Chapter Twenty: Parting is Inevitable

The formal send-off procession finally began slowly at dawn from the pavilion outside the main gate of the imperial city. Banners fluttered, armor stood in imposing array, and the Seventh Prince, Yunji, rode side by side with Guo An, the Minister of War, followed by a long procession of officials and guards. The horses' hooves kicked up dust in the morning mist as the procession headed north.

Huairou stood in the procession of family members seeing them off, dressed in simple palace attire. She watched the familiar figure gradually disappear into the distance, surrounded by the procession, until it became a blurry dot on the horizon, blending into the vast autumn scenery on both sides of the official road. Even as the crowd began to whisper and slowly disperse, she remained standing there, like a jade sculpture that had lost its pull.

The surrounding clamor—the courtiers' formulaic blessings, the sobs of families, some genuine, some feigned, the distant hoofbeats and wheels of the procession—all seemed veiled by a thick curtain of water, blurred and indistinct. The Emperor himself had arrived, offering encouragement and admonitions. Standing in the back row, she could see nothing clearly, only the bright yellow canopy gleaming in the morning light, its majesty natural. But what did it matter to her whether she saw it clearly or not? The magnificent pomp and circumstance, the complex gazes—none of it concerned her. She had only come to say goodbye, to bid farewell to the light that had suddenly shone in her life, and then just as suddenly departed.

After the crowd dispersed and the pavilion stood empty, with only the autumn wind swirling fallen leaves, Huairou felt as if all her strength had been drained away, and her shoulders, which had been holding on, slumped slightly. A profound sense of disorientation gripped her.

The time she spent with Yunji, from their first meeting to their last, was only three short years, yet it felt like half a lifetime to her. When they first met, Yunji had just turned twenty, brimming with youthful vigor. She, Huairou, possessed a delicate and pretty face, nearly the same age as Yunji, but her inner emotions were far beyond the innocent budding of a young girl. That was Ji Moli, a woman who had reached middle age, experienced love, pregnancy, and the sudden loss of everything—a calm and world-weary quality only a woman like Ji Moli could possess.

Fate, in a way that was both cruel and merciful, brought her to Yunji. This young man, and her son who died young, strangely overlapped in their presence, though in different times and spaces. She accompanied him in his studies, planned his future, and watched him gradually transform from a somewhat weak and constrained prince in the palace into someone who displayed his talent and accumulated strength… These daily acts, like a gentle stream, silently nourished her heart, which had been parched and cracked by the loss of her son, and was almost ceasing to beat. The sharp, relentless pain that gnawed at her was subtly soothed by Yunji's dependent and trusting gaze, and by the traces of his gradual growth, transforming into a deeper and more resilient bond.

Now, Yunji is gone. Carrying her hopes and unknown dangers, he flew towards that vast world. Apart from relying on the unreliable messenger swallows and wild geese to deliver letters in the future, she and he will truly be separated by mountains and rivers. How will she cope? Her heart, which had just been warmed and healed somewhat, seems to have been hollowed out again in an instant, and the cool autumn wind has poured in again, echoing emptyly.

"All love in this world is for reunion, except for maternal love, which is for separation." For some reason, this saying, which I'd heard somewhere before, suddenly came to mind. Yes, from the very beginning of a child's life, parents are preparing for a grand separation. They hope the child's wings are fully grown, that the child will soar through the heavens, and then, they watch the child's back disappear around the corner of life.

But all of this came too soon, too hastily, for Huairou. Ji Moli's child was only seven years old when she passed away; the bud of life withered before it could bloom. And her time with Yunji was, at most, only three years. The years she missed, the time she couldn't spend with her biological son, were a regret Ji Moli had intended to gently make up for with her entire life. Now, this maternal love, accumulated over half a lifetime, had just found a small crack to rest in Yunji when separation came suddenly.

Her mind was in turmoil, yet her feet moved involuntarily toward the "Guanghe Hall" where Yunji lived. There, the traces of his life still lingered—the books he had read, the ink stains from his calligraphy practice. It was as if returning there would allow her to grasp a glimpse of his lingering presence.

