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“He’s what?”
In the quietude of the evening, Ren Anle’s voice seems to ring sharper. Chang Qing has long gotten used to this tone of hers, but something about it tonight sounds… different, like an arrow shot with nowhere to land.
With an incredulous look on her face, Ren Anle turns to the silhouette of her messenger, who’s standing respectfully past the screen and by the door. “Chang Qing, is this news accurate?”
“Xiaojie, I wouldn’t dare to report otherwise,” Chang Qing replies. “Taizi-dianxia’s carriage was spotted at the end of Yongning Street, and dianxia has dismissed his guards and dismounted at the Jing’an Houfu, with a jar of wine in his arms.”
A strangled noise comes from the back of Ren Anle’s throat. Her fists clench at nothing where they rest on the side of the wooden tub— and then, abruptly, she splashes at the water, cursing to herself. Chang Qing knows their young lady’s temper is a spitfire, and it looks like it’s risen by double from his words alone.
Ren Anle pinches at the space between her eyebrows. “Prepare a horse for me. Be as discreet as possible.”
“Got it.” Chang Qing bows, retreating to do as asked. “Xiaojie, please wait outside when you’re ready.”
Chang Qing exits the bathroom hurriedly. Ren Anle watches him go, then slumps back down into the tub, the frustration within her replaced by helplessness. Why couldn’t she have pretended not to have heard? Why couldn’t she just let him go?
Everything would be so much simpler if Ren Anle could exist without Han Ye; but that was like asking for ashes to exist without a flame, a certain impossibility.
“Ai, dianxia, you really don’t make things easy for me…”
***
The Jing’an Houfu bleeds of wine.
Han Ye has long drained his jar hollow. The night feels heavy on his skin, and he floats along it, drifting in and out of consciousness. Crescent moons line the inside of his palm, the indentations of his nails keeping him tethered with their mild sting.
He’s clutching a yellowed scrap of rice paper in a death grip; Guiyuan Pavilion, it says, in mournful childish calligraphy. This rightfully belongs to Ziyuan— if he cannot return this place to her, he must at least take this piece of it back for her.
Distantly, Han Ye can hear hoofbeats, rumbling the silent street awake. He wonders if anyone is coming for him, or if they’re just a stranger passing him by. He hopes for both the former and the latter; there is only one person he wants to seek him, after all, and she is rivers and mountains away.
The hoofbeats stop. He almost grieves the lost rhythm, but then a familiar voice calls him to life.
“Dianxia!”
Ziyuan? Did you find me?
Fast-paced footsteps approach his location, unwavering and unrelenting. They don’t pause once, as if she knows the path from her to him like the back of her hand.
Suddenly, a blurry figure enters his periphery, crouching down to check on him. With dampened hair, umber-black painted brows, and crimson robes that sweep the earth, she says: “Dianxia, you’re really here.”
Oh, he’d missed her so much.
“Ziyuan?” Han Ye exhales her name softly, terrified to shatter whatever illusion he has created. The wine jar rolls across the floor, forgotten, and he rubs at his reddened eyes in disbelief. “Ziyuan, is that you?”
Stunned, Ren Anle stares at him, her lips parted. Subconsciously, a hand drifts up to her face; she realizes that in her rush, she’d forgotten to put on her new false skin.
“…No, it’s not. It’s me, you fool, I’m Ren Anle.”
Han Ye startles, then shakes his head. “No, no, I would never recognize you wrong,” he insists. “Even if I was blinded and placed in a crowd, I could pick Di Ziyuan out of it as clear as breathing. Ziyuan, it’s you, don’t lie to me anymore. You came back.”
Ren Anle purses her lips. There’s no use arguing with a drunk man. “Dianxia, you’ve had too much wine. Let me send you back to the Eastern Palace.”
“The Eastern Palace,” Han Ye mutters. “I’ve been saving it for you. Ziyuan, do you still want it?”
“I am not…” Ren Anle sighs, weighted with an aged burden. “I’m not sure, dianxia. You tell me. How does one know if she wants something? What is a palace compared to a decade-long enmity? What is having a husband compared to the innocent lives of tens of thousands, who lie restless in their graves?”
Han Ye doesn’t know what to say to that. Ziyuan has every right to speak these words. He deserves it, but he’s so tired, truly tired, and all he knows is how to want.
“Even if you don’t want it, it’s yours to take,” he says. “It’s all yours. If it’s my life that you’re after, I only hope to be buried someplace where I can see you.”
Ren Anle’s breath hitches. She blinks away the unexpected wetness on her lashes, reaching forward to hoist him up.
“Dianxia, don’t talk like this, you’re drunk.” She unfurls his palm, taking the rice paper out of it so she can grab his hand. He thought he would’ve held onto the paper tightly until he brought it back safely, but he lets go of it without hesitation for Ren Anle. “What is this?”
Han Ye frowns. “It’s for you, Ziyuan, don’t you remember? Back then, you fell, but I couldn’t catch you. It’s my fault, it’s all my fault…”
The paper rustles as Ren Anle inspects it. Her eyes are unreadable, scanning over the incisive characters and not letting a single emotion slip past the cracks. She tucks it back into the folds of his robes, then resumes her actions to move his limbs into a liftable position.
At her indifferent expression, Han Ye’s mouth twists into a grimace. “Ziyuan, won’t you look at me?” he asks. “I’ve waited ten years for you to look at me.”
Ren Anle still doesn’t speak. Han Ye, if I looked at you, what would you see? Would you see the bandit king Ren Anle who carries you home in the dark, or your betrothed wife Di Ziyuan, who was sentenced to a fate worse than death?
As the silence drags on, Han Ye feels himself overcome with the need to explain. He has so much to say to her, and the words tumble out of him clumsily, like a helpless child.
