Work Text:
(Sometimes he climbs into this particular memory he barely registers as his own: a valley, ablaze with reds and yellows. The jubilant clamour of the men and horses and dogs tearing through the sparse forest does not bother the Chancellor’s son, who is currently visiting a long-gone country, slowly unravelling one of the many bamboo scrolls he hauled all the way here on this trip. The wooden platform outside his family’s hunting tent he was perched upon was enough of a chariot for him, the hoofbeats and cries, his war.
A man dressed in unfittingly austere robes with a scroll wedged under his arm asks to join him. Despite knowing that the man addressing him was most likely Hán royalty, he offers him only the most cursory of bows in return. Of course, the boy wouldn’t say it out loud, but he was pleased to know there was someone just like him on this excursion, and for now, station did not matter.
After half an hour of sitting in silence, both of them pouring over their individual books, the man addresses no one in particular, but the Chancellor’s son knows it is a message for him. You should join them one year, you’ll miss this when you grow older. There was a certain deliberation in the man’s manner of speech, not in the way that people would shave their sentences down when talking to children, but some deep-rooted hesitancy that clung viciously to his tongue. It was this strange stilted manner among the overall perplexity of the statement that made him want to question what this really meant, but not out loud, just in case he sounded like a laughably ignorant child to the man.
The Chancellor’s son stops swinging his legs, places his book on his lap, and returns to today. You’re already old, and you’re still here sitting with me. Shouldn’t you join them if you miss it?
In an attempt not to laugh, the man stretches his limbs out instead, and falls back onto the platform. The boy grows slightly offended at the man’s mannerisms, and just how were his words somehow funny to this man? He decides to say nothing else to him, instead pitying how strange some adults are.
Just keep reading that, the man gestures at the book in the boy’s lap, and says nothing else for the rest of their brief time together.
The boy keeps reading, and reading.)
***
In recent months, Han Xin has developed a certain sort of contempt for staying all cooped up indoors. It’s too cold, get back in here, Zhang Liang would shout while leaning against the doorframe of the backyard threshold, observing the clunky movements of Han Xin as he waddles through the snow mounds on one of his mind-clearing walks in wholly inappropriate footwear. Previously, he had been all the more happy to preoccupy himself with all sorts of undemanding work when he gets bored of writing, but now their afternoons together would be accompanied by the percussion of restless foot soles going tap-tap-tap and intermittent, zealous tossing of bamboo scrolls into the ever-growing pile in Han Xin’s corner of their room.
One day, Zhang Liang concedes: “I yield. We can go hunting.”
Han Xin jolts up with gusto, satisfied with the outcome of his long-term campaign. “So when are we setting off?”
“Tomorrow, I suppose?”
“That’s far too soon. You wouldn’t just happen to have nets lying around in this house, would you?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“See?”
Zhang Liang exhales. “I’ll see it gets done. Get back to work for now, next week will come slower if you think about it too much.”
Han Xin hadn’t even placed his brush down during their conversation and could resume writing attentively as if nothing had even occurred in the past five minutes, this time at a more upbeat pace, head bobbing ever so slightly. Even the room feels just that bit warmer, Zhang Liang thinks. If only he had brought this up a few months ago. In the years they’ve spent together, they barely ever willingly left the house, mostly due to being trapped in a vortex of (somewhat self-imposed) work and little impetus to do anything else particularly taxing—but also the presence of a persistent, nagging fire at the back of their minds that neither of them dare to acknowledge too much lest it swallows them whole. Every time reports of certain, dangerously familiar fiascos that unfold at the capital made its way to Zhang Liang’s ears, he could not help but bite back any move too bold, but what harm could a little hunting trip do? Perhaps his reluctance was really down to his own biases.
Next week arrived at a fairly normal pace. The familiar warmth of sunshine breaking through the crisp night air has barely begun to greet them at their mountain abode, but a Han Xin busying himself with preparing their horses can barely feel the difference with or without. The chill hits harder as they turn from the mountain road onto more open land, their ears starting to become more tinged with red. Sparse scatterings of white still coat the valleys like the patterns on a moth’s wings, almost beckoning one to look for signs of new life between each patch.
It’s been a while since Zhang Liang has seen Han Xin this sprightly, with a spring in each second step, expertly avoiding every protrusion of rock and snow and misshapen shrubbery. Over the months they’ve spent together, he’s become accustomed to a more passive Han Xin: a Han Xin that dozes off in the brief but languid noon sunshine, a Han Xin that meanders through the obstacle course of scrolls and trinkets again and again and again, a Han Xin that glares contemptuously at the forest outside the window but never challenges it. There is no denying that he’s simply very pleased he can finally see a Han Xin closer to the one he runs into sometimes, in his memories.
—
It is now deep into the second year since the establishment of Han: the days have started to become a little shorter, his tasks seem to pile up bit by bit, and it has become rather unpleasant to remove his hands from his sleeves to actually do anything about said pile. If only his lord was even slightly better with bureaucratic tasks. If only. Both Zhang Liang and his lord exit the main tent, his lord’s arm slung across his shoulder, manner nonchalant. He doesn’t particularly mind this extra weight as Liu Bang, half-laughter-and-merriment, half-impulse-and-ire, with an affinity for the grandest fur cloaks he can acquire on this army’s dubious budget, is consistently more effective at warming one up than a brazier.
