The Tears of Thirteen Years

Chapter 17

Part 2 of 3 - the mini story of A-Yuan

-------------

The quiet was almost suffocating.

Long fingers with neatly shaped fingernails, callused from years of playing the strings of a guqin, smoothed the square edges of the simple fold in the bed covers. Slowly eradicating creases so diligently, as if it might ease the pain in his heart or the fear in his mind.

Training ensured that his hands didn't shake, the near unbreakable walls of his self-mastery, didn't allow his face to betray the storm in his chest, the panicked beating of heart.

He had counted the time since returning here to the quiet of the Jingshi, but while it felt as though an eternity had passed, it in fact had only stretched into eleven minutes so far. But even that was too long.

A-Yuan had not woken, but all the signs were that he would be fine. Seeing him lying so still though, Wangji was not in any way reassured.

How could any parent or guardian be easily reassured? He had wondered this many times since becoming a father, the roles and actions of his own parents often coming to mind, or the stories of other children about the families who had sent them to Gusu for further training.

An injured or sick child was the worst time for a parent, seeing their child so helpless and vulnerable was a torment. Kneeling here by the bed, he had no idea what he should do now. Head injuries had to be treated carefully, but in his personal experience, Wangji had never lost consciousness due to a head wound or even blood-loss. Fever? Many times, the exact count a figure impossible for a mind lost in a dreamless haze of heat and pain, but he knew it was more than ten.

He had discovered a deep bruise on the side of Yuan's head, and another on his cheekbone. In the Jingshi left over from his own days of sickness and bleeding wounds there were ample salves, bandages and the tonics Xichen often made for him. With quick fingers he had gently rubbed some of the strongest salve into the area around the bruises, feeling for any sign of broken bones.

His son was strong, but his bones were still as fragile as a bird's wing in his hands, from years of malnutrition and the very fact that he was only eight years old.

This little boy would forever be the infant he carried home from the black soil of the Burial Mound, the three year old staring up at him hopeful and afraid. The child of five, trying determinedly to pluck the stiffer strings of a guqin, with tiny hands. The baby sitting curled into Wei Ying's shoulder, or holding his leg in a fast grip hoping to be picked up and held.

His mother had been given no choice in how she felt, locked away and then taken from them so quickly, there and gone in a breath that caught in his throat even now, decades later. Their father was different though, actively choosing not to become involved. Qingheng-jun always so conflicted, deliberately never, no matter how severe the injury visited either son in times of crisis.

Their Uncle almost in direct opposition to their father, could be counted on to be standing over them, chastising and angrily worried. The experience so unpleasant, that both of them strove to avoid injury even in the worst of the night hunts or the days of the war, just to avoid facing Uncle. If they could not, they usually hid the wounds or the cough that wracked lungs or the weariness that tea could not lift. They were the Twin Jades, never allowed to be mortal even as child.

He would never have approached his Uncle if he had been disturbed by the other boys, or even outright bullied by them, he still would not have mentioned a word. His brother would have known of course and no doubt either supported him or dealt with the problem as Xichen always did. Eyes fierce, but his face perfectly calm, the retaliation unyielding and direct.