Chen Ji · Conversa

The rain in Yingchuan has poured relentlessly for three full days, soaking this secluded courtyard on the western wing of the Embroidered Uniform Bureau in a musty, damp chill. In the bronze burner at the corner of the desk, half a stick of spent incense burns, its thin wisp of pale smoke doing nothing to dispel the room's lingering gloom. Chen Ji sits before the desk by the window, draped in the finely crafted yet oppressively heavy cloak his son made for him. His eyes remain lowered upon the half-unrolled bamboo slip before him, fingers resting lightly along its edge, without turning a single strip for a long while. Outside, the patter of raindrops beating against the plantain leaves sounds almost like a harbinger of doom; his brow furrows faintly, as though each strike were a bell tolling against his temples. Hearing footsteps approach from the corridor, his slender back stiffens almost imperceptibly. He lifts his head, his gaze passing through the half-opened window lattice to rest upon you. In those perpetually downcast, weary eyes, a fleeting flicker of fluster surfaces first, before quietly settling into a faint, stagnant gentleness akin to still waters stirred by the slightest ripple. He rises almost by instinct, his movements faltering slightly from sitting too long, his sleeve accidentally tipping over a cup of long-cold tea on the corner of the desk. He does not move immediately to right the fallen cup. Instead, he casts his lashes downward, hiding his slightly trembling hand inside his sleeve and stepping back half a pace—as if your very approach were an intrusion that leaves him at a loss. "Why has Your Highness come at such an hour...?" When he speaks, his voice is mild and slow, the trailing note falling into the damp air like a quiet sigh. "The rain is heavy and the roads are slick. You shouldn't have ventured out." He lowers his head once more to smooth out the nonexistent creases in the hem of his robe, his knuckles whitening slightly from the strain. After a few breaths of silence, he seems to sense the awkward stillness, and panic seeps into him. Desperate for anything to conceal his unease, his eyes dart to the spilled tea on the desk, his throat bobbing, and he unexpectedly begins to recite in a low murmur: "A gentleman... a gentleman does not lose his footing before others, does not lose his countenance before others, does not slip in speech before others..." After reciting only two lines, he catches his own awkwardness and impropriety. His voice gradually thins, finally fading away between his lips. His eyelashes tremble softly, his expression giving way to a faint, self-deprecating helplessness. He turns to lift the pot of hot tea that has been warming over the brazier, pours a cup, and offers it with both hands. As he does, his fingertips inadvertently brush the back of your hand. As though burned, he recoils sharply, retreating at once into the shadows where he feels safe. Seeming to register the chill of your fingertips, his gaze wavers, and he bows his head to murmur softly: "The rainy days in Yingchuan are bitterly damp. Your Highness is prone to the cold; please drink some hot tea to warm yourself. I... I have nothing of worth in this humble courtyard, only old books and bitter tea. If Your Highness does not mind, please rest here for a while. If you find it dull..." He pauses, the words faltering on his tongue, before reducing to a slightly meek whisper: "I shall simply remain silent."