As expected, Guanghe Palace was deserted. With Yunji gone, most of the servants who were already few due to his lack of importance had been temporarily transferred to other palaces by the Imperial Household Department, leaving only two lowly eunuchs to guard the gates, making it seem particularly desolate and lonely. The palace was tidy, but lacked vitality. The autumn wind swept in through the open windows, stirring the hanging gauze curtains and adding to the bleakness.

Huairou wandered alone through the empty palace, her fingertips brushing against the sandalwood desk where Yunji often sat, the warmth of his fingertips still lingering there. She felt dizzy, cold, and weak, as if something had struck her head hard. She knew she wasn't feeling well; she must have a fever.

What kind of era is this? Where can she find an effective fever reducer? How could she, the daughter of a court official, casually summon the imperial physicians of the Imperial Hospital after the prince had left the palace? She forced herself to walk to the threshold of the inner hall, wanting to find a place to sit down and rest, but a violent wave of dizziness struck, her legs went weak, and she almost collapsed to the ground.

"Miss!" Caihe, the personal maid who had followed her in, exclaimed in surprise and rushed forward to support her swaying body. Caihe had been by Huairou's side since childhood and was the most loyal and clever. At this moment, she was also pale with anxiety. She struggled to half-carry, half-help Huairou to a chaise lounge on one side of the hall and settled her down. When she touched Huairou's forehead, she could feel that it was burning hot.

"Miss, you have a high fever! I'll go get the imperial physician right away!" Caihe said, and started to run out.

"Stop..." Huairou's voice was weak, yet carried an undeniable air of protest. "No... His Highness has just left, we... cannot give them a handle to use against us..." She knew the palace rules were strict; summoning the imperial physician now would surely alarm everyone and invite unnecessary speculation and trouble. With her father and Yunji both away from the capital, she needed to be even more cautious in her words and actions.

Caihe stopped in her tracks, turned around and looked at Huairou lying weakly on the bed, her eyes reddening with anxiety: "But Miss, your illness..."

"It's alright... I just need to rest..." Huairou closed her eyes, feeling a ache and chill permeate her entire body. "Go... see if you can find some cool water..."

Caihe had no choice but to agree. She hurriedly went to fetch water, only to find that the palace had not even prepared water because her master was not there. She wanted to ask the eunuchs who were guarding outside the palace to go out to the Guo residence to report the news, or to find some medicinal herbs, but Caihe was just a page in the palace, with little influence and mindful of palace rules, so she made excuses and refused to do anything.

The hall grew increasingly cold and silent, with only Huairou's body temperature rising abnormally. As dusk settled outside the window, Huairou's consciousness began to blur, her mind drifting between lucidity and delirium. After much deliberation, Caihe gritted her teeth and decided she couldn't wait any longer. She had to personally return to the Guo residence to report the situation to the madam and bring back medicine and reliable help.

She walked to the bedside, looking at Huairou's still furrowed brows in her sleep, and softly called out, "Miss, hold on, I'll go back to the manor to get reinforcements, I'll be back soon." The person on the bed did not respond, having already fallen into a deep sleep. Caihe tucked her in, and finally made up her mind, turned and hurriedly left, her petite figure quickly disappearing into the deep night.

The renewed flames, like a wildfire spreading across the land, consumed Huairou's remaining lucidity. She was thrown into a bizarre and surreal abyss filled with echoes of pain.

Flashback to that snowy winter day kept replaying in her mind's mind. Her seven-year-old son lay pale on the bed, his breath weak. No matter how she called out to him, no matter how tightly she held his cold little hand, the last bit of warmth in his life was slowly and irreversibly slipping away. The heart-wrenching pain seemed to tear her soul apart, over and over again, without end.

"Yunji... Yunji..." she cried helplessly in her dream, tears soaking her temples.

Suddenly, Yunji's face appeared against the pale background. He smiled, calling her "Sister Huairou," a smile pure and dependent. But the next second, that smile shattered, and he transformed into her son's pale, helpless form. The two faces overlapped and intertwined, tearing at her heart, making her unable to distinguish who was before her. She struggled painfully, trying to get closer, trying to grasp him, but it was like sinking into quicksand; the harder she tried, the deeper she sank.

