Archive of Our Own

Being assigned to the Crystal Palace was becoming a frequent ordeal for Maomao, and she’s beginning to wonder how much longer it can go on before Lady Gyokuyou finally grows weary of it.

Whatever the case, she had been called over for an issue amongst the ladies-in-waiting, and a strange ailment that had befallen each of them.

It was not difficult to determine the cause - a new perfume that they had been sharing, and had not made known to their lady. This proved to work in her favour, although the secrecy was still not entirely permissible. The treatment for the fallout proved to be a more troublesome ordeal, only hindered more by constant requests from Guen and eunuchs and other servants.

Jinshi had been called off on some private business, so at the very least she didn’t have him breathing down her neck at every turn. But still, the work piled up, and with each day spent at the Crystal Palace, Maomao felt herself weaken, bit by bit.

She had finally dealt with the ladies’ conditions, and is only hanging around a few days longer to ensure nothing else goes wrong. She spent the morning taking care of different duties around the palace and making up some medicines for Guen. It seems to be an especially off day for her - her movements feel sluggish and her mind keeps being doused in a deep haze - but she supposes such is the life of someone so swamped with responsibilities.

She sees Lady Lihua in passing throughout the day, but they never have much chance to speak. Maomao hopes she doesn’t pick up on her dishevelled appearance, and that she can forgive it if she does. The last thing she wants is to cause issue for the good lady.

Which is why, once her tasks have been dealt with, she finds herself falling into a familiar habit, as she quietly excuses herself to the grand hallways, and curls up on one of the wooden benches. Her body feels heavy as she lies there, a strange heat bubbling under her skin. She hopes it will pass when she awakens again.

Lihua finds Maomao curled up on the bench. She remembers fondly how she had smiled when she’d seen it before, back when Maomao had drawn her away from the brink of death.

She’s always saving her - saving everyone - Lihua thinks, and she deserves her rest too.

In the now-familiar action, Lihua sits next to Maomao, reaching a hand over to gently stroke her hair. She imagines, if her son had survived, she would have done this with him, to soothe him as he slept. The thought makes her stomach twist, but she bites back the emotion.

Only, she cannot seem to settle her mind, because something feels off, suddenly. Her fingers hover just above Maomao’s forehead, but even without making contact, they can feel a heat radiating off her skin. Lihua presses her palm to Maomao’s temple, and the heat is only made more apparent.

Maomao’s forehead is clammy, hair sticking to it with sweat. It’s only now Lihua realises that the gentle breaths she has heard the other time Maomao had slept beside her have been replaced by a soft rattle in the girl’s chest. Lihua feels a deep sympathy rising within herself, as she - as gently as she can manage - rolls Maomao onto her back.

With Maomao’s face in view, it’s obvious that she is flushed. A redness clings to her features, evident of her too-hot skin. Lihua wonders, distantly, how she couldn’t see it before, but she supposes she had been distracted. It makes her heart ache, that she could have noticed it sooner.

“Maomao?” Lihua says, softly. “Can you wake up for me, little one?”

The pet name escapes her easily, without much thought. She pushes Maomao’s fringe away from her forehead, and watches as tired blue eyes slowly flutter open.

“M’lady…” Maomao mutters. There’s a distance in her gaze, like she’s fighting to focus on the room around her. “Forgive me… I must have dozed off.”

“It’s okay, Maomao,” Lihua tells her, “you are not in any trouble. I do think, however, that you are unwell.”

“Oh,” Maomao sounds a little more aware now, though still evidently dazed. She blinks a few times, willing the confusion to leave her. “I hadn’t realised.”

“You are burning up, badly.” Lihua chastises. “How could you not have noticed?”

Maomao hums. She had been feeling off, but that’s become a sort of normalcy for her. She’s busy, all of the time. It’s to be expected to be a little lethargic, really. Still, she supposes she had felt especially poor today, but that’s not a good enough reason to neglect her duties.

Though, if it’s causing enough issue now for a concubine to be concerned over her, she supposes she should have been more perceptive.

“I’m sorry.” Is all Maomao says in return.

