In summer, the wooden wind chimes by the window tinkled; they were made by her from magnolia-shaped pendants, strung together with a red string by Su Jinyun.
In autumn, we sun-dried pear wood together. The sunlight shone on the wood, as warm as her smiling eyes and brows.
In winter, they would gather around the stove to brew tea and carve wooden plaques. Su Jinyun would help her hold the wood while she carefully carved with the carving knife, occasionally looking up and smiling, the tea smoke swirling around her hair.
No longer need to bear the intrigues of the court, the sword fights on the battlefield, no longer need to hide the secret of "001", no longer need to fear that a wrong word will expose their past life.
She could live a peaceful life as a little girl who only loved wood carving, buying osmanthus cake whenever she wanted and squatting by the wall to feed the raccoon dog whenever she wanted, without having to read people's expressions or pretend to be strong.
I stand atop the city wall, guarding the snowstorm of Tianxuan, holding my spear, watching the snow fall on the vast land and on the rooftops of the people, ensuring their peace and security.
She enjoys the spring in Jiangnan, while I guard the snow in Yanmen. She has a good man by her side, and I have the mountains and rivers as my witness.
That's enough.
Later, I locked that magnolia wood box at the bottom of the cabinet, and the key was attached to the jade pendant at my waist.
Each time he returned from patrolling the city, touching the words on the jade pendant felt like touching his parents' instructions, and also like touching the unspoken secret in his heart.
This is the land I protect, this is the life I want her to live.
That's enough. Really.
Later, I also told myself that two warriors who had spent half their lives wielding weapons were bound together by a tough spirit of "if you're not convinced, then show your weapons."
Even breathing sounds like the sharp whistling of a gun tip slicing through the wind; how could they not bump into each other after a while?
Just like my parents, when the old soldiers in the camp talked about them, they would stroke their beards and sigh with a smile, "What a pair of lovable treasures."
He would often study military strategy by lamplight late into the night, arguing vehemently about whether cavalry should carry three or five days' worth of rations for a flanking maneuver or whether infantry should use long or short shields for a steady assault.
The ink from the inkstone splattered all over the paper, even making the candle flame flicker. In the end, my mother slammed the military book down on the table.
"Argue again? The mutton on the stove will turn to charcoal!"
The mutton stewing on the stove was just starting to steam, and the bubbling in the casserole hadn't even settled yet when the two of them, carrying their worn-out gun barrels and knife sheaths, and wearing cloth shoes, rushed towards the training ground.
They clashed and struck each other for thirty rounds, the tip of the spear against the back of the knife. My father's clothes were torn, and my mother's shoes were covered in mud, but neither of them would admit defeat.
It wasn't until my mother feinted and knocked the tassel off my father's spear that she stood with her hands on her hips and laughed, "Are you convinced yet?"
But that's how it is; after the fight, one of them always hands over a towel soaked in cold water, wiping the sweat from the other's forehead with a hint of reproach.
One of them tugged at the other's sleeve to carefully brush off the grass clippings, then turned around and huddled together by the stove, sharing a piece of toasted, fragrant, and oily bread.
Even the crumbs of biscuit that fell on our clothes were picked up and shared. My mother would feed my father a bite, and my father would give my mother half a piece. Their affection was as sweet as honey.
They were much more enthusiastic than those who kept things to themselves, and even the guards outside the tent were amused by their enthusiasm.
But this scene is completely different from the married life I used to secretly imagine in my tent at the border.
Back then, I would stand by the campfire, polishing my gun. The shaft would be gleaming from the coarse cloth, reflecting the flickering firelight, and even the red tassel on the gun would glow warmly, brightening my heart as well.
I can't help but think that if there really were such a person, they would be able to sit under the lamp and smooth out the wrinkles on my armor.
She would sigh softly as her fingertips traced the knife marks on her nails, saying, "Be more careful next time."
When I tell her, "I lost by half a move against the barbarians today, and my shoulder armor was slashed," she will have tears in her eyes and grip my hand tightly.
He rushed off to find wound medicine, not even noticing the powder he spilled on the table.
At night, when I was on night watch at the tent entrance, she would bring me a bowl of hot soup and stand beside me to watch the stars.
Instead of me catching my breath, she rolled up her sleeves and slammed her hand on the table, saying, "Let's go! Let's fight three hundred more rounds on the training ground, and I'll knock your spear off your head and show you what real skill is!"
The tip of her gun was still covered in dust from the training ground, and the light in her eyes was brighter than a campfire.
Lying on the military couch at night, I tossed and turned. The felt blanket still carried the sand and grit from the day, making my back ache. The more I thought about it, the more I felt that perhaps a combination of a scholar and a warrior was the only truly reliable approach.
One wields a sword to guard the land, his spear pointing to mountains and rivers; the other holds a pen to govern the court, his ink flowing to the heavens and earth.
Unlike two military generals who, when they get together, even their bickering takes the air of "sparring," they're like two bristling little beasts, determined to prove who's better before they'll stop.
Ultimately, these are nothing more than self-deceptive comfort.
What's so good about it? It's obvious that I've been holding onto my feelings and dragging my feet, always going around in circles with the word "heartfelt intentions" in front of Qin Qianluo.
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