In the chaos, she seemed to see the figures of two men again. One was her husband from her past life, deep in her memory, equally immersed in the pain of losing his child, her only companion, his face etched with the same despair she shared; the other was Lu Binghui, her betrothed now. He stood not too far away, his expression gentle yet carrying a hint of detachment she couldn't quite discern, as if separated by an insurmountable veil. She wanted to plead with them for help, to grasp at any sliver of support, to ask where her child was, but her throat felt as if it were being choked, unable to utter a sound, her feet bound by invisible chains, unable to move an inch closer, only able to watch helplessly as their figures gradually faded into the mist.

Despair, like an icy tide, was about to engulf her completely, along with her last shred of consciousness.

Just as she was exhausted and about to be completely swallowed by darkness, a steady force supported her falling soul. Only when a man in a dark blue satin robe held her in his arms in her dream, the cool satin surface like a mat against her burning face, did she relax, finding support that relieved her from the need to fight the world. There was only a comforting warmth and a sense of security.

In a daze, she felt a slightly cool hand gently check her forehead. The embrace carried the crisp scent of bergamot, the arms steady and strong, dispelling the chill of her nightmare and offering an undeniable reassurance that momentarily eased her anxious nerves. Every movement was so natural and considerate, filled with pure concern, as if caring for a sick child.

Before she sank completely into darkness, she seemed to hear a barely audible sigh, low and helpless, as if it had passed through the barriers of palace walls and social status, and landed directly in her heart.

In her dream, a man dressed in a dark blue satin robe, his face blurred and his body in the shadows, was walking towards her from afar, holding the hand of a child. It was the son she had been longing for day and night! The son's little hand was warm, and his face had a healthy rosy glow. He obediently walked up to her.

"Mother..." the child called out softly.

The man solemnly placed his son's small hand in her palm, and then, with his strong and reliable arms, he held her and the child securely and protectively in his embrace. It was an embrace filled with protective strength and a silent promise, shielding them from all the storms and harm of the outside world.

Holding her son's warm little hand, feeling the long-lost, regained wholeness, Huairou didn't even have time to wipe away the tears streaming down her face before a peaceful and radiant smile bloomed from the depths of her heart. All the fear, grief, and struggle found temporary peace in this embrace.

Inside the bedchamber, the candlelight was deliberately dimmed, leaving only the necessary light.

Emperor Zhen Jiancheng sat on a pearwood armchair beside the couch, his figure as still as a mountain in the dim light. He had shed his earlier anxiety and was now as calm as a deep pool. He was still wearing the casual clothes he wore for the evening meeting, a dark robe with few decorations, designed for ease of movement.

Having just returned to the palace, he felt an inexplicable unease. He strolled to the vicinity of the now-empty Guanghe Hall, only to encounter Caihe, who was hurriedly leaving the palace with a flustered expression. Upon hearing that Huairou was seriously ill and there was no one to care for her in the hall, he rushed over without hesitation.

Upon entering the inner hall and seeing the familiar figure on the bed, a deep unease flickered in his usually calm eyes. That face, usually serene and elegant, now carried an abnormally high temperature, and his tightly furrowed brows were locked with unyielding pain and sorrow.

Without hesitation, and disregarding his imperial dignity, he strode forward, bent down, and with the most secure posture, carefully lifted the burning, fragile body, bedding and all, and gently placed it back on the bed. His movements were fluid and natural, carrying an instinctive care.

He carefully tucked her in to prevent her from catching a cold. Then, he turned to the side and wrung out a soft towel from the warm water he had prepared nearby, gently and methodically wiping away the sweat that had seeped from her forehead, temples, and neck due to the high fever. A deep worry remained in his eyes—the focus of a doctor facing a patient, the concern of an elder seeing a younger person suffer.

Under his meticulous care and the soothing embrace of his dreams, the girl before him finally fell into a peaceful sleep.

Soft, cautious footsteps sounded outside the hall; a palace attendant, carrying a medicine chest, was waiting at the door. The emperor instantly snapped out of his focused state of care, regaining his usual composure. He slowly rose, his movements still gentle, as if afraid of disturbing the person who had just fallen asleep on the bed. His gaze lingered on the medicine chest for a moment, gesturing for them to come forward, then he turned and, as he had entered, quietly withdrew from the inner hall, leaving the space for those who needed it more.

It was as if he had never existed.

The night is long and the palace is as deep as the sea. Some acts of kindness and protection, like still waters running deep, have their own power.