remember your last stay in the palace was rather… protracted.”
No thanks to you. Smiling mildly, you stifle a snicker at the fact that she’s sullied the hem of her skirts with fertilizer — which her sister had already stepped in a moment prior. “I’d dare to say that preparing for a royal wedding and healing the sick are two very different things. But I suppose I can forgive you your ignorance. You don’t have experience with either, do you?”
Even Renyu laughs at that. She finds things substantially less amusing when both you and Yunge shoot her looks. Clearing her throat, she takes it upon herself to be mocked. “Between the two, I must say I’m glad you learned which you were better suited to. A life of servitude is one you wear best. I wonder whatever possessed you to think that you could ever stand as equals with the emperor.” You shouldn’t have flinched when she abruptly closed her fan. Satisfaction rolls off of Renyu in waves.
You clear your throat. “I could say the same of you lot.”
Renyu scoffs. “There are far too many reasons to list. Would you like to start with our good breeding? Our vast connections?” She shrugs. “Even without Yunge’s looks or my intelligence, our dowries would have been enough. Our family has produced only the finest daughters in all the Empire.” Yunge, ever the duller of the pair, merely nods in agreement. She’s lucky to have an older sister to speak on her behalf — though you suspect Yunge’s more succinct “We’re rich, you’re poor” would have sufficed.
“Simply speaking,” Renyu continues, “His Majesty would be better off keeping his bloodline pure. He and his ancestors and his children are descended from the Heavens. Very few women are capable of preserving that magnificence and dignity — and a healer who spends her days elbow deep in manure and stink and dirt is not one of them.
“And if His Majesty the Emperor cannot find a woman pure enough to satisfy this requirement, then he should at least turn to someone who can help fill the imperial coffers or who can direct the greatest people in the empire into his inner circle. That’s three sets of criteria you don’t meet and three that we do. Do you now catch my meaning?”
“I… see,” you say. You’re ashamed to say that it actually stings just a little bit. But not enough to keep you from biting back. “However, that raises the question of what your younger sister has that caused the emperor to choose her over you both.” You glance at them, relishing in the astonished fury on their faces. Try as they might to express some sort of superiority over you, the fact still remains that neither of them are part of Yanjun’s expansive harem while their youngest sister Pingting holds the title of Empress. As they grow older and approach spinsterhood, they sink further and further towards you. You permit yourself a shaky smile only after Renyu gathers her skirts and storms off, followed by her sister, who snarls, “We should’ve known better than to waste our time with the likes of you!”
Although you are older now, and although you know better than to take their words to heart, it still hurts. If not for reminding you of painful times long ago, then for affirming your own lingering doubts of whether you were still wanted in the palace. The rest of the people you had come across — stewards, cooks, maids, and the like — were nothing but courteous and kind, though you couldn’t be certain how many of them were only acting. As for the Qi sisters, you could always trust them to tell you how they really felt. You wonder if Pingting is any different from her siblings, remembering that Yanjun had arranged for you to meet her and their son later today. Though you hadn’t exchanged more than fifty words with her before, you were dreading potentially having to squabble with the empress. You’re already plenty exhausted — and not just from potting over forty plants in a single morning. Your back and neck scream in protest as you stand up straight, and you recognize that you very much need a break. Spending several hours with nothing but soil, fertilizer, and the harpies require a remedy by way of fresh air. After packing a small kit and putting on a new change of clothes, you decide to make your way to the gardens.
Upon arriving, you suppose that you should’ve known better than to hope for them to be empty and quiet. You hear the group of rowdy boys before you see them, though it’s only when you approach that you join their ranks with a shout of recognition. You flush as four heads turn towards you, covering your shame with a laugh. “The Guoran boys,” you say in amazement. It takes them a second to recall your face, but a chorus of whoops ensues when they do. You can’t blame them for the unfamiliarity. It’s been seven years. You wonder if you’ve changed much, considering the extent of how much they have. To say the little ones have grown is an understatement. Linkai had been a head shorter than you before you left, and you can hardly recognize Yankai, having to crane your head upward to look him in the eye.