Next to one of the medium-sized administrative tents they run into the familiar figure of Xiao He, and a boy with flushed cheeks, still looking a little out of place. He’s wrapped up in an oversized red cloak, fastened snug around his neck so it doesn’t drag on the ground too much, and armor very polished—all too mismatched for his pallid, anxious face. On his hip hangs a heavy sword: its handle inlaid with gems and intricate carvings into gold, a tassel attached to the end of it swaying with the light rocking of the sword’s owner. The distracting, untarnished glint makes Zhang Liang wonder if his assumptions of Han Xin’s role in their army needed to be reconfigured, if his lord turned out to be far more generous with indulging his new General than he had ever anticipated.
Before Zhang Liang was even close enough to greet the pair, Liu Bang tuts loudly and walks over to Han Xin.
“Look at you…” Liu Bang starts, his thumb brushing around the base of Han Xin’s hairpiece. “This hair’s all tangled up!”
With a few swift motions, he undoes the hairpiece ensemble, and holds the hairpin between his lips.
An expression of some sort crosses Xiao He’s face: an almost laughable cross between guilt and the realisation that you’ve just bitten into something that’s gone off. It is painfully obvious that Xiao He instigated—or at least was the oil to the fire of—their lord’s treatment of the beloved new recruit. Xiao He’s emotional journey aside, one had to admire the ease with which Liu Bang dons the mask of the ingénue’s attentive new lord. He conducts himself with little pretense, the movements of his hands deft and relaxed as he attends to re-adjusting his subordinate’s hair. What was truly perplexing was that, to Zhang Liang’s possibly untrained eye, there was really nothing wrong with Han Xin’s hair that could be adjusted in the first place.
The two advisors wordlessly agree to avert their gaze from the scene unfolding barely a few inches in front of them, starting a conversation about the long-term plans and overall sustainability for supply logistics through nigh-impenetrable regions with challenging terrains.
“Done.” Liu Bang gives Han Xin’s armored shoulders a satisfied little tap, and squints to admire his fine work. “I guess you’re too busy to check these things, my hard-working General. Sadly I won’t be with you to do this for you every day.”
“Please accept my apologies, my lord. I’ll pay more attention, but rest assured I have my sights set on bigger matters.”
“Just go get me a victory and come back in one piece from Hán, and I’ll forgive you.” Liu Bang laughs a trained laugh and gives Han Xin’s cheek a sturdy pat, the exact type you would give a precocious child for saying something far too prescient for comfort.
Zhang Liang leaves them to continue working on the unfortunate document pile with a deep, silent bow, trailing after Liu Bang, but a part of him wishes that he could have slid in a word with the new General. What starts to perturb him is considering Xiao He is leaving for Guanzhong for good soon and he’ll be the only one to take over Xiao He’s duties on the front lines. Not administratively, but as the sole barrier between Liu Bang and the array of very poor choices he could make.
He surveys the grey expanse overhead, his eyes slowly shifting to the red banners planted around the camp reaching upwards towards nothing. A part of him—he isn’t sure if his rational or irrational mind is the one doing the thinking—isn’t entirely sold on the prospect of victory, or doesn’t want a victory against Hán. But as a lifeline for Xiao He’s newly acquired treasure for the state collection, he gives up hope on a state that has already given up on itself years ago.
—
They soon discover that the nets they had laid the day before did not do their job. Han Xin explains that it would have been much easier if he had been around to observe them the whole day, but it wouldn’t be appropriate to drag Zhang Liang out excessively in this winter chill and make him fall terribly ill. Zhang Liang doesn’t bemoan the slight against his constitution in the slightest, and simply scowls in concern at Han Xin’s bizarre belief that this plan would be a good idea for himself.
“This—this would honestly be easier if I knew this place better,” Han Xin heaves, having darted around forest to clearing to forest with barely any breaths taken in between, trying to figure out what went wrong, trying to find any small wiggle of a rabbit’s ears.
Han Xin has been looking a little haggard. The unfamiliarity with the terrain coupled with the period of stagnation in Zhang Liang’s house, meant there was little chance he would have been able to catch any game alone on foot. He feels worn out himself trailing behind him, knowing his physical limitations, constantly trying to make sure that Han Xin doesn’t exit his field of vision, while still making sure that their horses are a walkable distance away.
With a yelp of realization, and wave of the hand, Han Xin beckons for Zhang Liang to come over. With the end of a stick and a few large pebbles, he crafts a map in a patch of uncovered dirt between the splotches of snow. Zhang Liang leans against the bark of a nearby tree, listening to his companion explain how he needs to serve as a sort of distracting bait while he himself acts as the one that will land the decisive blow, awash with a bizarre sort of nostalgia.
“Do you have much experience with this? I could let you be the one to shoot if you want.”
