Chapter Text
Every year during Hunting season, the grandest party of the Avian Empire is held, courtesy of the Lan Owl Parliament.
Different birds from all flights of life flock to the heart of the Cloud Recesses so they may join in the revel. They ascend all the way from the greenest prairies of Lanling, the darkest deepwoods of Qinghe, and even from the embers of Qishan’s fiery valleys. Be it the peacocks and land birds of the Jin flock, with their rich colourful plumages; the falcons and eagles from the Nie flocks, with their large, kingly gaits; or the minor flocks from all throughout the skies — they all wish to partake in the revel of the biannual week-long Parliament party.
This party, as suggested by the word ‘biannual’, is divided into two within the year, wherein one celebrates the Hunt’s opening and one often celebrates an official Parliament event.
Every once in a while, the wandering Jiang passerine flock leave their current perches to attend said party.
Whenever they do, the party becomes livelier than the last, livelier as the years pass, for who could deny the beauty of these travelling birds’ songs?
When Wei Ying first attended the party, it was to attend the Crown Prince’s tenth nameday celebration. Wei Ying was merely six years old, back then, and had only recently joined the flock after Jiang-shushu found him alone and orphaned near Yiling Gorge. Jiang-shushu was the flight leader of his flock, which had also been the flock Wei Ying’s dad once belonged to.
At the young age of six, Wei Ying didn’t quite understand the value of the party just yet. He knew it was grand, important, but he couldn’t really appreciate it as he would in the future. He remembers the tall marble pillars around the large aviary, filled with windows and perches top to bottom — in the roosts, Wei Ying spotted the infamous round and dark-eyed guard owls of the Lan Parliament. Following that, there was a moment of marvel when he’d laid eyes upon the beautiful alabaster draperies covering the giant windows, as white as the feathers of the Parliament’s plumage.
He met the Emperor, then.
His Majesty Qingheng was a gentle-natured man, this much Wei Ying can recall. A true Emperor. He had this particular air of command around him. As was expected of the Emperor, of course. His wings were large and grey behind him, black-tipped, magnificent against the silver throne.
Beside His Majesty, Wei Ying remembers the beautiful woman. Her striking oval-face, her sharp golden eyes — it struck Wei Ying then that she was one of the rogue peregrine falcons before she was an Empress. Her wings, just as large as her husband’s. And her glare, though low and meek, bore into his spirit near-pleadingly.
But beneath the sharpness of her gaze was the bright comfort expected of the empire’s mother. Being Empress must be exhausting, Wei Ying thought, if she was to smile and pretend all her life.
Her Majesty gave Wei Ying and his wings a curious glance, before she looked away.
“Thank you for being here,” she spoke. She had a warm voice, Wei Ying thought. “I look forward to seeing you and your flock’s performance tonight, Flock Leader Jiang.”
“Thank you, Your Imperial Majesty,” said Jiang-shushu.
“It is my only regret that our boys could not be here to join the festivities. They are tired yet from their journey.”
His Majesty the Emperor huffed. “We have come a long way from the peaks. A-Huan wished to pay his respects for his nameday.”
A-Huan must be the Imperial Crown Prince. Wei Ying wondered how the other prince was. No one ever spoke of him.
Beside Wei Ying were Jiang Cheng and Yanli-jie, his new flock siblings. This was their third attendance in the grand party, and Wei Ying was expected to copy their every move — how Jiang Cheng bowed in front of Their Majesties, how Yanli-jie folded her wings behind her elegantly, how they kept their head low without their headdresses making noise.
Between his wings, he could feel Yu-furen’s glare, expectant. She was Jiang-shushu’s wife, the flock matriarch. She hadn’t said a word throughout Jiang-shushu’s exchange with Their Majesties, mostly because she was not expected to — Wei Ying knew one was not to speak to the Parliament Household if one was not given permission.
Afterward, the party began. By this point, Wei Ying’s memory is hazy. He remembers being silent all throughout, still new to the festivities. He remembers the eyes sent his way — he had fully black wings, and that was uncommon in the empire if not exotic for its uniqueness.
