Or perhaps it's holding the hot tea handed to me by the person I'm tasked with, my fingertips touching the coolness of the teacup, just like the temperature of the teacup warmed by the Regent's hand when she handed me tea years ago.
When even the aroma of the tea resembles the third brew of Longjing tea, I always suddenly recall that dark figure.
I recall the way she looked when she was reviewing memorials, her eyelashes casting soft shadows under her eyes, her pen tip drawing the words "Approved" on the paper with steady force and just the right amount of ink.
Even the turns and twists in her strokes reveal a crispness, just like her decisiveness when practicing shooting.
I remember when she taught me marksmanship, she would cover my hands from behind to adjust my posture, and the calluses on her palms would brush against the back of my hands, making me feel a little itchy.
He said, "Sink your shoulders and drop your elbows, draw your strength into your waist, don't let your guard down, and hold the gun firmly, otherwise you will be pulled off course by the gun and hurt yourself."
I remember her finishing reviewing memorials late at night, holding a cup of perfectly warm Longjing tea, sitting on a low stool by my bed, the stool legs pressing against the carpet so there was no sound, listening to me read the stories I had read during the day.
When I talk about how the young master saved the girl in distress, I'll tug at her sleeve and ask, "Regent, are you as capable as the young master?"
She would nod with a smile, a faint smile curving at the corners of her eyes, even her eyebrows exuding gentleness.
He said, "The Crown Princess only reads exciting stories. Next time, I'll find you a copy of 'Romance of the Three Kingdoms' and show you even more powerful heroes."
I wonder under which starry sky she is right now, whether she is also holding a similar gun, sipping similar Longjing tea, and looking at a similar moon.
Is it possible that at some point, the scent of osmanthus will remind you of autumn in Zhaoning?
I remember how I used to pester her for candied fruit, ask her to teach me how to shoot, and be afraid of the dark so she would stay with me to sleep. I was also a little princess who always picked osmanthus leaves all over the ground.
I remember myself being constantly corrected by her shooting posture.
But it's okay. I'm not in a hurry.
After all, those footsteps that traversed mountains and rivers will not have been in vain; the snow in the north, the rain in the south, the sun in the west, and the wind on the islands all remember the way.
The people you've helped, the difficulties you've solved, and the "luck" you've accumulated in different worlds will not be wasted.
The bowl of hot porridge she handed to the orphan girl when she was helping her find her family was warm even with the ginger shreds in it.
When he delivered a letter to a veteran, the bag of roasted peanuts he slipped in still smelled delicious, even the peanut shells were fragrant.
The silver hairpin that the old lady gave me after chatting about her life was translucent; these were all foreshadowing of our reunion.
Every step we took, every breeze we weathered, every moon we gazed upon, every cup of tea we drank, every gun we practiced with—all of these paved the way for our reunion.
There will always be something unexpected around the corner.
Perhaps it was in a courtyard filled with the fragrance of osmanthus blossoms, where she was standing under a tree picking flowers, the way she held the petals between her fingers just as she had done years ago, and even the way she smelled the flowers hadn't changed.
Perhaps it was a teahouse where Longjing tea was being brewed, and she was holding a teacup and watching the rain. The teacup had a familiar light blue glaze, and even her gesture of drinking tea was like that of someone savoring the third brew of Longjing tea.
Perhaps it was an evening when the pale purple sun was setting, and she was practicing her familiar "returning spear" with the spear shaft in hand, the sunset glow falling from the spear tip resembling the light of Zhaoning Palace.
Even the arc of her turn was the same as when she taught me, leading me to bump into that figure in black, or perhaps it's how she looks now.
At that time, I won't need to say anything more, I won't need to mention the snowy night in the cold palace, I won't need to talk about the osmanthus in Zhaoning, I won't need to mention my clumsiness when practicing shooting.
All I need to do is offer her a cup of Longjing tea, just like she did with me back then, her fingertips touching the teacup's temperature, and say with a smile, "Long time no see, Regent."
...Divider...line...
When exactly did it begin that all I could see and think about was Qin Qianluo?
He tapped his fingertips on the gilded and jade-inlaid military tally on the table, pondering it. The patterns on the two characters "Zhenxi" on the tally were polished to a shine, and even the edges gleamed with a warm light.
As you brush your fingertips against the grooves in the jade inlay, you can feel the calluses that have formed from years of holding the jade, like marks etched into your very bones.
No matter how many pieces I put the past into pieces, I can't even grasp a specific date.
Perhaps it was that first meeting at the Qionglin Banquet.
Nine gilded bronze lamps hang from the beams of the Hall of Supreme Harmony, their wicks burning brightly.
The lamp oil dripped down the dragon-shaped lamp pillar, accumulating into small gold flakes on the base, making even the dust in the hall shimmer with fine golden light.
The pearls in the hair and the jade bracelets on the wrists of the noble ladies all reflected a cold light. Each of them lowered their eyes and bowed their heads, even when picking up a piece of crystal pork knuckle with chopsticks, they would pinch their embroidered handkerchiefs to cover half of their faces.
It was as if getting a speck of oil on one's face would make one lose all decorum, and even breathing seemed restrained.
She was the only one sitting on the third pearwood mat on the right, wearing a moon-white ruqun (a type of traditional Chinese dress) over a silver-gray vest, with tiny dark orchid patterns embroidered on the collar.
The stitches were so fine that you had to hold them up to the light to see them clearly; it must have been embroidered by the woman herself. No embroiderer's work would be so simple and unadorned.
She wasn't shy at all when using silver chopsticks to pick up braised pork with preserved plum. As she lifted the pieces of meat, the sauce dripped down the chopsticks onto the side of the plate, but she didn't mind.
When you open your mouth to bite down, your cheeks puff out slightly, like you're holding a little squirrel that's been stealing food—fuzzy and adorable.
But when he raised his eyes, his brows and eyes revealed a frank and composed air of "I eat what I want, what does it have to do with others?" Even the silence in the hall could not suppress that vitality.
The candlelight slanted across the plain silver hairpin with its intertwined branches at her temple, causing the delicate chain beads hanging from the end of the hairpin to sway gently. When the beads touched her earlobe, she instinctively shrank her neck, as if tickled.
Even the little bit of sauce on his lips and his "unrefined" foolishness became the only lively light in this otherwise rigid palace.
I was holding an amber wine glass at the time, and my gaze lingered on her for the time it takes to drink half a cup of tea.
Even His Majesty, stroking his fingers, which were covered with fine lines on the armrest of the dragon throne, slowly asked, "Are the provisions in the northern border enough for three months?" He was a beat late in bowing and responding.
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