Lihua’s features soften. “It is okay, Maomao. I can hardly speak on not perpetuating illness. I did such a bad job of taking care of myself after my son’s death, but it was you who showed me such gentle care and compassion.”

Lihua tucks a stray strand of hair behind Maomao’s ear. “Let me do that for you, now.”

Maomao wants to protest, but she knows the action would be futile. She can't argue with a high-ranking lady - and part of her, deep down, is quite content to be absolved of her duties.

“Shall we move somewhere more comfortable?”

Maomao doesn’t protest, as Lady Lihua slowly helps her sit upright. The movement makes her head spin a little, and it’s only now she is aware of how dizzy and disoriented she feels. Had it really gotten this bad so quickly? Or had she somehow managed to push down the symptoms until now? Neither seem like a very reassuring answer.

She pauses as she swings her legs over the side of the bench. Lihua’s hand rests on her back, steady but not commanding.

“Maomao?” Lihua presses, gently.

The thought of standing makes Maomao’s legs feel weak. It’s embarrassing, to suddenly find herself so inept in front of a concubine. She is a lady-in-waiting, an apothecary, and an asset within the Rear Palace. She’s not supposed to be fragile.

Before she can stop it - before she even realises it’s happening - Maomao feels a wetness forming at her eyes. She swallows harshly, trying to bite back the wave of emotion that threatens to spill over, all at once, so ungraceful and undignifiedly, so unlike the type of person she is supposed to be—

She pitches forwards, curling in on herself, as a harsh sob escapes her. Tears slip past her poor defences, trailing down her face. Her head hurts, and the world is spinning around her and she’s too warm, she’s burning up. She hasn’t felt this way since she was a child, when her father had sat by her bedside and told her stories to soothe her mind as he pressed spoonfuls of medicine to her lips.

She feels like a child, now, as she cries.

Lihua rubs her back in small, circular motion. The kindness only seems to make her feel more pathetic, makes the whole situation feel wrong.

“Maomao. Maomao.” Lihua leans in towards her. “What is the matter? Do you feel nauseous?”

Maomao shakes her head, scrubbing desperately at her face. “No, ma’am. No. I— I’m sorry.” She hiccups around the words, face burning with embarrassment as much as the fever.

“Hey, take a breath for me, little one.” Lihua coos. “We are in no rush, it’s okay.”

Maomao inhales slowly, forcing her body to work the way she wants it too. A few stray tears still find their way down her face, but she manages to compose herself, sitting upright again.

“There, good job.” Lihua chimes. “Can you tell me what upset you so suddenly?”

Maomao frowns. “I do not like to feel so… helpless,” she confesses, because she knows there is no point in avoiding the question. “I know logically that it is natural to be sick and to need others to take care of you, of course, but I am… less practiced with being the one in that position.”

Lihua nods in understanding. Sympathy. “Asking for help can be hard, accepting help when you are such an independent mind can be even harder. But I assure you, there is no shame here. I will not view you any differently for this.”

Maomao must be a really open book right now, for Lihua to have such a deep understanding of how she feels, but she’s too tired to be annoyed by that. Lihua’s words calm the noise in her mind, if at least a little bit.

Maomao nods. “Thank you, my lady.”

“Of course, Maomao. Do you think you are ready to get up now?”

The thought of walking still makes her head swim, but she’s able to not break down over it again. Maomao nods instead, slowly lowering herself off the bench to stand. Her legs wobble beneath her, but she manages to stay upright. Lihua offers her an arm, and Maomao hopes she doesn’t mind that it takes her so little convincing to wrap her own arm around it.

She lets Lihua guide her, through the halls, to her little temporary chambers in the Crystal Palace.

“You keep your quarters so tidy.” Lihua comments, as she lets Maomao take the last few steps to sit herself on the bed. “Not that my other ladies are untidy by any means, but none are quite as orderly as this.”

“A tidy space makes for a tidy mind.” Maomao mumbles, pulling off her shoes. “It’s easier to find something when it’s always in the same place.”

Lihua smiles at her. “You have such a bright mind.”

Maomao scoffs slightly at the flattery, but she doesn’t deny it. She doesn’t have the energy to, really, as she tries to focus on not flopping down without grace onto her bed in front of the Wise Consort.