Zhang Liang shakes his head. “Whatever’s best for you.”
“You know, it's okay to admit you’re no good at some things, Zifang-xiong.”
Han Xin is incredibly talented at firing arrows, he thinks.
—
Zhang Liang opts for horseback instead of being stuck in an uneventful carriage. The terrain of the road to Qi shouldn’t be too unfamiliar: he recalls being on the run through a nearby region as a nameless fugitive years ago, an experience so harrowing that one can do nothing but recount it as a tale of character-building and youthful misdemeanor that got a little too out of control. He gets to the outposts of a rather minimally maintained camp on the fringes of the Qi capital, morning light still nowhere to be seen. A soldier announces his arrival, and he’s escorted methodically to the main tent in which Han Xin was cooped up in. The General’s been here since yesterday afternoon, he gathered from passing tidbits of gossip in his periphery.
So this is the future King of Qi, he thinks. A tired king perched on a throne with no armrests and looked suspiciously like a box for transporting perishable supplies. A king, surrounded by so much miscellaneous inventory and reports that someone who just stuck their head into the tent wouldn’t be able to tell how big the tent is from the interior alone, four corners shrouded in shadows cast by the clutter and red Han banners hanging overhead. He doesn’t know anything about this man, but he thinks to himself that if Xiao He’s words were anything to go by, and if the previous campaigns were any measure of his caliber, he wouldn’t make half a bad king. If Liu Bang had a different mind, that is.
Zhang Liang starts finding his way through the labyrinth of stuff and greets the victorious general; his choice of words equal parts warm and procedural to match the distance in Han Xin’s eyes.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t come greet you somewhere nicer.” Han Xin looks mildly startled, as if he wasn’t the one who summoned a liaison here in the first place, but his tone of voice is surprisingly devoid of any panic. Zhang Liang notes that he’s never really had much of a conversation with this man, between all the campaigns, and in the end it was also diplomatic nonsense that made him wind up here.
“Xiao He really does have good taste, some of your accomplishments cannot be contested in this lifetime.”
Han Xin mumbles something along the lines of ah, hm, thank you, or so Zhang Liang thinks—he doesn’t care about a proper response, he’s too transfixed by this man’s swirling around the tent, ironing out the disorganization, his attempts futile but honest. At least it earned him a smile from Zhang Liang which he probably doesn’t even notice. “We’ll arrange the handover to be conducted shortly,” Han Xin says slightly more formally after nudging away a final scroll with his foot, “I don’t think this tent is appropriate enough a venue.” He waves at the soldiers standing guard by the entrance, his manner a very sort it out, I have grander matters to attend to here.
Before Han Xin could make a move, Zhang Liang goes for a bold, decisive stroke, simply to test his hypothesis: “If we win this war, would you ever consider shifting this temporary King of Qi arrangement into a post more permanent?”
Betraying Zhang Liang’s own attempts at opening the floodgates of war, Han Xin barely even twitches, let alone swing into a panicked of course not—simply turns to stare him in the eyes as if he’s answered this question before. It isn’t surprising that someone else has asked him this as well. “If it’s what the King of Han wants. Otherwise, this will only be until everything gets ironed out. It’s barely been three years since the King of Han has become king. There’s a lot of work to do yet. And of course, I want to see that. Go back and tell him that, since I can’t go myself.”
Something about the shimmer in Han Xin’s otherwise monotonous voice makes him want to laugh. There was no method of getting someone with Han Xin’s sheer conviction to coalesce, not even if you were the King of Han’s own Zhang Zifang. I guess that’s good, he thinks, the King of Han doesn’t need to worry about this for now, but I need to start working out how to deal with certain other issues at hand.
“Zifang-xiong,” Han Xin starts furtively as they make their way out of the tent, “There’s no need to rush back to Xingyang, is there?”
“No, not really. Why?”
“I’m… not sure there’s much I can offer at such short notice, but it would be remiss of me not to treat a valued friend with the hospitality he deserves.” Han Xin quickly tacks at the end of his sentence: “I want to talk to you about battle. Plans. That sort of thing. If you want to, of course.”
Zhang Liang pauses to contemplate the unfamiliarity of the lilting formality in Han Xin’s voice that existed only briefly, but responds accordingly: “And who am I to turn down such kindness when it is extended to me?”
Zhang Liang doesn’t quite know why, but to indulge this man’s slight subordinations is far too enjoyable an act. After all that transpired in their meeting, simply keeping the King of Han waiting for just a smidgen longer could not possibly be considered treasonous behaviour, would it? The eyes and ears around the camp can talk all they want.
—
As per the map, Zhang Liang dutifully positions himself with his back facing the thicket in hopes this will deter the rabbit from darting into it, and approaches the target.
Han Xin kneels between two shorter bushes, and aligns his line of sight with a convenient gap in the overlap. He’s explained this countless times before. It really doesn’t matter if your arrows land where you want them to land a hundred times in a row without fail, as long as you can land this single one, it’s more than enough for now. A meal’s a meal. But there is no doubt that this is a setup that impedes mobility—Zhang Liang holds his tongue despite his tactical concerns: this is a battlefield on which he has no leverage.