Mostly, he remembers how his flock siblings and cousins sang for the party with their sweet little trills and their melodious lyrics. Their voices filled the court and silenced the hubbub of the empire. Even the court peacocks stopped their dancing to listen.
Wei Ying was left behind to watch with Yu-furen. She was not a songbird. She was not much of a mother either.
“One day, you will sing,” she began, voice cold and sharp, rough like the barks of trees they perch upon. “You will sing and you will not humiliate our flock by singing improperly.”
“Yes, Yu-furen,” he finally spoke for the first time that evening.
“And you will not sing with them,” she added. “You will sing by yourself. You will be your own performance.”
“Yes,” he said again, “Yu-furen.”
“Look at me, boy.”
Wei Ying obeyed. She was a tall woman, her wings large and prideful behind her. When she looked at him, her gaze always carried a sort of ruefulness, a sharp-tipped anger like an arrowhead, or her feathers. He remembers the tales about her, how she’d helped win the war by assassinating their enemies with her bladed feathers. She was not a songbird, and not a mother.
“You are meant for more than singing with this flock,” she said.
Wei Ying nodded, still watching her.
“One day, you will realise this. One day, you will thank me.”
That was the first time he joined the party. The second time, he was fourteen.
Similarly, he didn’t get to appreciate the festivities, though mostly because he’d found something else to use his time with. He indulged in the drinks, the delicious, delicious food he wouldn’t otherwise find when they are travelling again. By now, everyone knew who he was.
The wily raven of the Jiang flock, their solitary songbird. He was by no means solitary at all — what a misnomer — and he in fact had surrounded himself with the swans and pheasants of the Parliament as soon as they’d arrived at the party. They fed him fruits, held cups under his chin and stroked his wings, the last to his discomfort. He only dismissed the beautiful birds once he’d found himself under Jiang Cheng’s scathing gaze.
“You’re shameless,” said his brother. “The Court expects you sober and silent during our presentation and yet not two seconds in and you’re already halfway drunk. What do I do with you?”
“Here’s a hint,” Wei Ying replied, grinning, “Leave me alone. That’s easy enough.”
“And have mother bury me alive? Absolutely not.”
He was then dragged to the centre of the aviary where other flockbirds their age would gather. There was one little falcon, Nie Huaisang, who mildly intrigued him, but in the end bored him with his awkward silence. Wei Ying then moved on to face the peacock, Jin Zixuan, but only found him face to face with Yanli-jie, deep in conversation. Wei Ying couldn’t stop them from speaking then, not when the entire aristocracy of the empire was watching and Yanli-jie seemed to be sincerely enjoying the peacock’s company. Meanwhile, Jiang Cheng was tailing under Jiang-shushu’s wing. No one would be able to back Wei Ying up if he ever tried.
What a bore, he thought, groaning outwardly. He snuck another glass of wine from a passing waiter.
The boredom didn’t last too long, after that, because he was at once running away to avoid the formal presentation. Let Yu-furen flay him with her feathers all she wants, but he doesn’t think he could endure one more second of the Parliamentary formalities.
He only entered later for his performance. His first official performance for the party, after he’d gained himself a reputation as a soloist songbird. He was rather proud of his work.
Under the spotlight, he brandished his 24-stringed lute, having already prepared a song he hoped would appease the Imperial family.
Tonight was the second prince’s fifteenth birthday, if Wei Ying could recall.
He searched the entire hall, past the marble pillars and the fluttering wings and the anticipated audience. He could see the Emperor watching from the distance, though Her Majesty the Empress’ seat was empty. Beside where she would’ve been, on a smaller throne, was a boy about Wei Ying’s age, face blurred from the distance, and his wings whiter than white, purer than the clouds and the winter rain. Golden eyes are the only thing that told Wei Ying this was the second prince — he was gifted with beauty and radiance, said the people, and was blessed a thousand times over by the omnipotent wisdom of a pure Lan owl.