Yanchen’s smile, rivalling the sun, is easier to pick up. “You still remember us!” he gasps, reaching out to take hold of your arm and bouncing on his feet in excitement.
“Of course she does. With all the screaming you do, I’d be more surprised if the insufferable squawking hasn’t been burned into her brain.” You’re grateful for Xingjie’s more subdued greeting in the wake of the headache you’re recovering from. He’s handsomer than you remember, having grown into his ears. He used to try and cover them with his hair, though they still stick out slightly. You’re surprised that he now displays them so brazenly. Perhaps their appearances aren’t the only things about them that have grown with time.
You first met the Guoran boys (as they had collectively named themselves) when they were mere apprentices, trailing behind the empire’s greatest poets and trying to hone their craft. They had been some of the few people you could stand in the palace, and you remember Xingjie was probably the closest thing you had to a best friend aside from Yanjun. Since your departure, they’ve become published authors, widely praised for their fresh takes on both poetry and prose. Critics — one of whom you’ve treated back in Changqi and the sole reason for you knowing they were so acclaimed at all — say that they’ll spearhead a new movement of Chinese literature. Still, you weren’t able to put all of this newfound notoriety to their faces. Until now, at least.
“You were just as loud,” you snicker, and Xingjie make a noise of protest. “Heavens, it’s been ages since I’ve seen you last. I don’t know if you remember me, you were all so young.”
Linkai, clever enough to realize he’s being indirectly addressed, wrinkles his nose. “I was almost thirteen, jie. I wasn’t a baby.” Yankai blinks, then nods furiously in agreement. “He was eleven. Hardly children.”
“You were absolutely children,” Yanchen quips. “In fact, you’re both still children.”
“I’m a grown man! I’m sophisticated, well-mannered, and honorable.”
Yanchen is unimpressed. “I’ll remember you said this the next time you try to insert a bawdy rhyme into one of Yanjun’s speeches.”
Linkai sticks his tongue out at him, which sparks a round of roughhousing that has Xingjie tugging you out of the way before the first elbow is thrown. He was always able to predict their bickering mere moments before they start. As it turns out, plenty of things haven’t changed after all.
Xingjie leads you to a stone bench a few feet away and gestures for you to sit, blocking your view of Yanchen punting Linkai into a bed of gardenias. “Welcome back,” he says over Yanchen’s angry demands for an apology. “I’m sorry we couldn’t stop by earlier, we only just got back from our own journey. And I wasn’t sure letting them near the infirmary and all of its sharp objects was such a smart idea.” He winces when Linkai squeals in pain and chokes out a surrender. “Case in point.”
“If they stopped by, it’d be easier to patch them up,” you shrug. “Though I’m sure Yanchen’s smart enough not to cause lasting damage.”
Xingjie laughs. “You say that, but…” The thump of Yankai getting tripped and landing face first speaks for itself. Xingjie’s smile softens and he sighs, watching the leaves and blades of grass sway in the gentle breeze with you. Though he’s as loud as his friends, you’re glad he also knows how to appreciate silence.
“How does it feel to be back?” Xingjie asks. Were it from anyone else, it might sound like a generic, hackneyed attempt at conversation. From him, though, there’s genuine interest. An actual desire to know your true feelings. You’d always been honest with each other before, and so you’re honest with him now.
“Surreal,” you answer, shoulders slumping. You don’t need to worrying about posturing around Xingjie. “I know I left Changqi weeks ago, but it feels as if I’m on sabbatical. It doesn’t quite feel like home, though I suspect my opinion on this matter will change over time.”
“That’s to be expected.” Xingjie hums. “It was never home when you first came here, whisked away for etiquette lessons or to pick flower arrangements and other such frivolous things. Now you’re being offered a more comfortable, more grounded existence in the palace walls.” Xingjie still understands you, you’re relieved to find out. He was the most like-minded individual you had met in the palace, and that’s why you two had bonded so quickly seven years ago.
He’s also the only person so far to say, “You’re brave for choosing to come back.” He glances at you, lips quirking. “I respect that. It takes a lot of guts to come back to a place that tried to tear you to pieces. You’re stronger than most people give you credit for.”