Zhang Liang isn’t sure if it’s due to his newfound expertise at luring out prey or simply his own bumbling about kicking up dirt and snow too loudly, but a rabbit bounds out of its home, straight down Han Xin’s projected path for it.
An arrow whooshes through the air, followed by another almost as quickly as if he were using a crossbow. Han Xin appears to have missed the first time, but reloads just in the nick of time and catches it near its hind leg. Han Xin wiggles the head of the arrow lodged in the rabbit’s flesh, careful not to make a mess of its innards which would lead to several slightly unpleasant consequences upon preparation.
Zhang Liang approaches the scene, half waiting for some praise from Han Xin, half expecting complaints, but all Han Xin does is mumble a small victory, General, seemingly to himself.
—
The actual tragedy of war is perhaps not the perpetual state of mourning, but the hum of normalcy that should, by all means, not be present at the verge of a confrontation that will change the way the fabric of All-Under-Heaven gets cut. At the center of the concoction of clangs and cries and hoofsteps is Han Xin: emerging like a mountain boldly parting the clouds it concealed itself behind, from the yellow dust kicked up by the General and his small entourage of scouts. This dust may be a disadvantage in any other situation, but for Han Xin, it means you can attack from any direction, all directions, and the pheasants he had shot along the way on the scouting mission were just one of the many casualties in this billowing storm of dust under his watch.
Han Xin pats his waist, droops his shoulders at the realization he had probably left his knife somewhere, and in one blinding motion unsheathes his sword. The man’s peripheral vision and eye for precision continues to both marvel and concern those around him, but it’s always the smaller personal details that slip out of his control far too often.
“General!” Zhang Liang cries out, “General, for goodness’ sake, please use something else for that!”
“Why?” A frown breaks out on Han Xin’s face, more out of confusion than irritation.
“Is that not your heirloom sword?”
Han Xin barely spares Zhang Liang a second glance and returns to the task at hand. “It’s just a sword, if it’s sharp, then you can use it to cut through things. Besides, this is for the King of Han, using an important sword for an important person isn’t that bad.”
Zhang Liang is both aghast and almost in agreement with Han Xin’s logic. He holds back what he wants to say—you can’t cook your way into a king’s heart, you know, you’re more than a thousand years too late—and instead mumbles some words of approval in Han Xin’s direction and heads back to continue his informal meeting with their lord. What feels like half an hour passes, Han Xin runs up to their little shaded platform, where they were half-heartedly observing the troops keep in shape, with a tiny patch of blood smeared on his temple and a toothy, satisfied grin.
“I’ve taken the game to the cooks.”
“Celebrating so soon? Pheasants on a day like this?” Liu Bang beams down at Han Xin. “My, aren’t you talented.”
“You know I’ll bring you a victory tomorrow.” Han Xin raises his hands and half-bows.
“And you’ll be duly rewarded for it, my General. Though, let’s go hunting together one day. I think I’m not half bad at it.”
“Have you had a lot of practice?”
“Why’s that matter?”
“I guess it wouldn’t be much fun if you just missed a lot. But don’t worry, I miss a lot too sometimes.”
Liu Bang leaps off the platform in one smooth motion, probably too smooth for his age, so practiced, one has to wonder how many fences he bounded over in a similar fashion in his youth. There is something intentional in the way Liu Bang brings his face far too close to Han Xin’s, expression unreadable, his knuckles grazing over and rubbing against a barely dirtied cheekbone. “Missed a spot.”
Zhang Liang clicks his tongue at an unwelcome fly. Bizarre, isn’t it, one would think that weather as inhospitable as this would drive insects back to what unsightly concealed place they came from. Amusingly enough, Zhang Liang has very little doubt that the last leg of this battle will turn the tides in the enemy’s favor. On the horizon instead is a battle he cannot yet grasp the shape of, but he feels the weight of the clouds as they gather. He then proceeds to plan his next correspondence to Xiao He, still stationed at Guanzhong: a celebratory note, a word of encouragement for what must certainly be unpleasant times juggling bureaucratic this-and-that, and maybe a small, cryptically worded plea for help on behalf of somebody else.
—
He places the rabbit on a patch of clean snow.
Han Xin doesn’t explain what he’s doing, but the way he shoots a look at Zhang Liang was a signal to squat down next to him.
“Preparing it here would probably leave your kitchen much cleaner,” Han Xin comments, Zhang Liang nods, even if the matter hadn’t even crossed his mind. He would have simply left it to the servants to sort out.
Han Xin twirls the knife and lets it hover tentatively over the carcass. “Do you want the fur?”
Zhang Liang shakes his head, and Han Xin immediately proceeds to make an incision on the rabbit’s back, slicing down carefully to its tail. The main part of the skin comes off with nary a struggle, but he spends some extra effort around each limb.
Han Xin makes his first attempt at removing the rabbit’s head. He struggles slightly with his small knife: under the fur is flesh and still-filled veins and bones, none of which wish to yield despite the lifelessness of their owner. Pausing, he gives the forehead of the rabbit one little stroke with a bloodied finger, as if to bring comfort to an already departed soul—then crunches down on the nape by pushing down on the top of the blade with his other hand.
