The Shrine and the Letter #2
I try. The analysis does not stop, but it quiets, becomes background noise rather than the primary function. She is beside me. The light is warm. The baby kicks. I feel it through our joined hands, a small percussion against my palm.
“She’s active today,” I manage.
“She’s been active all week. I think she’s trying to escape.”
“She gets that from you.”
“The escape attempts?”
“The impatience.”
She laughs, and the sound loosens something in my chest that I had not realized was tight. I have heard her laugh before, sharp with mockery, bright with victory, dark with things that should not be funny. This is different. This is easy.
“Kiss me,” she says.
I do.
Not urgently. We have done urgent, those stolen moments in palace corridors, the breathless aftermath of near-death. This is slow, deliberate, two people choosing each other with their eyes open, in full daylight, with time enough to mean it.
Her hands find my face, my shoulders, the collar she adjusted earlier on the road. I pull her closer, carefully, mindful of the curve of her stomach, the space our daughter occupies between us. She makes a sound against my mouth that I want to hear again.
We do not go further than this. Not here, not now, with the agents nearby and the day still bright. But we do not need to. The intimacy is real. Present. Enough.
When we finally separate, her forehead rests against mine. Her breathing is uneven. So is mine.
“Better,” she says.
“Better?”
“At being human.” She pulls back, grins at me. “Definite improvement.”
I should say something clever. Something measured and appropriate.
“Stay,” I say instead. Just the word. No qualifiers.
Her expression shifts into something complicated. Not surprise, exactly. Something closer to recognition. She has heard me say this before, in the dungeon, in the early days, when it was command more than request.
This is different.
“I’m here,” she says. And then, softer: “I’m still here.”
She kisses me again, brief and warm, and then settles back against my shoulder as if she has always belonged there.
Tairui returns from patrol as the shadows begin to lengthen.
He looks exhausted in the particular way of a man who has been professionally suffering, though his report is precise: perimeter secure, no signs of pursuit, the eastern approach more defensible than the western.
Ailun follows shortly after, holding a letter that has clearly just arrived via messenger bird.
“From my wife,” he says, already unfolding it.
Tairui’s eye twitches. It is a small movement, but I have learned to recognize it. We all have.
Lián sits up straighter, suddenly interested. The intimacy of moments ago shifts into something else, an audience assembling for entertainment she has clearly been anticipating.
“She writes often,” Ailun continues, scanning the page. “Very thorough correspondence. She says she’s been thinking about my return.”
“Has she,” Tairui says flatly.
“Specifically about the evening hours. She hopes I’ve maintained my stamina.” He frowns slightly. “The mountain roads are demanding. I suppose she’s concerned about fatigue.”
Tairui makes a sound. It is not quite a word.
“She mentions the bedroom needs my attention.” Ailun’s brow furrows. “Apparently the frame has been unsatisfying with the absence of my hands and my tool.” He pauses. “She has underlined ‘tool.’ Perhaps she requires my assistance with the structural integrity of the bed frame.”
“The structural—” Tairui stops. Breathes. “The structural integrity. Of the bed frame.”
“Furniture maintenance is important in a marriage.”
I glance at Lián. She is biting her lip, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.
“What else does she say?” I ask, because I find I want to know. Because this is, against all probability, genuinely entertaining.
Ailun returns to the letter. “She asks if I remember what she likes for breakfast. She’s been hungry in the mornings.” A pause. “She underlined ‘hungry’ three times. I assume we’re running low on rice.”
“Rice,” Tairui repeats. “She underlined ‘hungry’ three times and you think rice.”
“She’s very particular about meal planning.”
“She’s particular about—” Tairui’s voice cracks. He sounds like a man watching something collapse in slow motion, unable to look away.
“Oh, this is interesting.” Ailun tilts the letter toward the fading light. “She says she’s been practicing her calligraphy. Specifically the character for ‘longing.’ She wants to show me her brushwork when I return.”
Lián loses the battle. The laugh escapes, loud, startled, genuine. Ailun looks up, confused by the reaction.
“She’s always been dedicated to the arts,” he offers, as if this explains anything.
“Ailun.” Tairui’s voice has achieved a quality I can only describe as transcendent suffering. “She’s writing you THAT and you think she wants to practice calligraphy?”
“What else would she mean?”
“I am going to walk into the sea.”
“We’re nowhere near the sea.”
“I will find one.”
“You’re being dramatic.” Ailun folds the letter with careful precision. “She’s a practical woman. That’s what I appreciate about her.”
“Practical.” Tairui laughs, and there is an edge of hysteria in it. “You married—” He turns to us, desperate for allies. “Tell him. Please. Someone tell him.”
“I think the letter speaks for itself,” Lián says, grinning.
“It speaks very clearly about furniture maintenance and calligraphy practice.” I say.
“Do you have a painting?” Lián asks Ailun. “Of your wife?”
“Of course.” He produces a small portrait from his pack with the casual efficiency of a man who sees nothing unusual about carrying his wife’s image into hostile territory. “She sat for it last spring. Complained about the time, but I think she secretly enjoyed it.”
He hands it over.
Lián spits out the tea she has only just raised to her lips.
“That’s your wife?”
“Yes?” Ailun seems genuinely confused by the question. “She has been captured adequately.”
“Adequately.”
I take the painting. The woman in it is extraordinary. The kind of face that makes poets weep and artists despair of their own inadequacy. Dark eyes, elegant bone structure, a mouth curved in what might be amusement or challenge or both.
“The painter captured her organizational qualities,” Ailun offers.
“Her what.”
“She has very efficient bone structure.”
I find myself smiling. I do not attempt to stop it.