Thankfully Lihua tells her, “I will go tell one of the other ladies to bring Guen here. You can get changed in the meantime; you should be in more comfortable attire.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

Lihua gives her one last smile before stepping out the door.

Maomao sighs, breathing in the quiet for a brief moment, before moving to change. The idea of Lihua seeing her in her night clothes feels improper, but again, she thinks she might be too exhausted to protest. The embarrassment will surely wash over her when she’s recovered, but that’s for her future self to deal with.

Her hands shake as she slowly removes her garments. Her movements are all sluggish and far less coordinated than they would usually be. She has to pause occasionally, when the world starts to swirl a little too much around her, before returning to her tasks. She’s good at getting things done when there’s a task at hand, if nothing else.

Her hands pause above her bandaged arm. She should change the bandages, really, but that risks Lihua walking in and seeing the exposed mess that is her skin.

Maomao isn’t ashamed of the mark of her experiments, but she’s learnt that most people find it upsetting to see. They don’t understand that it’s just part of her work. Or maybe she just can’t understand what they see that she doesn't. It’s something to ponder, when she’s more composed.

As she lets down her hair, she feels another wave of exhaustion wash over her. The bed is soft, and the quiet of the room is a welcomed comfort. She settles herself against her pillow, and lets her eyes fall shut, just for a moment.

The next time Maomao opens her eyes, Lady Lihua is back in front of her, with a jug of water.

Maomao blinks, groggy from a sleep she didn’t mean to slip into. Lihua is patient with her, as she pours a glass of watch and presses it into Maomao’s hands.

“Guen is on his way,” she explains, “and the kitchen is preparing some soups for you.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

“It is the decency anyone deserves.”

Maomao nods, politely, before taking a few sips of water. She hadn’t realised how thirsty she was, but then, failing to realise things seems to be a recurring motif of the day.

“How are you feeling?” Lihua asks.

“Much the same.” Maomao replies, honestly. “Feverish, lethargic, disoriented. Though it is definitely more comfortable here than the hall.”

“Well, that is a good start, then.” Lihua takes the cup from her, setting it aside. “Did you really not realise you were ill?”

“I… do not know.” It’s honest, again. “I knew I was not my usual self but I attributed it to overtiredness more than illness. I have not been sick in many years, so I guess I forgot how to recognise the signs. I am much better at spotting it in others than myself.”

“You are so skilled in so many ways, and yet so lacking in others.” Lihua muses. It’s an observation, not a lecture, spoken in the careful manner of a true concubine. Maomao’s stomach twists a little at the thought, because she has almost forgotten the difference in their status, here.

“My lady,” she says, after a moment's silence, “you can bring one of your ladies to sit with me, or just leave me here alone for Guen. I don’t think you need to waste your time with me.”

“Nonsense, Maomao,” Lihua is quick to reply. “You sat with me for days when I was ill. It is only fair that I repay it.”

“That was duty, ma’am.”

“And so is this.”

Maomao nods. It’s all she can muster, and it’s all that feels right. She isn’t sure of what duty Lihua speaks, but there’s no sense in arguing here.

“Thank you, Lady Lihua.”

As Maomao settles back down against the pillow, a knock at the door rings out. Lihua calls Guen inside, and he patters in with his usual charming awkwardness.

“Lady Lihua, my lady.” He rushes out. “I am sorry I could not come quicker.”

“You are here now, Guen, so it is of no issue. Can you please check over Maomao?”

Guen glances over at Maomao, who gives him a tired wave. “Ah, of course! Hello, little one.”

“Hello Guen.” Maomao replies. “I would have taken care of this myself, but it appears I am not of my usual demeanour and wits.”

“Quite alright, little lady. That’s what my job is for.”

Guen, truthfully, is more competent than most give him credit for - including Maomao herself. But she is aware that his knowledge only stretches so far, and there are things she is much better versed in. Still, he is a kind man, and he is willing to do his best, so she hopes that will be enough. She doesn’t need the whole ordeal to drag out any longer.