The snow at Han Xin’s feet slowly turns madder red as the spillage seeps deeper and deeper.
Zhang Liang winces. It isn’t that they haven’t seen worse, it isn’t that they haven’t done worse. The nausea almost becomes too much to bear as he witnesses Han Xin cast the separated head aside. He squeezes his eyes shut. Now the head is covered in a blanket of dirty snow—except he swears it’s still looking at him, not in any sort of eternal slumber at all.
—
Zhang Liang remembers the labored breaths Han Xin took when he arrived at his courtyard threshold, barely in one piece. Marquis of Huaiyin, Zhang Liang almost starts. King of Chu. General. He bites down the trained politeness. Han Xin, he calls out to him.
Perhaps it’s the sword Han Xin is clutching as though it was a lifeline. Perhaps it’s the way he’s looking at him. Despite the wounds that haven’t hardened, that appear to have still been bleeding through his light-colored robes and socks, there is no pain in his eyes, only what seems to be a shimmer of anger at his own helplessness.
The first words since arriving at Zhang Liang’s house finally leave Han Xin’s lips. “Stop bowing to me. It’s not like I’m dead.”
“I am simply giving you due respect for what you’ve done, and what you’ve gone through. My deepest apologies.”
“Tell me, what have I done? Are you allowed to even think that?” Han Xin’s expression darkens, and with this Zhang Liang understands he’s miscalculated severely, and adjusts his approach to the situation immediately.
Before Zhang Liang can hammer out an apology, Han Xin continues, "If, just if anything happens to me. Don't do yourself the favor of thinking you have anything to do with it. If they slice me in two, or four, or a hundred different parts. You know you’re free to collect the remains.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Toss me out tomorrow, or whenever. The Emperor thinks I’ve rebelled against him, but he doesn’t care about what you do. Don’t need you involved in this.”
“I won’t.”
Han Xin passes out without replying, and he doesn’t speak again for at least another week, instead opting to slump motionless in a dusty corner.
In the following days Zhang Liang doesn’t attempt to extract any more words from him, only offering him meals. Sometimes these aren’t touched, but the frequency of Zhang Liang collecting completely empty bowls to pass to the servants increased as the days went by. Their routine becomes more established as well, Zhang Liang alternates between attending to the wounds caused by the shackles, offering him whatever curious new snack the servants bought at the city market, and sneaking new books into the pile next to his sleeping mat.
Zhang Liang requests Xiao He’s presence a few weeks later, under the guise of catching up on old times. They’ve all been so busy with building their new capital, their new empire, and Zhang Liang is nursing… various ailments, not all his own. Nobody would fault two old colleagues having a chat. In a country built on gossip and favors just like the dozens that came before it, everyone is at once guilty and faultless. Any transgressions are left to the powers that be to deem grave enough to be a transgression. This being so, nobody would fault them for having said chat next to a straw-woven window that just happened to be propped open.
After brief formalities and feigned pleasantries masking the real reason for this conversation, Zhang Liang confesses: “I don’t think it’s even fair to say he’s done anything.”
“You know how he is. He’ll do anything to prove a point. And now we know he’s capable of even putting a treasured subject in chains as long as there’s evidence of him doing something.”
“Tell me, what something? Couldn’t he have handled hi—this situation a little more delicately?”
“You’re really asking the wrong person at the wrong time.” Xiao He exhales, and tugs at the increasingly uncomfortable ties of his hat. “At this point it’s an open secret that he’s here, there is no way the Marquis of Huaiyin can disappear without as much as a word. This is really a handful. Are you sure you’re okay with this?”
“You make it sound like I’m harboring a fugitive.”
You sort of are, though, Xiao He thinks, his gaze tired but piercing. Zhang Liang understands what he’s trying to communicate; he raises his hand and waves it, as if taking his words back.
“The point I’m trying to make is that,” Xiao He lowers his tone ever so slightly, even if he knows the man inside the house can hear their conversation no matter how hushed, “even if I’m sure you’ll be fine, I can no longer make guarantees that I can convince Liu J—the Emperor of anything forever. Keep that in mind.”
As soon as Xiao He finishes his sentence, they hear shifting fabric and a light thud from inside the house. Han Xin fell back down on the sleeping mat, probably.
Zhang Liang raises his eyebrows in concern. “Just… let me keep him here, if nothing more.”
“You know I’ll try.”
“You started all this anyway,” Zhang Liang whispers after a beat, almost hissing—but softens his utterance with a forlorn look at the other man.
A few breaths, a glance down and back up again. Xiao He looks equally regretful before he even starts his reply. “Since you think I’ve done such a bad job of this, you can try better this time.”
“You know that at the very least… I’ll do what I can for the three of us.” There is a certain earnestness in Zhang Liang’s face as he says this.