You blink and turn to look at Xingjie, and he meets your gaze without flinching. The affirmation wasn’t something you particularly needed, even if you were rattled by this morning’s encounter, but it was still… heartwarming to know that he thought this of you. Everyone else had asked whether you were certain about this return, and while some may have had good intentions, it was only Xingjie who ever expressed confidence in your choice. There was a reason you considered the Guoran boys — but him especially — a cut above the rest. “Thank you,” you tell him sincerely. “Much of the palace has changed since I was here last so it doesn’t really feel like coming back, but… I appreciate the sentiment, truly.”
He nods. “That is true, but the same people are still here. Although Yanjun’s done a lot to further the prosperity of the Empire, a mongoose he is not. Vipers still dwell in this nest, same as before.” He pauses, then lifts a shoulder haphazardly. “Yanjun’s changed. The crown has changed him — which, really, should have been expected, but… I don’t know. You can probably see that better than anyone.”
You can. The man you fell in love with, who would indulge his step-brother Maotong’s requests of daily walks and visits, who danced with Chaoze without a care for appearances, who loved to hold you close and kiss you senseless, was hidden away if not gone altogether. You can’t help but mourn the loss. Yanjun was and always will be someone near and dear to you. This Emperor Qiànzо̄ng seems almost like an imposter. You’d rather not think about him, though. The easiest topic to switch to is the man right before you. “You’re different, too,” you tease. “Successor to the Su family. Perhaps the greatest poet of his generation.”
“No,” Xingjie protests, “don’t — it’s embarrassing. All I did was write on paper, it’s nothing special —”
“But it is!” you insist. “I write prescriptions all the time. That’s considered writing on paper. I still wouldn’t consider that fine art, and I’m sure you wouldn’t either — it’s terribly dry. You have a gift, Xingjie. If I were you, I’d be very proud of my accomplishments. Being at the forefront of one’s craft is not something anyone can do.”
“That’s something we have in common, I suppose.”
“Get a room!” Yanchen shouts.
You blink, reflexively moving backward and not at all realizing that you were seated on the far end of the bench. Xingjie manages to grab your arm before you topple all the way over and pulls you against him. Your side is flush against his chest, and you are too shocked to do anything.
“Ooh,” Linkai calls, long having been freed from Yanchen’s grasp. “Yanjun’s going to be jealous!”
The sound of your former lover’s name is enough to snap you out of your daze, and you pull away from Xingjie. You don’t miss the mildly disconcerted expression on his face. “Don’t be ridiculous. What would he have to be jealous of?”
“What indeed?” Speak of the Devil. Was it truly so late already?
The Emperor and his guards coming to fetch his healer isn’t something that’s… heard of. The fact that said emperor is Yanjun, however, mitigates some of the surprise at his appearance. You wonder — not for very long — if he’s gotten over last night’s hissy fit.
The Guoran boys scramble to bow, Xingjie tugging on your sleeve when you remain still. Yanjun’s brows furrow — not in displeasure but some other indiscernible expression that is equally distressing — and he waves for them to stand up. “We apologize for interrupting this… touching reunion, but we must steal the lovely healer away for the evening.” He used to hate using the royal ‘we.’ He said that it was pretentious, that such decorum ought to be used only in large public events and sparingly so even then. You should not have expected any less from this brand new person. Rather than offering you a hand, he merely extends an arm toward the harem and stares at you expectantly.
Biting back a huff, you get to your feet and brush off your skirts. Turning, you send an contrite look to your companions. “Very well. I shall see you… whenever our paths cross again?” You dip your head apologetically at the boys’ chorused affirmations. You have no doubt that you will see them again; it is not so large a palace that you will never meet. Casting one last glance back at Xingjie, you start down the stone path behind Yanjun, flanked by his guards. Even before you’re out of earshot, the ruckus starts up again, the boys arguing over something you can’t decipher from the growing distance. You wish you could just march back and pick up where you left off. Anything’s better than this awkward silence between yourself and the emperor. If he’s displeased with you (which, given the way this past conversation and last night’s went, is entirely plausible), he makes it well known with how he refuses to look at you.
