Chapter 11: Chapter 11

Chapter 11: Winter's End

At the end of winter, Fang Zhihe's illness finally began to ease. His bedchamber was constantly shrouded in heat from the heated floors and braziers, so that anyone who entered would be drenched in sweat within moments.

Lu Wuyou arrived with memorials from the Imperial Academy. The moment he stepped through the door, a wave of hot air hit him. He tossed the documents inside, then turned and went to the Eastern Palace to instruct his son in his studies.

Fang Zhihe, wrapped in his quilt and bundled in a padded coat, stared at the yellow brocade-covered memorial lying on the floor. His heart felt an indescribable heaviness, sticky and cloying, tangled into an uncomfortable knot.

But he knew well that his sickroom was no place for a healthy person to linger.

Suppressing the disappointment in his heart, he rose, supporting himself on the table, and bent to pick up the memorial. The calligraphy was far more dignified than the letters he had received in return, clearly written with great care.

This comforted him somewhat. Carrying the memorial back to his desk, he picked up a vermilion brush to comment.

"Your Majesty:

The Imperial Academy aims high, nurturing scholars from across the realm.

However, local schools lack virtue and conduct. Many students have no recourse for their grievances. Days ago, they blocked my sedan chair to inform me that they would rather die to make their stand, hoping for Your Majesty's compassion.

I believe that the foundation of our state today rests not only on military strength. Literature must lead the way, that the nation may achieve greatness.

Your Majesty must not focus on the head while neglecting the tail; the alchemists of this world are not confined to the capital."

Fang Zhihe silently read the last word, then reached out to touch the vermilion seal at the end, the name of its author.

This man, though dismissive of him and unwilling to serve as a civil official, still worried for the realm... his methods were not confined to convention.

Fang Zhihe let out a long breath. The sickly pallor on his face took on a rosier hue. He dipped his vermilion brush and wrote a single word, "Approved," then set the memorial aside to dry. He opened a fresh sheet of paper and solemnly penned his reply:

"Both civil and military are the roots of the state. I will give this matter my full attention. Rest assured, my minister."

Having sealed the reply, he rose and crawled back onto his bed, feeling dizzy.

His thoughts turned to Lu Wuyou, and he dreamed of Lu Wuyou as a child.

A thin, stubborn little boy with a wary face.

"Huai'er, bring some refreshments for this young friend." Grand Tutor Fang led the child into the mansion.

Fang Zhihe was crouching in the snow, building a nest for a cat under a tree. He looked up at the sound, glanced coldly, and turned to go inside without a word.

His disposition had always been poor, his manner to others indifferent. He brought some pastries for the child. Grand Tutor Fang patted his head, then crouched down and said softly, "Huai'er, this young friend has had a hard life. I've asked him to stay in the mansion. Will you look after him?"

Fang Zhihe shook his head instinctively. He looked at the bright eyes of the child before him, then fell silent. Finally, he gave a very light, almost imperceptible nod.

Grand Tutor Fang smiled. "That's good. I knew Huai'er was kind-hearted. Your mother always says you're not as gentle as Changlin... but really, she can't fathom a child's heart." He added the last part in a low murmur. Fang Zhihe didn't react, but the child slightly raised his eyelids to appraise Fang Zhihe, a glimmer of light flickering in his eyes.

"Mother is right," Fang Zhihe murmured.

The child suddenly reached out and grabbed his sleeve, his face like a little cat's as he tilted his head up and whispered, "Wrong."

Fang Zhihe woke from his drowsy dream, dazed. Someone was lying on the bed beside him.

He turned his head in confusion and looked at the person next to him. His nose stung, and his eyes instantly filled with mist.

The person beside him wrapped an arm around him, saying gruffly, "Don't flatter yourself! If Qi Guan hadn't said you were dying, I wouldn't have come to keep you company!"

Fang Zhihe looked at him silently, then reached up to touch his face.

His hand was caught by Lu Wuyou, who kneaded it forcefully in displeasure, saying coldly, "I didn't know I had the ability to warm someone's bed. Nor did I know that Your Majesty could find a divine physician like Lord Qi who knows even the details of the pure yang inner skill I practice."

Fang Zhihe listened to his mockery, shifted his body, and burrowed deeper into his arms, murmuring, "Yuntai, Qi Guan doesn't know. It was me. I said it. I missed you. I had him trick you into coming. I missed you."

"You treat me poorly, yet you have spoken well of me..." Fang Zhihe gave a few soft laughs, then his voice dissolved into choked sobs.

His illness had lasted the entire winter. It left him drowsy all day, longing for that person to come and see him, to look at him, to talk to him. Or even just to come, without speaking.

Just come.

Had he come?

Fang Zhihe tightened his arms around Lu Wuyou's waist, sniffling softly.

Lu Wuyou held him, stiffly.

After a long moment, Lu Wuyou rose to pull the blanket over him. Only then did he tear off the human-skin mask from his face, revealing a pale, drawn visage.

The owner of the face gently stroked Fang Zhihe's hand, and a single tear fell.

Outside the door, the attendant Xiaoyun knocked, carrying a bowl of medicine. The man opened the door, took the bowl, and heard Xiaoyun address him as "Lord Qi."

Qi Guan acknowledged the call. He glanced back at the frail emperor on the bed.

Very, very softly, he sighed.