Three, the three of us, he repeats to himself even after he’s clenched Xiao He’s hands in his for the last time today. He bids him farewell at the threshold, watching his figure clad in an official’s red make its way away from his house, until he disappears when he reaches the bend in the hillside road. He doesn’t know why four feels wrong, even if the fourth person refuses to leave them alone even when he isn’t present, and the two of us should have been the right number to use—only two of them were talking today—but three was the number that felt just right.
He heads back into the house, the hushed whispers of their previous conversation replaced with the steady dripping of rainwater that got caught in the thatching of the roof from this morning’s rain, onto the herb garden below, counting every slow second that passes.
—
Zhang Liang plants his makeshift walking stick into the loose topsoil with a bit of a sigh. “Are we stopping here, with just the one?”
“If we hunt too much, they’ll all spoil… besides, I never knew your appetite was that big. I thought appetite lessened as you age.”
Zhang Liang is incredulous. “Well, from first-hand experience, they do not.”
“You’ll have a good dinner, then.”
Han Xin strings the rabbit he prepared earlier to the end of a small but sturdy branch that has been roughly trimmed down with his knife. He makes Zhang Liang hold it for him while he mounts his horse. “Don’t want to put this in your bag. It’ll be dyed a weird splotchy red if I do.”
“Thanks for the consideration. Though, red isn’t too bad a color when you get used to it.”
Their journey back home is conducted in an almost meditative silence. They take their horses through a thicker forest route in an attempt to shield their eyes from some sun-blindness from the cloudless noon. For a man of Zhang Liang’s standing and a convicted enemy-of-the-state to ride through these lands completely unchaperoned, all for a single rabbit—it’s almost laughable. But he appreciates that for a few brief hours, he was allowed to at least pretend their world was just the mountains, rivers, the winds that travel across them, and the two of them. As it should be, but the world is not kind.
“Have you decided how you want it done? If we hurry home we might be able to make a nice, slow stew.” He breaks the silence.
Han Xin looks like he’s biting back something else on his mind. Instead he says, “There’s no rush.”
“Fine by me. Roasted? Baked?”
Han Xin smiles. “I can trust your tastes.”
He feels like he’s begun to understand these hunting trips Han Xin keeps pestering him to accompany him on. The way he used to understand it was through the eyes of the various young masters of Hán and their bountiful idleness, fabricating a faux war to participate in. A party-game for demonstrating their talents in violence. For Han Xin, the only competition is himself. If he’s landed an arrow once, the only challenge was to land it again the next. So everyone gets a bite to eat. So every time Han Xin walks up to someone, spoils of the hunt in hand, he’s only saying: I got this for you, eat well. Sometimes there is no need to overcomplicate. The only thing left for Zhang Liang to do is to return the favor one day.
—
A few months have passed since Xiao He first visited Zhang Liang’s house. He tries to find every excuse he can to see the two of them since, and despite Zhang Liang’s initial apprehension that he was simply serving as another one of Liu Bang’s stray ears and eyes, he’s begun to believe in him again, even if simply on account of the good old days. (Which, amusingly or otherwise, were not that long ago in retrospect.) However, the one time Xiao He inquired about the progress of their work on books for the imperial archives, Zhang Liang flinched and stopped him from entering. Their house has collected an unhealthy excess of dust, and Zhang Liang is reminded of this every afternoon as the flecks of dust that travel aimlessly in the light feel more and more prominent despite his steadily worsening eyesight. It is in no state to receive any visitors, we do not want your sensibilities to be offended, he states simply. Xiao He squints, admits defeat, but promises that he’ll be back.
Halfway through attempting to at least carve out some semblance of order in the house, Zhang Liang simply gives up. He grabs one of the various glazed pots he keeps hand-ground and hand-mixed remedies of all sorts and kneels between a preoccupied Han Xin’s legs. He pushes the hem of Han Xin’s robe up from where it dangled below the knee, seizes his ankle and draws it closer to him.
“What!” Han Xin almost flinches, but stops before he jerks his leg too violently out of the other man’s hands.
“What do you mean by what? You know you have to keep applying this so it won’t scar too much, and you aren’t in the best position for this… unless you’d like a servant do this instead?”
“No.” Han Xin answers in a heartbeat. “I simply didn’t know what time it was.”
Zhang Liang stifles a laugh, and instead just smiles. If it were anybody else, they would have said something along the lines of oh no please don’t make yourself do something so beneath you, faithful to certain ingrained social cues. This man slouched atop a pile of books, however, simply looks at him with furrowed brows as if to say you started this, please do your best instead.
I’m really trying my best, Zhang Liang replies to the Han Xin in his head. Han Xin’s moods are hardly anything he can be blamed for, even if he had to get used to dealing with them. He undoes the red string keeping the jar shut and removes the small cloth square wedged between lid and container for freshness, working on the shackle scars on Han Xin’s right foot.
No words pass between them for a few long breaths, until Zhang Liang deliberately sighs. “You’re so far from your hometown, I’m sure you miss it.”
Han Xin shakes his head. “You chose this place. Defensive, room for development, more fertile than some of the land around here. Would still stand for thousands of years. That’s what you said when choosing this place.” He pauses. “Besides, your home doesn’t exist anymore. Is that not worse?”