Guen checks her over, as Lihua slips out to give some instructions to her other ladies and have food sent up to the room. When she returns, Guen has finished his checks.

“There is some strain on the lungs,” he explains to both Lihua and Maomao. “The body has been weakened in its attempts to fight against the illness most likely, but I have hope it should not progress past this. The fever, however, is the main concert. It is high. Very high. The focus now should be on keeping it down. I can give a few remedies to hopefully calm things somewhat, but if the fever rises any more…”

He trails off. Maomao knows what that means by now - that there’s something he can’t bring himself to say. Either it’s bad, or he’s out of his depth.

Lihua tilts her head. “Yes? Spit it out.”

“Then I will not know how to treat it.” Guen confesses. “Cold compresses, a bath perhaps, and stronger drugs. But if it gets too much higher… it will be up to her body to fight back.”

“Well, then we shall not let it get to that point.” Lihua says, the most stern she has sounded since this whole ordeal arose.

Guen shrinks back from her slightly, but he nods at the words. He mutters something about grabbing supplies, before rather ungracefully darting out of the room.

Maomao sighs, as she settles herself back against the bed again.

“He is well meaning,” she says, “but he is too stressed for his own good.”

“Does it not concern you, what he says?” Lihua pushes.

“It should. But, I do not want to resign myself to such pessimism. If I feel his remedies aren’t working, I’ll send for some ingredients myself.”

“Maomao, that defeats the whole point of you being the patient.”

“Exactly. I’ll take any chance to switch the roles.”

Lihua massages her temple. “You really do never stop,” she mutters.

Maomao frowns. It sounded less playful this time, more resigned. Frustrated. She had no intention to upset the good lady, but perhaps Lihua is finally starting to reach her limit with her. She supposes it was only a matter of time.

“Sorry,” Maomao mutters, curling up against her sheets. She wants to say more, but exhaustion, again, washes over her like a wave.

“It’s fine.” Lihua tells her.

Maomao can’t read her tone well enough to tell if she actually means it, as her eyes shut once more.

For a while after that, things pass in flashes.

The sound of the other ladies-in-waiting talking in hushed tones outside her room. Guen coaxing her to swallow down some medicines, not unlike how her father would. Lihua pressing cups of water into her hands, as her body works automatically to take them and drink.

She knows she must be somewhat lucid for these moments, but as she thinks back each time, they are nothing but a blur. She can’t remember their words, or the expression on Lihua’s face.

She thinks, at one point, that Lady Lihua looks sad, and Maomao can only hope she won’t be the cause of that for too much longer.

The next time Maomao fully awakens, the room around her is dark.

She’s alone, but the quiet is much less welcomed than before. She can hear her own laboured breaths and the way the sheets shift as she tries to find a more comfortable way to lie. Nothing seems to soothe her aching limbs, and the steady drum of her heartbeat that seems to pound against her skull.

Her skin is on fire, and she knows rationally that can’t be true, but it feels so real that she’s starting to think that maybe, somehow, she’s come to be an exception. That the fever is burning her from the inside out, and Lady Lihua will come to find her as nothing but a pile of ash.

Lihua does not deserve that. She should not have to see anymore death and carnage with the weight of what she has already had to endure. Maomao whines softly, at the thought that she could add to that strain.

(Lady Lihua had looked so sad. Maomao can’t be the cause of that any longer).

Her addled mind betrays her. Her eyes are wet again, though the tears only hang around her eyelashes, blurring her vision. She can’t remember ever feeling this bad, not even when she was being tended to by her father. She had witnessed illness like this, of course, but never felt it seep so deep into her own bones. Not like so many of the women back home. Not like her mother.

The thought makes her head ache all the more. Her mother, who would surely be disgusted by her now.

There’s a sound of footsteps, the door pushing open. A slither of moonlight slips into the room.

She imagines her mother standing in the silhouette and a cry escapes her.

A voice, then, breaks the air.

“Maomao?”

Lihua had only meant to step out for a few minutes, to get some more water and fresh sheets. It’s the job of her ladies, really, but she had figured that Maomao might prefer they stay away. She’ll have a word with them, after this has been resolved, about their attitudes towards Maomao, but for now it is merely a passing thought.