That’s fine.
Maybe you don’t want him to look at you anyway. It is not your job to obey the petulant whims of a bratty emperor. Coming to the palace had been out of good faith as well as a desire to further your own research. And your purpose in following Yanjun now wasn’t for him — it was for his son. An innocent boy you had never met, and one he had the gall to think you would hate on principle. The future of the empire, if he lived long enough to inherit it. You were going to save the Crown Prince out of the kindness of your own heart. The identity of his father was irrelevant.
And so, you could care less if Yanjun wished to speak with you. You are an adult, and you are fairly certain that you’re very much in control of yourself and your priorities, of which his opinion of you was not one. Rather, you were more focused on his wife and getting the Prince’s medical history out of her. Any apprehensions you had about meeting the empress could easily be disregarded. If you could deal with her two older sisters, surely the youngest would be just as difficult and therefore manageable.
Before long, you reach the empress’s quarters. The looming building is even more impressive up close. A clearly renovated portion of the palace, its walls are covered in lacquered mahogany paneling. It’s covered in images of cranes and rivers, and the gardens in the courtyard are some of the most beautiful you’ve ever seen. A foolish part of you laments that this could’ve all been yours. You resolve to keep it a passing thought and nothing more, never one to be taken by material goods.
“The Empress and Crown Prince are in the master bedchambers, which are on the far end of the Eastern Corridor,” Yanjun says. You wonder if he has a steward that could’ve told you the same thing and guided you here at the same pace, but you don’t voice the query. He does not follow you when violet-clad servants push the heavy doors open. He nods instead at one of the maids, spinning on his heel. “I have some other matters to attend to. The Empress will answer any questions you have.” Before you have any time to respond, he and his entourage depart.
Could he not have stayed behind to watch over his own son? You don’t presume to understand all of the responsibilities of an emperor, but his quick departure leaves a bad taste in your mouth. If he wasn’t even going to stay in the first place, why would he bother taking you at all? Deciding that this wasn’t the time to ponder such things, you follow the maid as she leads you through the fairly straightforward complex.
She doesn’t say anything to you, and it is no secret that her silence isn’t out of shyness. The few times she looked at you, disgust was evident from the trail of her gaze. Head-to-toe, you supposed you were incomparable to the Empress. She was likely a woman of eminence, and you would always be a simple commoner girl. You’d never be able to escape your roots, even if you wanted to. If the Empress’s staff was against you, you could only imagine what the woman herself thought of you. You clutch your bag with both hands, knuckles turning stark white. You steel yourself as the maid slips into the Empress’s chambers to announce your presence. When she steps back out moments later, you lift your head and step into the room.
You had forgotten the Empress — merely a noblewoman when you first knew her — was so small.
Pingting sits beside her son, a veil over her face to protect her from the pathogens. Though she isn’t standing, you can tell that she’s rather short — she’d barely reach Yanjun’s chest. You saw very little of her when you first stayed in the palace, Pingting always being rather sickly. She’s filled out her figure in the last seven years, however, looking much unlike her stick-like elder sisters. Where her face was previously gaunt, a suitable amount of flesh filled her cheeks and suited her large doe eyes. The rest of her features were small, almost dainty, and you understand why Yanjun might have chosen her as his bride. She was always the prettiest of the Qi sisters, allegedly having a sweet personality to match her lovely visage. If it remained after so many years in a toxic wasteland such as the palace, you would be very impressed.
“Your Majesty,” you greet, bowing deeply. “This humble servant has arrived to assess the condition of His Royal Highness the Crown Prince.”
“Rise,” says the Empress. Her voice is airy and high-pitched, soft and demure. It suits her face. Gracefully beckoning you with a hand, she shifts so that you too can fit on the prince’s bed.
She’s dressed simply in white robes, her hair worn loosely and pinned away from her face. Just in terms of her attire, she already differs from her sisters. Renyu and Yunge appreciated flashy and gaudy (ornate, they would claim) outfits in order to flaunt their status. Perhaps Pingting truly is the black sheep of the family, the total opposite of the harpies. Humble, kind, beautiful. Three criteria Renyu and Yunge failed to meet.