“I suppose you may be right,” Zhang Liang says. More beats of silence pass, this time almost rhythmic as he shifts his attention to another limb, this time the other man’s left wrist. Han Xin still attempts to place some strokes down on bamboo with his other hand.
“You don’t mind me being here?”
“No. Why would I? It makes work a lot easier.” Zhang Liang probes the waters. “Though, I think it’d be fine if you left the house more often. Maybe in a few months. See some people.”
He shifts uncomfortably. “I’ve spent too much time apparently seeing people and organizing this and that back when I was posted down south. Now’s not the time. Yet.”
Something about the single yet from Han Xin’s mouth makes Zhang Liang want to put all his money and hopes on the man, even if he isn’t even sure what he’s trying to get out of this himself. Out of sheer hesitation and an attempt to haul himself out of the mind-pit he’s dug for himself, he withdraws his hand and places the lid back on the small pot. Annoyed by this, Han Xin shifts upright and crawls closer, causing a small landslide of bamboo in his wake. He arches his neck, pulls down the collar of his robe roughly—as if he were beckoning the sweet saliva-and-alcohol-sprayed edge of an executioner’s blade, his expression a testy anticipation.
“Well, if you’re going to help me, see it through.”
He gets an answer, wordless, as Zhang Liang applies the mixture to the patch to his throat. Under Zhang Liang’s fingers are patches of skin thinner or thicker than the rest, tiny bumps, a restlessly swallowing throat, a pulse. He continues working away around the entire circumference, brushing any loose strands of hair falling out from Han Xin’s updo. He massages down on his nape, but quickly removes his hand when he feels the other man inhale sharply.
Han Xin grumbles. “You aren’t finished yet, are you?” Irritation and impatience color his voice.
Zhang Liang feels like apologizing, but all he does is let his fingers linger a little too long, his other hand a little too off-course. What was there to be sorry about? He isn't the one restraining him. Isn't the one putting his neck in a constant chokehold, that one can only experience any salvation from after weeks of a deliberate diet designed to keep you at the very most, alive. But he is the one keeping him here in this house. In all but name, he is his warden. What pulls him out of any guilt is the inevitable conclusion—this wandering was never going to be left reciprocated under Han Xin’s watch. This little ploy of medical attention has been seen through long ago.
“I’m afraid you’re right.”
There is no doubting the simple fact that Liu Bang was who Han Xin chose to follow. None of this is insubordination, not when neither of them could be counted as Liu Bang’s men anymore—even if only one of them severed these bonds consciously. There is no real obligation for any functionary to do anything for another in a situation like this, and thus, with a fond sigh, he continues rubbing the ointment into the faint wounds on Han Xin’s neck. He lets the other man’s hands mirror his motions, gently stroking the sides of his neck, to scout out routes less traveled.
—
Their sunset is slow; the powdery blues of a cold day melt into a rich purple. The light that gets cast in through the window makes it clear that they’ve made a home for themselves here, new colors temporarily dyeing the tray of dried persimmons on the table, the loose strips of bamboo marked in their individual hands. Drafts of violence. Isn’t it funny? This doesn’t even smell like the battlefield anymore, but they made themselves remember that stench whenever they write. But for now, there is no war for them, so they’ll recount wars that they’ve fought, and wars that they haven’t fought, all with brush and ink stick and silk and bamboo. All while surrounded by collections of herbs and sweet breezes from the fruit trees in the spring that smell far better than any place they’ve tread through in the past ten years.
They decided on roasting the rabbit. The rabbit was no longer a rabbit, just a meal to warm the stomach, drizzled in a lightly sweet sauce and garnished with some chestnut. He doesn’t even seem to recall his previous discomfort when they dismantled the rabbit earlier today. He calls the idle Han Xin back indoors from his stroll next to the currently empty vegetable patch, and he beams at the results of their work as soon as he lays his eyes upon the table. From refusing meals to being too excited to collect the ingredients for meals himself—something about it makes Zhang Liang even more thankful for the meal. They exchange a wordless toast.
After a more typical post-dinner conversation, Zhang Liang begins to toe the line again. “Can I ask you something?”
“Go on.”
“Where did you get your sword from?”
“Hey, I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you’re wondering.” Han Xin stares at the lightly swirling alcohol in his cup. “I’ve just always had it. Though there’s not much use for it right now.”
He isn’t wrong. Any swords that were once inseparable from their owners buried under several feet of bamboo scrolls, all worth much less than the precious metals they were forged from, all worth much more. All far more easily lost in a single fire.
“You know, I’ve noticed… Next time you go to the city, or anywhere near the palace, you don’t need to bring your sword.”
“I know, I know. They’ll take it wrong. You just want to make sure I don’t get in trouble.”
The way Han Xin tends to refer to everyone associated with the palace as a collective they, those people, with irreverence is a source of both amusement and concern for Zhang Liang. It isn’t as though he’s wrong, Zhang Liang had long attempted to sever any emotional connection past the few remaining threads Xiao He is on the other side of, desperately clinging onto for the sake of the three of them. But every time Zhang Liang is reminded of the people in the city who all like Han Xin far less than he does, it makes him want to set all roads to and from the palace into permanent, inextinguishable flames.
