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If a country did not know when its king was close to dying, thought Jingyan, then surely its capital did.
He felt the soundless hush of Jinling in his bones, though he knew not the facts of it, had indeed not stepped into court of months now, that last mantle finally passed to his Crown Prince and heir as his health slowly declined. Yet this awareness, of the people within the borders and without, had already sunk itself deep like it never had before those last steps onto the throne; perhaps it had merely changed, when those same people went from being his to defend with raised swords to simply his, in every sense of the word.
Or nearly all of them, at least. Even now there remained some who stubbornly refused to fall into those rigid boundaries, one way or another – Meng Zhi had been one, friend more than advisor even long after he’d retired, Yujin and Jingrui two unexpected additions, and of course there was always Tingsheng, after he’d grown old enough.
Into the quiet of this early dawn walked the last of those few.
He still looked the same, Jingyan noticed before anything else, even the way he’d arrived here without alerting any of the guards Zhanying had personally posted outside his door.
Jingyan did not sit up to greet his guest, only nodded politely from his bed. Not because the son of Heaven wasn’t obliged to – how could it be, really, when the idea still sat wrong on his shoulders even after all this time – but simply because Jingyan wasn’t sure that he could, even if he tried. “Young Master Lin.”
“Yes, I suppose it’d seem that way to you,” drawled the tall figure, who indeed resolved itself into Lin Chen as he walked closer, white clothes and paper fan and all. “How are you feeling?”
“Well enough,” Jingyan answered, after a moment’s consideration. Langya Hall had seemingly little to do with the affairs of Jinling and its court ever since its master returned from the northern border, declining unopened the rewards and recognition sent in the dust of that victorious battle, but Jingyan did not believe for a moment that Lin Chen could be unaware of his condition.
Whatever the case, Lin Chen didn’t bother calling him on the obvious lie, instead strolling over to sit down by the side of his bed, the very appearance of leisure only betrayed by his next words – and then only because Jingyan knew what it cost him to say them. “You know, if there was one thing both Lin Shu and Changsu wished for, it was for you to live a long life without pain.”
“Me?” said Jingyan, before the rest of his sentence vanished into a bout of wracking coughs.
He was still blinking away tears when Lin Chen continued.
“You’re stubborn enough to have managed the first yourself, clearly, but the second...” A tiny bottle appeared in Lin Chen’s hand between one blink and the next. “It’s only for the pain. And not for long, either, but here, drink this.”
Jingyan took it unquestioningly, pointedly ignored the eyeroll that suggested he really ought to be more suspicious of things, and – good heavens was it bitter. No wonder Xiao Shu had pulled those faces when Lin Chen appeared.
“Yes, you,” Lin Chen continued, either ignoring right back or taking delight in the utterly disgusted expression on Jingyan’s face, and it took a moment to remember what question he was answering. “Not anyone else, not that duchess of his, not even me.”
Partly from curiosity, and partly to distract from the terrible aftertaste in his mouth, Jingyan took the opportunity for a closer look at Lin Chen, and found his initial impressions to be accurate – the young master of Langya Hall had truly remained unchanged in the intervening decades, save perhaps the slightest threads of silvery-grey at the temples, the faintest wrinkle around his eyes.
Jingyan wondered if he had much to smile about, these days. When he last did.
In between one thought and the next, Jingyan was suddenly conscious of the pain having faded, leaving only echoes for the first time in months. “Hardly looks like you need it anyway,” he observed, and quietly marvelled at how easily his breath came.
“Fair enough,” Lin Chen agreed, and apparently relented, holding out a ginger sweet that Jingyan gratefully accepted. “Better?”
Jingyan nodded, and only let himself wonder briefly if this was what Lin Chen had done for Xiao Shu, done for Mei Changsu all those years ago, this final duty of care. He pushed himself to sit upright, so that they were almost eye-to-eye, and mused aloud. “If the afterlife turns out to be just Langya Hall in disguise, I swear I’ll call down a lightning strike to smite your fan to dust.”
This time Lin Chen did laugh, though it sounded wry. “Wouldn’t you know, your majesty, you haven’t ever visited once despite our open-doors policy.”
“Maybe I was waiting for a written invitation?” Jingyan retorted just as dryly, shaking out the pins and needles in his arms. “I daresay I can imagine what it looks like anyway, knowing you.”
“Oh?” Lin Chen looked out the window, tapping his fan against one hand. “Do tell, I’d hate for your rare creativity to go to waste.”
Jingyan blinked, half in surprise – he hadn’t been expecting that question, but the answer came easily enough anyway. “Ridiculously extravagant decorations, for one thing,” he began, and it was funny, how he really wasn’t an imaginative person at all but this image came so clearly anyway. “A library or two, at least, probably one dedicated to medicine. Lots of plum blossoms. Sweet melon trees, too, and paintings in every room.”
Lin Chen snorted lightly, looking down at the fan, now lying open and plain between his fingers. “Hate to disappoint, but I’m not much of a collector. Not the practical kind, anyway.”
“I didn’t mean for collecting, either,” Jingyan said, quietly.
He dared not ask what had happened to Fei Liu, for him not to be here, and Lin Chen did not answer, only flicked the fan closed again.
Silence stretched long between them, as the sun rose slowly over Jinling.
“How much time do I have?” Jingyan asked, finally.
Lin Chen’s laugh had turned bitter. “Always with this question,” he muttered half under his breath, and Jingyan wasn’t sure if he’d been meant to hear it at all.
So he waited anyway, waited until Lin Chen stood, surged to his feet in one swift motion and pointed at him with the fan. “Twenty-four hours. Settle what needs doing quickly, I can’t guarantee what’ll happen beyond that.”
Jingyan inclined his head. That was time aplenty, in a body once again free of pain. “Thank you.”
“You – ” Lin Chen stared at him for a long moment, before he drew back the fan so quickly that Jingyan was surprised it didn’t snap cleanly in two, and turned away. “I won’t take any thanks for this, do you hear me? This is just – ”
Jingyan looked at the line of his back, graceless and stiff, one he recognised well from the mirror. “I understand,” he said, when Lin Chen’s voice broke.
They were both carrying out a dead man’s wishes, nothing more.
“You better,” Lin Chen bit back, with wholehearted vehemence, and strode briskly towards the door.
Jingyan watched him go – watched him stop, abrupt, with just as little warning.
“Xiao Jingyan.”
“Yes?”
Another beat. Jingyan thought he heard the faint clamour of the city, waking up to another morning.
The sun was fully up now, chasing shadows across the walls of this emperor’s room, curling around the master of Langya Hall like smoke. “When you...”
And still, Jingyan waited.
There was a sigh. “We both know Changsu will have waited for you. But if that idiot insists on hanging around even after, tell him that I’ll kick him so hard when I arrive that he’ll reincarnate thrice over. We’re done with all our promises in this life. Got it?”
Jingyan couldn’t help the quirk of his lips. “I’ve never been able to make Xiao Shu listen, any more than you have.”
“Well, you do only have about half of eternity to try. Even you can manage something in that time, surely,” Lin Chen answered, and they both didn’t listen to how his voice still fell short of irritation.
“I’ll tell him, then.” Jingyan pushed aside the covers and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, though he still didn’t stand, strangely afraid of breaking this last moment. “Anything else?”
Lin Chen’s shoulders rose, fell again. “He probably knows the rest of it already, don’t you think?”
Jingyan looked down at his hands; it felt both more and less like a dream now, that other lifetime when they could still wield a sword, could draw the crimson bow that yet hung in the corner of his room.
“I do,” he said quietly, finally – but when he glanced up again Lin Chen was already gone.