Wei Ying smiled as warmly as he could. He tuned and turned the pegs of his lute, sat back on the stool. He avoided Yu-furen’s glare, or any of his flock siblings’ eyes for that matter. He only centred his attention on the straight-backed prince three-hundred feet away from him.
He opened his mouth and sang.
Somewhere over the rainbow
Way up high
There’s a land that I heard of
Once in a lullaby
Somewhere over the rainbow
Skies are blue
And the dreams that you dare to dream
Really do come true
Someday I’ll wish upon a star
And wake up where the clouds are far behind me
Where troubles melt like winter drops
Away above the winged tops
That’s where you’ll find me
Somewhere over the rainbow
Flying high
With the love that I heard of
Once in a lullaby
Somewhere over the rainbow
Bluebirds fly
Birds fly over the rainbow
Why, then, oh, why can’t I?
He finished his song and smiled, releasing the lute’s fingerboard.
Afterwards, he basked in the wild applause of his audience. He stood and bowed, and accepted the flowers held out to him, the feathers offered to him, bunching his gifts into bouquets of joyous revelry.
How exhilarating, this attention!
He would enjoy this forever if he could — he was gonna savour it as much as he could, because their flock would not land near the Cloud Recesses for many years onward.
But when he looked back at the throne, the second prince’s silver seat was empty.
The parties continued after that. Year by year, twice a year, the capital would celebrate. Clouds in the sky would sing, rain ceased to fall. In all those following years, Wei Ying never did manage to return to the party, even when he’d also sung for the Hunt. He couldn’t find himself wanting for such, despite his siblings, Jiang-shushu, or even Yu-furen’s demands that he go with them.
Sure, he enjoyed the court’s liveliness once he had performed, the exaltation his wealthy audience would grant his voice. But he quite liked the countryside solitude more, liked singing his rowdy songs in shabby pubs and spreading his charcoal wings for the wilder crowd. At least these birds could appreciate his presence, appreciated him for him. Those in court either liked him for the exotica of his plumage, or hated him for it — never mind his songs.
Year after year passed and he continued to travel, singing over the treetops and beneath the willows. He avoided Qishan as much as he could — he wouldn’t survive there now that he was without his flock — and stayed around the silver springs beneath Cloud Recesses, especially in Caiyi Town where he was needed most.
One day, word spread of the Emperor and Empress’ deaths — assassinated, they said, by filthy vultures — and more word of the Crown Prince’s abdication in favour of leading the Trials. It made sense, then, that the second prince ascended the throne as the new Emperor.
For the second time since its birth, Wei Ying sang ‘Over The Rainbow’ for the empire. For their new Emperor. Broadcasted through the airborne channels, his voice resonated through the clouds and the leaves and the breeze— and he loved it. He truly loved it.
It was a shame, thus, when he was asked to return to Jiang-shushu’s flock a couple years later. When he’d at last embraced his flock siblings and cousins’ violet plumage for the first time in years, he smelled in them the scent of exhaustion and salt.
When he saw Jiang-shushu again after so many years, he saw in his stead a tired man, face gaunt and eyes dark, wings floored and hanging limply from his back. Yu-furen was as stern as ever, but she too had lost her bite.
“We will settle down here in Lotus Pier,” declared Jiang-shushu. “Our flock is evidently well-suited to Yunmeng’s vibrance, the perches beautiful and amenable. I am sure the rest of you are also tired.”
He was right, of course. His flock of songbirds and passerines had not made themselves a proper home since the war’s end. They were all tired, and Wei Ying saw it.
“I am to retire with my wife in the willows,” Jiang-shushu announced next. He was only met with a sombre silence. They understood why it must be.
Yu-furen tucked her wing around her husband’s tired shoulders, the other around her son’s. “A-Cheng will lead this flock from now on.”
“We have gained the permission of the Imperial Family to own the entire Yunmeng territory,” said Jiang-shushu.