Mamao has been in and out of consciousness for the past few hours. Even when she’s sitting up and sipping down water and soup, there’s a distant look in her gaze that tells Lihua she’s acting on instinct more than a genuine awareness. It makes her heart ache, to see the young apothecary so stripped of personality.

She’d slipped out, when she was sure that Maomao was deep in her sleep, and had grabbed what she’d needed quickly. But one of her ladies had caught her in the hallway, with questions about tomorrow’s schedule that she would not accept short answers to; so by the time she’s back outside the room, more time has passed than Lihua would have liked.

She pushes open the door, letting the moonlight behind her flood the small space.

It catches on something blue, glimmering back at Lihua. Eyes, staring with a distant glaze.

“Maomao?”

Lihua crosses the distance in a few quick strides, disposing of her things and lighting a candle at the bedside.

Maomao is tangled in her sheets, hair sprawled across the pillow. In the faint flicker of the candle, her skin looks all wrong and ashen, the only colour that of the red-hot flush clinging to her cheeks, trailing across her nose.

She stares up at Lihua in the way a child looks to their mother amidst a deep, deep panic.

“Oh,” is all Lihua can muster.

She drops to her knees, hands coming up to cup Maomao’s face. The heat she feels is terrible and unnatural and she recoils from it on instinct.

Maomao whines, a tiny little sound. The cry of a child.

Lihua’s breath catches. She remembers her son, cradled in her arms, choking out small sounds of discomfort. She had held him close, helpless to do anything that could relieve his suffering. She had not held him as he died. She thinks maybe that’s where she failed him most.

She moves back from the bed, and for one selfish moment she thinks she’ll run right out of the room. The sight of Maomao’s trembling form is too much for her to bear, too stark a reminder of everything she has lost and the horrible path to losing it. She stares at Maomao, wordlessly, and Maomao stares right back.

The next sound that escapes Maomao’s lips sounds almost like a word. Two syllables, soft and familiar..

Mother.

Lihua sobs. She allows herself that one strangled sound, hand clamped over her mouth. She inhales slowly, trying to compose herself. But the word echoes in her mind like a church bell and it rings with a harsh intensity. Mother.

Maomao whines again, curling in on herself. She is so impossibly tiny now. Her eyelids flutter, and her breath stutters in her chest. She reaches out, blindly, for something that isn’t there.

Lihua takes her hand. She had moved on instinct, but the action feels natural. She holds Maomao’s hand between both of her own, gently massaging the palm.

“I’m here,” Lihua says. “I have you, little one.”

(She had not held her son as he died).

“I’m not leaving again, I won’t leave you.”

(She holds on now).

Maomao seems to settle at the touch, if only a little bit. Lihua traces down her palm, along her wrist, pausing at the bandages around her lower arm. They’re damp with sweat.

She had been avoiding pulling them off, for Maomao’s own dignity, but it feels unavoidable now. She mutters an apology, as she slowly unravels the white cloth.

Lihua doesn’t think she’s ever paid much mind to what could lie beneath, so the mess of burns and scabs and deep welts takes her aback. Even in the soft glow of candle light, it is an uncomfortable sight.

“Oh, Maomao,” she whispers.

Lihua gently wraps a fresh cloth around the mess as best she can, keeping it loose against the clammy skin. Maomao doesn’t protest it, nor does she protest when Lihua dips more pieces of the fabric into a bowl of water and presses them against Maomao’s neck and forehead.

“That should help,” she muses, to herself more than to Maomao.

Guen’s words still haunt her mind, however.

“If the fever gets too high… it will be up to her body to fight back.”

LIhua inhales shakily. Somehow Maomao is still the one needed to make things right.

Guen is summoned back, but his face is tight and there’s a deep sadness in his eyes. He leaves a few stronger remedies, but can only repeat his words from before.

He offers to stay, or to take Lihua’s place as vigil, but she ushers him away. His panic will only bleed into her, and she can’t stand the idea of being anywhere else right now.

Guen retreats like a mouse, with one last look at Maomao. He doesn’t utter a word. His expression is evidence enough of his fear.