“How long has he been ill?” you ask, moving to the space the empress has vacated. The prince’s fever is evident even before you make contact with his forehead, shivers wracking his little frame as sweat beads all over his body. “The Emperor said it has been a month. Is he correct?”
“Yes,” Pingting answers. She clasps her hands together as she watches you work, pressing them to her lips almost as if in prayer. “He started first with a mild fever and some digestive issues. If he could keep down food, his stool would be runny and liquid. Just a few weeks ago, the breathing problems began. They worsen when he’s asleep.
“It’s gotten far worse recently, he’s been delirious for two days and he runs hot and cold, alternating every few hours. We’ve only been able to get him to drink water; food, he refuses to swallow or coughs it back up. His coughs are wet and his nose is at times runny.” She closes her eyes briefly before looking up at you. “You… You can help him, can’t you?”
“Of course.” You don’t have time to remind yourself not to dole out absolutes. Putting your ear to his chest, you close your eyes as you listen. The prince’s breath rattles weakly in his ribcage, but his heartbeat is steady. As you lift the prince’s head into your lap to examine his eyes, you notice he resembles Yanjun quite a bit. The shape of their eyes are quite similar, as is the curve of their jaws. The prince retains his mother’s petite nose and alabaster skin — though you’re sure most of his pallor is from his illness. The little boy stirs in your arms, groaning in discomfort. Pingting moves to lunge forward, but she stops herself at the last second. Her hand hangs in the air for a brief moment before she smooths her son’s fringe away from his forehead.
“Hello, Your Highness,” you say, just loud enough for him to hear you. As he starts to regain consciousness, he looks around slowly, eyes glazed. They’re a little red, and you make a mental note. “Look at me, please. I am the new imperial healer. Can you tell me your given name?”
“W-Weijun,” the Crown Prince says. His eyelashes flutter as he blinks, and he finally focuses on your face. Yes, he really does has Yanjun’s deep brown eyes. “M-mother…?” He manages to spot her, but the beginnings of a retch begin to form on his face down to the stiffness of his legs. Pingting’s quick reflexes save your robes as she thrusts a bucket into the boy’s face. Tentatively, and fully aware of his mother’s eyes on you, you stroke his hair and back as he vomits.
You turn to a nearby attendant who is watching with poorly-masked disgust. “Fetch some water and a bowl of rice, please. Some meat and vegetables from the kitchen would also be appreciated, if you’re able. I don’t want him to be running on an empty stomach.” Patting the prince’s forehead dry with your sleeve, you dig into your pack and produce a rag, wiping the boy’s mouth. “Quite the greeting, Your Highness.”
“Is…” Weijun coughs into his little fist. “Is Healer Liu not returning…?” He turns to look at his mother, who freezes.
“He… he is not,” Pingting says slowly. “Healer L/N has come from Changqi at the request of your father to help nurse you back to health.” Reaching over to pat her son’s cheek, the empress’s brows furrow. With this expression of consternation, the family resemblance between the two is uncanny. “Don’t you worry, boy. You’ll be fine. Healer L/N is the most amazing medic in the entire empire — and she’s a good friend of your father’s.”
That tidbit alone sparks a look of surprise from the prince, and he turns to look at you in surprise. “Is that true?” he asks. How kind of Pingting to throw you under the cart like this.
Would you even consider yourself Yanjun’s friend anymore? The last few hours alone already proved that any cordiality lingering between you stood on shaky ground. But as you take in Crown Prince Weijun’s visage, noting equally how tired he looks and how much he resembles his father, you can’t bring yourself to deny the epithet. “I am,” you tell him, and his face seems to glow even in spite of his sickly sallowness. “But even if I wasn’t, I’d do everything in my power to help you. Don’t worry, Prince Weijun. You’re in good hands.”
The prince has a beautiful smile. You’d love to see it again when he’s at full health. “Thank you.”
The servant returns with a tray of food, and you move aside so she can feed Weijun. As you step away from his bed, Pingting follows you and takes hold of your elbow. You manage to fight back your alarmed flinch. “Can we speak?” she asks. She’s the empress. It’s not a question, regardless of her inflection. “In private?”