This was a marvellous feat, really. Yunmeng was closest to the Groundlands, surrounded at the lowest isles of the skybound empire. Ponds with water falling directly toward the Groundlands’ oceans, and mists below that protected it from the Groundlands’ erosion. Its isles were separated, heavenly, large and spread out beautifully. Lotuses and plants filled the grass and the lakes, willows that hid just beneath the floor of Qinghe’s floating realms. The trees were filled with branches and hollows they could make themselves at home in.
It could not have come at a cheap price. And although the Jiang flock was considered one of the wealthiest, it was still incomparable to the wealth of Yunmeng’s entirety. They were travelling songbirds, not court performers. How could they afford the land?
It was then that Jiang-shushu’s gaze landed on Wei Ying, perched atop a mahogany branch.
“A-Ying,” he called.
Wei Ying flew down and landed in front of his uncle. “Jiang-shushu,” he said, curtsying.
Jiang-shushu smiled, and Wei Ying heard Jiang Cheng snort somewhere to the side. When Wei Ying stood up again, he found a sadness beneath Jiang-shushu’s smile. He began to worry.
“His Majesty Wangji is most generous, and he has offered us the land at…a certain cost.”
Wei Ying did not like the sound of this.
“He did not ask us for our money, or our livelihood.”
Yu-furen sighed, tired. “And I refused to offer our birds as court performers. They’re tired.”
Wei Ying nodded. “What is expected of me, then?” he asked.
Jiang-shushu’s smile fell, saddened. “His Majesty asked for you, A-Ying.”
“Me?” Wei Ying echoed, incredulous. “Does he want me to sing for him in court?”
He knew he was impressive but he couldn’t be that impressive. Could it have been the empire-wide broadcast of the song he’d sung for His Majesty all those years ago?
Jiang-shushu shook his head. Then, he nodded at the other birds, to which they bid their farewells and flew off to retire to their new perches. Yu-furen led her children away as well, but when Wei Ying looked, he saw the shared sorrow in his flock siblings’ faces.
Wei Ying’s dread heightened and he looked back to his uncle. “What is it?”
Finally, Jiang-shushu sighed.
“He asked for your wing in marriage…as his Empress.”
Wei Ying makes himself at home in his new perch and bids his farewell to it all on the same day. He sits in front of the vanity and hums while he brushes his hair.
In the next second, a flock of little doves come trotting in to help him into his wedding clothes.
“This is too much,” he says to Yanli-jie, who has arrived at the doorway, sadness in her eyes.
She shakes her head. “No, no. It’s not even close to being enough. His Majesty expects the best of all of us and my little A-Ying only deserves the best.”
She comes in and helps the doves to prepare him. She is the only one bold enough to refer to him as ‘little’, given his ripe age of twenty and his already tall stature. But as he sits in front of the mirror and lets her fix his hair up into a beautiful bun, he realises that perhaps he does feel little. Too little to be married. Too little to be an Empress.
They allow the warm spring water to flow into his bathtub, then they help him out of his travel clothes. He is shy about having Yanli-jie there to see him naked, but she insists on assisting him for this part. She is his sister, before all else, and she will help him through the preparations no matter what. She demands a bath of milk that her and her doves lather onto his skin, then she requests blackberry oil to soften and shine his wings.
“You would look beautiful as Empress, A-Ying. Fret not,” she reassures him. “Your wings of black next to His Majesty’s pure white. What a beautiful sight to behold.”
She sighs, dreamy, while Wei Ying cannot imagine it. He hasn’t seen His Majesty the Emperor before — at least not in their current age, never in person — and pictures only a tall blot beside him on the silver throne, representative of a golden-eyed snowy-owl-winged man.
They oil his hair and rub with shea butters his elbows, his knees, his forearms, his wingtips and his wingpeaks over his scapula. He flusters when they rub between his inner thighs and extricate his entire body minus his head of hair.
“It’s permanent,” they tell him. He feels too happy about this more than he should.