“Can I ask you something this time?” Han Xin blinks, his lips almost forming a smile, “Were you ever mad at me for what I did to Hán?”
Zhang Liang places his cup on the table with a not-insignificant clatter. “Do you think you really did that much? How very bold of you.” His tone of voice is both jestful and bitter, an uncharacteristic softness he barely musters when speaking of the past. If they were going to start pointing fingers again, nobody would win, and there is not an insignificant amount of people above Han Xin on the list of people to blame for anything that happened to Zhang Liang. Some days, like today, he doubts he even qualifies to be on said list.
“I see.” Han Xin flops down back-first onto the mat and plays with a wobbly piece of stray straw. “What about the other things I’ve done then?”
A red lacquered bowl is stacked on top of another with a clack. “I don’t quite know what things you’re referring to, but I can say this much. You consistently leave me speechless.”
Han Xin lets go of the straw from between his fingers and gestures vaguely towards the other man, not facing him. “I know why you got hired in the first place, Zifang-xiong. You’re very good at flattering people even when they don’t deserve it.”
Zhang Liang offers no clear answer as to whether this was flattery or otherwise—he knows Han Xin knows what he means.
“Come here.” Zhang Liang beckons instead, and Han Xin obliges with a haughty faux-reluctance before shifting over to his side of the table. “Thank you for dinner today.”
Zhang Liang places a firm hand on Han Xin’s cheek, but relaxes it ever so slightly as he begins to let his fingertips graze down the other man’s skin. It’s as warm as it has always been, maybe a little warmer, a little redder thanks in no small part to the alcohol. Selfishly, he wants it to always be this warm. A slight shiver passes through him. He had only reached out to gain some reassurance that the man exists, but the sensation of his hand being seized in return and lips lightly brushing across them still remains an eternal novelty he wants again and again. A novelty he never wants to get used to. You’re welcome, for you, I’d do this any time, the breaths against his wrist seem to tell him.
What really guilts him about their proximity is the realization that all this time, Han Xin knew that he had already started mourning him since they first crossed paths. All this time, their interactions were laced with eyes filled with pity, when all Han Xin needed were eyes that met his own on the same level. He never even granted him the decency of that. Even when it was not pity he felt towards him, it was a strange sort of misplaced adoration for his sacrifices, for matters that he might or might not have even intended in the first place. The question persists: is it even right for him to accept this from him? He sighs, still smiling regardless.
“You’re drunk.” Zhang Liang declares after indulging both of them briefly. His declaration is met with Han Xin’s slightly nonplussed expression, seemingly wanting to say the same right back at him. “Go to sleep, you do realize we still have work to do tomorrow.”
With their hands still clasped, the exhausted Han Xin groans at the suggestion but lays himself down obediently—he isn’t quite sleeping, yet he is no longer awake, and Zhang Liang doesn’t let go until he drifts off entirely. The night is clear, and tomorrow will be a sunny day.
***
(Recently, he visits the memories belonging to the Chancellor’s son less and less. Opting for his own memories has now become more of a reflex. He likes this one in particular: the hill is flush with green, he’s clad in his own light robes, one hand brushing against tree bark for balance, the other clinging onto the official’s hat he persuaded his companion to shed in this heat.
The peak of this hill is shrouded in shadows cast by the clouds of leaves overhead. Even if the stench of the hot months is unavoidable, they are greeted by the subtle waft of a curiously misplaced sweet-smelling herb in their vicinity. These don’t typically grow around here. The main attraction of the hilltop is far less eventful: there is nothing to be found here except a very small mound of dirt. There is nothing buried within this mound. Yet he kneels before it, his descent shaky, his manner reverent.
His companion knows to kneel down next to him. Despite the excruciating ache in his legs that makes him wonder how he’s going to get down, he tries to don a more solemn expression on his reddened face. A long exhale. He observes the other man intently for a while, masking his nervous fixation poorly. When he’s ready, mumbles out an apology, his expression on delivery lost to the crevices of memory. I’m sorry I couldn’t bring him back for you after that day.
In response, he digs his thumb gently, then more violently, into the small mound to dislodge some soil. Today he allows the end of his sleeve trail along the foot of it, deliberately staining it a little. Don’t pretend. You yourself know very well that it wouldn’t just be for me.
A bird-of-prey shrieks overhead as it travels to who-knows-where. The chatter of smaller birds in the thick canopies continues as usual, just as they had before and after the shriek rang out.
We really didn’t end up doing our best, did we? It feels as though both of them said this in unison. The ensuing laughter is of the sort often present at meetings that do not need to happen and nobody wants to attend, but with an undercurrent of mutual defeat.
They do not do much else on that hill that day. It’s a simple tale, too boring to be recorded down, and maybe why this memory is more enjoyable than the rest—an official of this new empire, a hermit, watching the world breathe through their small, small window of trees and thicket.)