Page 119 of The Poet Empress
That little prince on the bridge, hadn’t he healed the carp in the same way? His first Blessing, born of instinct and simple empathy, had been an ode much like this one. Even as young as he had been, he had still taken one look at a small life and seen not its suffering but its exuberance.
Do not assume that I dream of greatness.
Do not assume that I wish to be reborn in a different time or a different place, in a different life.
I wish only to admire the blossoms in this one.
The screams in the crowd were getting louder. The audience of ten thousand stared in horror as Terren’s already feeble struggling became even weaker. Soon he stopped resisting entirely. His hands dropped limp to his sides.
My palms were sweating so much that I almost dropped my pen.
See him,I begged the Ancestors, as I scrawled more and more characters onto the rug.See him and find his life worth living. See all of him.
Terren, very little, squealing with delight after Maro stole a cake for him from the banquet table. Terren and Maro sitting on the pagoda’s roof, legs dangling in the spring wind, playing “dueling couplets” where no grown-ups could hear them. Terren sneaking into the Dawn Pavilion,standing on tiptoes to reach the windowsill, helping his brother write his first Blessing.
Ma-ro! Catch it! Catch it in a poem!
Terren with his brother in the mountain fortress, watching the sunrise spread vibrant over the titan hero, the dragonhorse, and the demon king. Terren in the cold room they shared, hugging each other as they cried about the burning star. Terren in the moss-covered tunnel, after Maro had fainted, wrapping his own cloak around him to keep him warm. Terren hiding under the kitchen table, knowing his brother was going to be furious—but having told on him anyway, to save his life.
I’m sorry ten times. I’m sorry a hundred times. I’m sorry a thousand times.
Terren in Tieza, even amidst all the war and suffering, writing the Aricine Ward. Perhaps in his military base, by daylight; perhaps in his luxurious Violet Heron chamber, by firelight. Laboring over the most difficult spell known to history, for seven long years, to save his brother from reaching the edge of his cliff.
It was a love poem after all. The heart-spirit poem I was furiously writing—it really was a poem of love.
The prince was not moving anymore, except for a few grotesque convulsions of his body. But Maro kept his hands around his throat anyway, no doubt wanting to play it safe. After he had failed the last time, the time that had caused one tutor’s death and the other’s condemnation, he must have wanted to take no chances.
Only a few verses left,I thought desperately.Terren, stay with us.
It was not just his love for Maro that I wanted to show the Ancestors. There was more of it he had given away. Love for his nation, even if it was more understated than his brother’s;I am not so evil I would murder a dynasty.Love for his friends, who had been with him for so many years; I had not forgotten how he’d tucked Little Sparrow under his cloak to keep her warm, or the shining joy on his face when he was reunited with Niu Niu. Love for literature, one that was lifelong; as long as I’d known him, he had not stopped reading or composing poems.
Ancestors, do you understand now?Thisis his story. His true story.
Even after he was grown, he had not stopped giving it. I had witnessed it myself. In the temple, braving a snowstorm, hacking away at the ice; the attempt to bring the carp somewhere warm had been futile, but the lovehad been true. In the Palisade Garden, parting plum branches, just so he could watch the fledglings play in their nest; in the Tower of Mental Tranquility, on his balcony, writing an entire poem for a snail he had chanced upon. A creature so small most would not even have paid attention.
Wei, get some pen and ink for me, quick!
All of it had already been in my poem. But could the Ancestors see it my way?
As I finished the last stroke of my Blessing, my heart beating fast, Maro let go of his brother. He must have decided he was dead enough. Terren crumpled to the ground and stayed there, among the salt dust, like a broken toy.
The crowd screamed with horror. The wind tore mercilessly at the banners. Even the bent pillars of flames seemed to be crying out with agony, though I knew that flames could not make a sound. But somehow, even through all the uproar, the chaos, the loudness, I could still hear my frantic heartbeats.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
And yours, Terren?
Underneath those gray robes, inside the cage of your chest, is there still a beating heart like mine?
Can it still hear me, if I sang it a love ballad?
Maybe not. He was not moving at all.
Maybe it was too late. Maybe he had already left us, becoming air.
My body felt strangely heavy as Maro turned away from him and made for the felled dragon. Now the audience was rioting, but not just with horror—amidst cries of outrage, there were also cheers, and applause, and tentative celebration. A few fights had broken out. I could see men shoving each other on the crowded balcony opposite me. The events of the coronation must have been so unprecedented that nobody truly knew how to feel; the nation had become a beast that did not know what it wanted.
There was no response from the Ancestors to my poem. No sparks on the rug beneath me, no warmth under my pen, nothing. Terren remained small and motionless in the arena. The wind tugged at his hair, his torn sleeves, as if in a futile effort to wake him. Even his sigil was not glowing anymore and had gone as black as charcoal.