“Of course,” you tell her, though you have very few ideas of what she could possibly want with you. You have plenty of questions to ask her, mostly concerning potential causes for her son’s illness, but you don’t know what you could’ve done to earn a reprimand so quickly. Did she not want you to grow close to the child? You were not so naïve as to believe that she was here to offer you words of kindness. The palace was a viper’s nest, just as Xingjie said.
But Pingting, it seems, still has it in her to surprise you.
Her hand still on your arm as she leads you into a secluded hallway, she removes the veil from her face and gracefully tucks it into her sleeve. “I wanted to apologize to you,” she says. You blink, uncomprehending, and she takes your silence as permission to continue. “I know it must be… difficult to return to the palace. I know not if it ever really felt like home to you — I know that I still feel some discomfort within these halls, and I’ve spent decades here — but it hurts me to recall the mistreatment you endured. I can only imagine such pain is increased tenfold for you.”
It’s more of a dull throb these days, really, but you hold your tongue. Her kindness seems genuine. Such benevolence is a rarity, and you make sure to appreciate it while it lasts. You allow yourself a tentative smile.
“And I…” Pingting bites her lower lip, toying with her fingers as she averts her gaze. She looks tiniest like this, like a fidgeting child caught in the midst of a lie. She sighs and smooths over her robes. “I wanted to ask you not to… not to hate me.”
That, of all things, you were not expecting. “I’m… I’m sorry?”
This pushes it over the precipice of honesty. Those eleven words are hard to believe. What was her game? You thought at first that her gentleness was true, that she was authentic in her care for you. But no one — no one — who’s been in Lin’an as long as she has is truly so kind. It’s not practical, and so you can only assume she’s trying to play you for a fool. This is what her sisters were lacking, you surmise. Renyu and Yunge are too quick to show their hands, too quick to tell you how they truly feel about you. Pingting has the subtlety and inclination toward subterfuge that tended to spell greater chances of survival. Did she truly think so lowly of you? You’re a little offended.
But her eyes, they’re so… so earnest. “I know you loved him,” Pingting blurts. Her eyes widen when she realizes her volume. She covers her mouth with a delicate hand and swallows. Lowering her voice, she regains her composure. “It was no secret to us here in the palace that yours was a true love match. What other reason would Yanjun have to bring a commoner girl with him to Lin’an? We all had our doubts about you, but I saw how you were with him. You loved him too.
“I don’t presume to know what you feel for each other now, but I do fear that if you should still love him as you once did, you would only see me as the woman who stole him away.” She truly sells remorse well, looking up at you with big, glistening eyes and like she’s on the verge of tears. “You know, he cares for you still, and I… I’m sorry for —”
“You shouldn’t be.” You’re proud of how you manage to keep your voice level, though your clenched hands tremble at your sides. You still aren’t certain whether you should trust her. Pingting seems honest, but this could just as easily be a ploy for you to let your guard down. She is an enigma, more so than anyone else you’ve encountered at the palace. As she has done nothing to harm you yet, however, you decide to give her the benefit of the doubt. “My previous engagement to the emperor is just that — previous. I have had seven years to heal and forget. Of course, I still care deeply for His Majesty, but I have come to terms with our… complicated past, and I am ready to proceed as an individual under his employ. Nothing more, nothing less.
“And I could never hate you, Your Majesty. The moment I left the palace, he was no longer mine, just as I was no longer his. You did no wrong when you married him. You did not steal him from me. You have nothing to apologize for.” You take her hand, and she gasps. Though you’re certain this is some sort of breach of etiquette, something within you compels you to do so. “I am here to heal your son, and while I cannot make any promises, I swear to you that I will try my utmost best to nurse him back to health.” You squeeze Pingting’s fingers gently, and she nods.
“Thank you,” the empress whispers. She dabs lightly at her eyes with her sleeves, leaving slight imprints of her makeup, and turns. “Shall we return to Weijun?”
“We shall.” You hope that your faith is not misplaced in her.