Lihua perches herself on the edge of the bed, gently stroking Maomao’s hair in that familiar way.

“You have to hold on, Maomao,” she whispers. “You have to come back to us.”

A while later - minutes, hours, Lihua isn’t sure anymore - Maomao stirs again. A soft wheeze escapes her, followed by a whine, and then a garbled string of words. Lihua leans over her, patient as ever.

“Maomao?”

“Mother.”

That word again, that title. Lihua stiffens, but she does not pull away. She owes it to Maomao not to let the word overwhelm her. She tries not to think of the term in his son’s voice, and instead finds herself pondering Maomao’s own mother. She’s never heard about her, she realises.

Maomao makes another sound, two syllables again, but much more resigned this time. Much more desperate. It sounds like a plea.

“You’re alright.” Lihua tells her. “You will be better again, Maomao.”

The sound again, more clearly.

“Sorry…”

Oh, Lihua thinks. An apology, not a plea.

“Maomao. Maomao, it’s okay–”

“Mother.” Maomao repeats. “I– I’m sorry…”

“Shush, darling.”

“I…” Maomao’s voice trails off, her brows furrowing. Lihua waits, as her unconscious mind tries to figure out what to say.

The words it pushes out makes Lihua freeze.

“I can be good. I will be. I’ll be good…”

It cuts through her, right to her heart. Maomao, who is so confident, so uncaring of how people view her, so vulnerable all of a sudden. It feels so wrong, so twisted and pulled out of place. She dares not think what could be the cause of such desperate words.

“You are good, Maomao.” Lihua tells her, as firmly as she can manage. “You are.”

Maomao’s lips move again, but her breath catches in her throat. A half-sob escapes her, a sound so full of desperation for how small and broken it is.

Without thinking - moving on pure instinct alone - an instinct she hadn’t realised was still lingering inside of her - Lihua gathers Maomao up into her arms, and holds the girl against her chest.

She rocks them both gently, muttering gentle comforts under her breath. It comes to her naturally, as it should to any mother.

Maomao seems to relax in her hold, curling into the steady anchor that is Lihua. She slots in so easily with her small form, as any child should.

Lihua isn’t sure how long they stay that way - as she hums softly and speaks of pointless things - only that the entire time, she wills it to be enough. Enough to calm Maomao’s addled mind. Enough to draw her back from the brink, as she had done for Lihua.

Lihua isn’t sure how long they stay like that, but she has no objection to it.

Lihua must have fallen asleep at some point, because her eyes droop and then suddenly it’s morning.

Maomao is still cradled in her arms when Guen steps into the room and if he is shocked by the sight, he does well to hide it. Lihua lays Maomao back down, as he looks over her.

It's like a miracle, when he tells her; “Her fever has broken.”

Lihua fights the urge to sob right then and there in relief. She thanks Guen, as she takes the medicines he hands her, and nods along to his instructions.

Once he’s gone again, she moves back over Maomao, tucking back stray strands of hair.

“Thank you, little one,” she whispers. “Thank you for holding on.”

In the days that follow, the fever slowly subsides, and as it lessens, Maomao’s strength is regained. She is able to consult on some minor issues of the palace, though Lihua is careful to ensure nothing strenuous is forced upon her.

Lihua hangs about her room, offering anything that is needed. With her sense back, Maomao is evidently embarrassed by the whole ordeal, but her gratefulness toward Lihua is very real. They do not speak of the things that she had muttered in the dark. It’s a conversation for another time.

When Maomao is finally able to return to her duties, Lihua comes to see her off.

“Thank you, for everything you did for me, my lady.” Maomao tells her.

And Lihua, without warning, pulls her into an embrace.

“It is all that you deserve, Maomao.” She replies.

Maomao is taken aback, but she allows herself to melt into the hold, just for a moment, before pulling away.

“I must return to the Jade Palace now,” she says, “but I will remember this well.”

“Remeber that I was doing for you what you have done for so many.” Lihua replies. “Remeber that is all that you deserve.”

Maomao nods, bows her head, and turns towards the door. Lihua watches her as she goes, smiling fondly.

It is an ordeal that neither will be quick to forget.

But at least, they both held on.