Chapter Text
The river of forgetting has a way of blunting memories of the past, and the jagged edges that make them hard to swallow.
They will never be completely smooth, but such is the choice of remembering—such is the choice of accepting a life lived, an ethereal soul who was once a mortal man.
As an emperor, Li Shimin knows the price he has to pay and the responsibility he must bear to be who he is. Much like how the restoration of the stone monument for Duke Wenzhen of Zheng carried with it the ghost of past destruction, the relief he feels upon seeing Wei Zheng within Lethe is haunted by an echo of regrets.
But hesitation does not befit an emperor. He steps forward, an old smile upon a young face, and greets, “Wei-qing.”
And those eyes staring back are sharp and clear, without the fog of illness that ailed him so in his last years. Posture as upright as ever, Wei Zheng bows in greeting. “Your Majesty.”
No flowery words to serve as insipid flourish, no allusions of closeness where none comes forth naturally. Such was the foundation of their relationship from the very start: before a mirror, you must take what you see at face value.
Though the taste in his mouth is more complex than mere bitter and sweet, there is some reprieve in its plain presentation. This is the value of reflection. Stripped of embellishments, what Li Shimin sees before him is not just himself in another’s eyes, but also the better path to take.
They do not forever exist in that awkward silence.
Li Shimin can’t help but be reminded of the past, because elements of Wei Zheng’s behavior remind him too much of the silent treatment he’d get whenever he does not heed his counsel. There is no avoidance, for one—they are not children who would give each other wide berth when crossing paths the streets, or avert their gazes when occupying the same hall. They greet one another. But what tepid words they are. Six years separate their passing—it’s not long enough to completely erase what sixteen years of close confidence has imprinted as expectations. He pauses with apprehension while appreciating the beauty of fine hawks shown to him by a falconer. He tenses with a building rage after making a mistake, shoulders tight as he endures the silence that follows. He looks at the moon overhead and wonders who sits on duty for the night, ready to lend an ear to his worries. Spotting pickled celery being served, his lips twitch with barely constrained mirth.
The storms of scolding don’t come in the wake of those involuntary lapses when time becomes sand, flowing through the gaps between one’s fingers.
He doesn’t know whether it brings him relief, or further solidifies an absence.
But neither of them has ever been men who avoided what must be done.
Li Shimin, recalling Wei Zheng’s own teachings near the beginning of his reign, applies such strategy: rather than confrontation that might spark fear and thus pushback, it’s best to preemptively reassure and comfort. First he prepares some pickled celery. It does concern him somewhat that they’d known each other for so long, yet this is all he knows Wei Zheng to particularly prefer—he’d rewarded Wei Zheng with thousands of treasures across the years, yet his living space remained so humble and unadorned Li Shimin couldn’t tell if any were to his liking. No matter. He will use whatever he knows.
Procuring wine proves to be harder. Few in Lethe do not covet it, and they do so at great quantities—and it’s difficult for him to settle on lesser quality when Wei Zheng himself was talented in brewing. In the end he sources a jar through Han Fei, who parts with it in exchange for detailed accounts of events in the Zhenguan era, to which Li Shimin readily agrees.
Securing Wei Zheng’s agreement to come by for a meal, compared to all the effort he’s put into its preparation, takes so little it dumbfounds him.
The man before him remains as severe as he was in life—in his golden years, that is. As Wei Zheng stands there, poised and within reach, images of the bed-ridden elder, too ill to even kneel yet still attempting to put on his official robes, flash before his eyes. He swallows, as though that’d hold back his tears too.
The bounty of autumn unfurls like a scroll before the courtyard; maple leaves drift like brilliant embers in the cooling breeze, while other branches droop with late-ripening fruits. It both contrasts the deep turquoise of Wei Zheng’s robes and fits its autumnal flourishes. No longer living in the imperial city, Li Shimin’s residence is small enough to allow festive drums and shrill woodwinds from his neighbors to drift in.
In the otherwise intimate, silent meal for two, those distant sounds spark a sense of liveliness, like the beating heart of a peaceful world pulsing within their chests.
“Thank you, Your Majesty, for the invite.”
“Be at ease, Xuancheng,” Li Shimin says, as warmly as he could without teetering on appearing insincere. “Today we dine as old friends.”
And it’s a foreign agony, he realizes, to find out that he does not know exactly how Wei Zheng would respond to these words—or how he himself feels about his own apprehension. He would never voice it, but an underlying fear creeps further into his veins as the moment drags.
He’s loath to admit it, but perhaps the depths of his sorrow at Wei Xuancheng’s passing, the icy grip in his heart upon the suspicion of his factionalism, had all been onesided. Wei Zheng had been nothing but a consummate exemplary minister. The loyalty with which he serves the Great Tang is unquestionable, but he had never acted with overt familiarity. His past as Li Jiancheng’s advisor and his past-present as Li Shimin’s foremost remonstrant seemingly conspired to ensure a clear line between minister and companion. Where Li Shimin's other confidants had been men who stood by his side from the beginning, Wei Zheng's staunch stand behind that boundary seemed to so transparently alienate him.
Time resumes.
A dry, yet not wry, smile twitches upon Wei Zheng’s lips.
“If Your Majesty so wishes.”