You spend nearly every waking hour for the next three days with Crown Prince Weijun. Observing every cough, sniffle, wheeze, and shiver, you cannot for the life of you figure out what is wrong with the boy. By all accounts, it seems like the regular influenza, but anything you brewed for him didn’t work, and his respiratory issues didn’t align with the diagnosis.
His mother has been in and out often, accompanied by her ladies in waiting. She seldom spoke to you, preferring to observe you performing tests and recording their results, but the times she did, Pingting was nothing but courteous and even sweet. You found rather quickly that she could very well be a good friend, much to your surprise. Yanjun you had only seen once, and he did nothing but sit in a chair next to Weijun’s bed and fall asleep. Having to work around his slumbering form is not the only reason you’re a little annoyed with him. But you suppose he’s been kept busy and sleeping was not something he planned. After all, the reason it was so difficult to maneuver around him was because of his tight grip on Weijun’s hand.
As a physician, it’s imperative that you empathize with your patients. The only thing worse than an incompetent doctor is a heartless one. However, you’re starting to believe that you’ve grown too attached to this patient in particular. It’s always difficult working with sick and injured children. Young and small, you can’t help but lament their circumstance. There’s a whole life ahead of them that they may never get to lead. In Weijun’s case, there is a throne that he may never sit on.
It doesn’t help matters that he’s much like his mother, thoughtful and compliant and eager to please. If he were a brat, the exasperation at dealing with him would put at least some distance between you. But alas. And that he’s the spitting image of Yanjun at that age only worsens your unhealthy attachment to the boy. He shares Yanjun’s sense of humor as well, announcing his puns with a surprising amount of comedic timing for a boy of just six. He’s better at telling jokes than his father, which might be the biggest difference between them aside from their names and ages. You would be a much more supportive audience if Yanjun learned a thing or two from his son’s delivery. But Yanjun wouldn’t be joking with you any time soon, and so it’s better to concern yourself with more pressing things.
Like how you’re having a difficult time coping with Weijun’s greatest similarity to his father (or the version of his father you once knew) — his empathy. The boy is kind almost to a fault. Never failing to greet you with a smile, he always asks you how your day is and offers you words of encouragement when you comment on the state of your research. His brows furrowed in sympathy when you first explained (and heavily redacted) the symptoms of tianxing illness. Although he’s arguably sicker than your case studies, he seems more concerned with their health more than his own.
And now he looks at you with bright, sparkling eyes as he shouts, “Healer L/N!” Weijun is sitting up in his bed today, but he looks more gaunt than usual. It’s a sign of his worsening condition, spitting in the face of his persistent optimism. The boy doesn’t deserve this, and you attempt to mask your wince when he coughs loudly.
Stepping quickly over to him, you rub his back in soothing circles and tucking him into your chest as his body wracks with each hack. Though it hasn’t even been a week, he already knows to lean his head back so that you can check his temperature and to hold his wrist out so that you can check his pulse. He’s cold and you can barely feel anything. As expected, he’s been getting worse, too quickly for you to be anything but scared for him.
You would never express your concerns to him, however, and you instead offer him a smile in return when he compliments your hairstyle. “What a little charmer you are,” you chuckle, “just like your father when he was younger.” The last part is unintentional, though you don’t comment on the lapse.
It’s unfortunate that he latches onto the words. Weijun’s face lights up so quickly and so brightly that you can’t bring yourself not to humor him. “That’s right!” Weijun gasps, his little hand wrapping around your wrist. “You knew my father when he was younger. What was he like?”
Though a natural question, it’s still a large one. You rarely thought of Yanjun in the last seven years. You were busy and… yes, you could admit that thinking of him hurt. It was dangerous. It was too easy to remember and get lost in the good times rather than the bad. But you suppose Weijun deserves to know of the good times. Your contact with the current Yanjun has been minimal, and you didn’t have a very good impression of this new him. If this was the father that Weijun grew up with, then he definitely deserved to hear of your Yanjun.
“He was…” You don’t know where to begin. You take Weijun’s hand in yours and let it rest on your thigh. “He was a good person. Kind, courageous, smart. He was a little shy with new people, but he warmed up to them quickly.
