Work Text:
"In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
Till then I see what’s really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify."
- "Aubade" by Philip Larkin
Wen Qing tightens her grip on the scroll, feeling the parchment crinkle in her hands. It’s the nicest paper she’s handled in she doesn’t know how many years—thick and evenly textured, making a pleasant crinkle as she crushes it into a bitter pulp.
She barely had to glance at the message to know it will only bring further isolation and heartbreak to her increasingly lonely life in the Burial Mound.
Dearest Wen-guniang,
This lady hopes this letter finds you and those in your family well. As this lady is sure you know, this lady’s most cherished son’s one-month celebration will be here sooner rather than later.
Oh, how this lady wishes she could invite you to Jinlintai, to welcome you with open arms and show you just how much this lady has missed you. This lady wishes the circumstances were different. Nonetheless, please know how much this lady loves you, and how much she appreciates you looking after her Wei-didi when she cannot.
Always yours,
Jiang Yanli
Wen Qing will not respond to this correspondence. Even if she wanted to, she questions her capabilities when it comes to even getting a message all the way to Jinlintai; she further doubts that any note that may arrive at the tower itself would ever make its way to Jiang Yanli’s hands.
And even if by some miracle from the gods Jiang Yanli received her response, it would be a pale imitation of the words Wen Qing would say in person if she could. Yes, the things Wen Qing wants to tell Jiang Yanli aren’t meant to be written, but shouted from the mountaintops or whispered in between shallow breaths.
Wen Qing enters the tiny cave she calls her home, sitting on her cot and setting the scroll beside her, lanterns glowing low in the evening light. What a miserable farce her life has become—waiting on borrowed time. Jiang Yanli has gotten all that she deserves; Wen Qing will, too. Jiang Yanli has a loving husband, a beautiful son, a life where she may now live in the lap of luxury; Wen Qing has the kiss of death breathing down her neck at every turn.
She kissed Jiang Yanli once.
It was a silly, fleeting thing, from when they were just old enough to know what kissing is, but not what it entails. Wen Qing can’t quite remember why she was at Yunmeng Pier, although now that she’s older she can imagine it had something to do with Wen Ruohan’s malicious intentions. What she does remember is the sound of water lapping against the shore, the sweet smell of lotus petals drifting in the wind, the soft giggle Jiang Yanli let out as they pressed their lips together underneath the shade of a tall oak tree.
They’d never spoken of it again, although Wen Qing often felt a thrill run through her every time she caught a glance of Jiang Yanli again. She presses her fingertips against her lips now, lost in memories of simpler times. She’d never kissed anyone else; perhaps it was that she knew, deep down, that nobody else could compare to her gentle friend from long ago.
She bites her lip, hand dropping to her side. There’s no use dwelling in memories. No use dwelling in what could have been. No use in wishing for just one more kiss from Jiang Yanli.
But wish she does as Wen Qing readies for bed, taking down her grimy hair and combing through it with tired fingers. Perhaps she’ll dream of her tonight. Perhaps it won’t turn into a nightmare, she hopes as she makes herself comfortable on her cot, scroll tucked safely on a stone shelf. Perhaps, for one more night, she can be happy.
Sighing, Wen Qing extinguishes the lantern, plunging her surroundings into darkness.