“I said I was sorry, Ziyuan, I’m so sorry, I won’t be moved again… I will keep my promise to you. Following the will of our ancestors and against the forces of the Heavens, I, Han Ye, swear that you will be my wife, and that I will always keep you safe. Don’t be angry, okay? You can blame me, you can hate me, but tonight… Can you just look at me like you used to?”
Ren Anle smiles bitterly, her tears hidden by the night. Han Ye, I’m sorry too.
“Get on,” she chokes out, refusing to meet his eyes. She gestures at her back, but he doesn’t move, crestfallen as he gazes at her. “Not cooperating, are you? Fine.”
Ren Anle rips at the hem of her robes, pulling off a veil’s worth of fabric. She ties it roughly around her face, masking everything but her vision. Han Ye wants to cry out, desperate enough to beg for it: Ziyuan, won’t you allow me to keep seeing you?
Ren Anle bends down to carry him, draping his arms around her neck and placing her hands beneath his thighs. She adjusts her hold the best she can, then leans forward to distribute his weight, getting up with a grunt. Han Ye complies obediently to make things easier for her, wrapping himself around her in a clinging embrace.
Step by step, they shuffle out of the pavilion, down the undusted pathways and past old stone.
“Ziyuan, you can put me down, I can walk…” Han Ye mumbles weakly. “It’s late, you need to get rest. Go home and don’t worry about me, Ziyuan… I’ve already brought you too much trouble.”
“Don’t speak nonsense.” This time, let me take care of you. “How will I get a good night’s sleep later with you blabbering in my ear like this?”
“Sorry,” he murmurs. “Ziyuan, what I owe you is more than just these sorrys. One day, I will repay it all. I trust you, can you trust me?”
Ren Anle doesn’t answer him, biting her tongue and tasting blood. This foolish, stubborn prince… doesn’t he know better than to trust an enemy?
***
In a few moments, they finally exit the mansion and make their way to the main street. The guards that Han Ye had dismissed previously sense their presence, and swiftly whirl towards them with their swords drawn.
“Who’s there!”
Han Ye flinches, about to open his mouth and defend her, but she beats him to it. Keeping her face lowered, Ren Anle bows slightly in their direction.
“Ren-jiangjun, Ren Anle, greets the guards of the Eastern Palace.”
The swords lower at once. “So it’s Ren-jiangjun!” one of the guards exclaims, the surprise evident in their voice. “What is jiangjun doing here at this shichen?”
“Anle was just taking an evening stroll to get some fresh air and enjoy the moon. Along the way, I heard that dianxia got himself into a mess,” she says, jerking her head at the prince on her back. “I came as soon as possible to help. I’ve brought dianxia out, so I’ll take him back.”
The guard ahs in understanding. “Jiangjun’s concern is appreciated. Dianxia rode a carriage here, it’s parked nearby. If jiangjun would like to use it, that is permissible.”
“As a subject, how can Anle ride in Taizi’s carriage?” Ren Anle replies. To this, Han Ye grumbles and says something incomprehensible into her shoulder, which she promptly ignores. “I’m afraid I cannot accept this kindness. It’s alright, I have a horse. I can handle it.”
Seeing that she won’t change her mind, the guards bow to send her off. “We won’t disturb you, then. Apologies for the trouble, Ren-jiangjun. Many thanks.”
Ren Anle nods in affirmation and continues walking. After some twists and turns, she arrives in a darkened corner of the street, with her horse tied to a random post. She detaches Han Ye from her back, then picks him up from under his legs, throwing him onto the horse. He groans from the impact but remains steady, shifting himself into an upright position. Ren Anle unties the ropes from the post, then leaps onto the saddle in front of him with unparalleled grace.
Han Ye leans on her casually, placing his hands on her waist and pressing his head in the crook of her neck. She makes a soft, ruined noise, then angles her head slightly to look at him.
“Comfortable, dianxia?”
He hums, content. “Mn.”
Ren Anle squeezes at the horse with her calves to urge it forward. The rest of his incoherent speech gets muffled on the fabric of her robes and drowned out by the pattering of hooves on gravel, though some of it does get past and trickles by her. Don’t let go, stay by my side, I won’t fail you, Ziyuan, Ziyuan, Ziyuan.
She acts like they’re confessions to the wind, but her hands gripping the reins tremble the entire way.
On horseback, it doesn’t take long to get to the gates of the Eastern Palace. Thankfully, Han Ye had ended up tiring himself out and falling asleep during the ride, which saves her the effort of having to pry him from her.
Ren Anle hops off the horse, dropping Han Ye to his feet with her. She props him up against the wall, then peeks her head past the palace gates. She knocks on them in quick succession, waving her hands and signalling for someone to come.
A palace maid sweeping the path notices her first. Her eyes grow wide as her broom lands on the ground, and she runs over in a haste, meeting her at the gates. Her shock only gets bigger when she sees the passed-out prince beside her.
“Taizi-dianxia?!” she gasps. “And… um…”
“Ren-jiangjun,” Ren Anle supplies.
“Ren-jiangjun,” the palace maid repeats, staring at her makeshift veil in confusion but bowing nonetheless. “Um, excuse this servant’s rudeness, this servant greets Ren-jiangjun. What—”
“The less that is asked, the more your life can be kept,” she interrupts. She kicks lightly at Han Ye to wake him up, but he’s out cold. “Please escort dianxia to his chambers. Oh, and if dianxia asks about it when he wakes, he came back alone. I’ll be going now.”
“Huh? Wait, Ren-jiangjun—!”
Full of questions, the palace maid tries to ask them but finds herself face-to-face with empty air. Ren Anle is already gone, leaving nothing but wine-lost memories and the echo of hoofbeats behind.
Han Ye, do you know? the wind whispers. You’re not the only one who has been moved.