“He could also be reckless at times, prioritizing adventure over manners. He used to like dragging me into his little messes — I was always the mastermind of our getaways.” You’re surprised by the fondness of your chuckle. It feels like it was just yesterday that Yanjun gripped your hand tightly as you ducked and wove between stalls and carts in the town market. This is why reminiscing is dangerous. “He did his part, I suppose, boosting me over walls and such.” You twist your face into an exaggerated grimace as you mime in tandem with your words.
Weijun laughs, and you feel a twinge of regret when it causes him to cough. He hums, content, when you run your fingers through his hair. Clearing his throat, he rubs weakly at his chest as you speak. You don’t know how many stories you’ve told him of your adventures with Yanjun in Changqi, but he’s been enraptured by each and every one. “He sounds like a fun person,” Weijun says when you finish your latest tale.
You nod. “He was my best friend when I was little. We were practically inseparable.” And you were inconsolable every time fall came and stole your prince away from you. You counted the days until summer returned and Yanjun along with it.
You were young. In love, probably since the moment you first met him. But then the universe righted itself. And here you are.
“I always knew he’d be a good emperor,” you continue. “He knew when to be responsible and he was fair and just. He understood the gravity of his position.” This, perhaps, Weijun should be more familiar with. A Yanjun who devoted himself to his duties and responsibilities, putting his role as a leader above all else. “He would tell me how scared he was to take the throne. That’s how I knew he deserved it. If he didn’t, if he wasn’t afraid of what it meant to lead an entire empire, then that meant that he didn’t understand. That he wasn’t ready.”
“Do you think…” Weijun grips his blanket and looks down at his lap. “Do you think I’ll be as good an emperor as him?”
You might’ve (should’ve, really) expected this line of questioning. Still, you fall silent. It isn’t a question of what kind of person you believe he will grow up to be. It’s a question of whether you believe he will grow up at all. And, unfortunate as it seems, the odds are not in his favor. He’s been ill for a long time even before you came to the palace, and his condition has only gotten worse despite your best efforts. It doesn’t seem the place — and you hate yourself for it — but you wonder if you’d have these concerns if he was your son instead of Pingting’s.
Your immune system is stronger than most, likely due to your father’s numerous tonics and simply better medical know-how, and aside from that one childhood summer bedridden, Yanjun isn’t very prone to falling sick either. Pingting is anemic, and prior to your very recent meeting with her, you’d heard more sniffling from her than actual words. Thus, you have to wonder — did he inherit Pingting’s sickliness and were his genetics (a case of bad luck more than anything else) one of the major factors contributing to the fatality of his illness?
But you have to remember Weijun isn’t your son and he will never be your son no matter how fond you’ve grown of him over the last few days. It isn’t your place to think of what ifs and hypotheticals. You had long since released your claim on Yanjun. You could not allow yourself to dream of having a family with him anymore. You were too close to this. To him and his son. And you refuse to believe Yanjun’s assumption was correct. It wasn’t, as you could never resent Weijun for simply existing. But you did stop to think of what it might be like if he was your child, against your better judgment. Against everything you stood for. Against everything you’d done the past seven years to mend your heart. You are not as virtuous as you believe yourself to be.
Neither are you as divorced from your past as you like to claim.
Realizing you have been too quiet for too long, you clear your throat and smile tentatively at Weijun. If the prince was disconcerted by your silence, he doesn’t show it. Even if he was, you doubt he would. You squeeze his shoulder and start to get up off his bed. “Of course not,” you murmur. It’s late, he’s sleepy. While you were speaking, the prince struggled to keep his eyes open. It seems now that slumber is winning the battle. The moon hanging high in the sky, you decide it is best to come by in a few hours with the morning light. Pressing a kiss to Weijun’s forehead, you slide out from underneath the covers and tug his blanket up to his chin. “I think you’ll be a better emperor than he could ever be.”
He manages to grin at you before his eyes flutter shut and he drifts off to sleep.
One little lie won’t hurt him.
After all, you haven’t been very honest with yourself either.