Once he is done bathing, they help him into a set of robes which he shall wear to the Cloud Recesses. It is adorned with rubies and silver, the fabric made of soft cotton like clouds over his reformed skin.
“Your wedding clothes will be grander,” Yanli-jie informs him. “Your future husband has made sure to see to it.”
“Have you met him before?” he asks her.
“Oh, not personally. We haven’t shared a conversation. But Zixuan is in His Majesty’s court, as you know, and I have encountered His Majesty many times before.”
Wei Ying scowls at the reminder of his sister’s marriage to the peacock. “Is he good-looking?” he asks her next. He knows the answer. Has known all his life.
She smiles, teasing. “Very.”
A silver lining, Wei Ying thinks.
When it is time to travel, he is squeezed into a carriage led by their strongest sparrows. As if he cannot fly himself. He actually laughs at the sight of it, how it resembles those wooden cages often used by chick traffickers. Except this one is bedecked with silver and irises and curtains that tell him it is a gift from the palace. But he accepts it anyway, lets Jiang-shushu hold his hand through it as, perhaps, a form of comfort.
He is then left alone inside the carriage with no one to talk to.
So he sings. He brushes the feathers of his wings and he sings. He opens the windows and he sings. He hugs himself as the sparrows begin their flight and he sings. Throughout their time airborne, whistling through the passages and tunnels of the skybound empire, he sings and sings and tries not to think of the life that awaits him in the Cloud Recesses.
His carriage breaks through the clouds below Gusu, and finally they are ascending up the summit. Through the window, he spots the familiar sapphire blue streams of Caiyi Town, hardwood dovecotes littering the systems of floating isles. He almost jumps out the window then, to make his escape while there is still a chance. But there must surely be a Parliamentary decree by now, and any bird wise would immediately hand him over to the palace as soon as they see him.
He sighs and says goodbye forever to the pubs he once frequented. May his songs live evermore in those patrons’ hearts.
“We are arriving,” says a sparrow from outside.
Wei Ying knocks on the carriage. “What were Jiang-shushu’s orders to you guys? Are you gonna accompany me inside?”
“No,” the same sparrow tells him. “Flock Leader Jiang Cheng will be the one to accompany you.”
“Jiang Cheng?” He’s here?
“He will follow soon.”
The carriage soon passes through the wind current that takes them to the Cloud Recesses. He grapples onto the edge of the window and tucks his wings close, the carriage jostling and swaying in the breeze. He squeezes his eyes shut and prays for the sparrows.
At last the turbulence ends and he checks himself with the mirror Yanli-jie gave him. His hair is fine, still in the curly updo his doves had fashioned, and the bronze flower headdress perched atop his crown is still intact. He shakes his wings and ruffles them clean.
Finally, the air barrier disappears around the carriage, and the sparrows touch ground. He sighs and braces himself.
The one who opens his carriage door is Jiang Cheng, standing there all stoic and sullen, his black-purple wings glossy under the skylight. He offers a hand out to Wei Ying.
Wei Ying glares at the hand, then walks out the carriage himself. “Glad to see you here,” he murmurs.
“Glad to be here,” Jiang Cheng replies, just as low, just as sardonic.
They have landed in the Cloud Recesses courtyard, with its tall marble pillars and the marble-winged guards hidden within the marble roosts. Clouds soften the otherwise sharp sterility of the palace, hugging the tall spires awaiting them in the distance and lightening the darkness of the exosphere above. From here, Wei Ying can see stars upon stars, and it almost distracts him from the itch of his ruby-inlaid robes and the magnificence of his new home just beyond.
“You good?” Jiang Cheng asks, suddenly.
Wei Ying snorts. “Describe ‘good’.”
“Don’t do that again,” says his brother, chiding.
“Do what?”
“Snort. And sarcasm. It’s unbecoming of you as an Empress.”
“I’m not married yet,” Wei Ying replies, all too bitter.
If Jiang Cheng has a retort, he doesn’t hear it.
From the distant sky, there descends a flock of white, their roughly feathered wings flapping behind them. When they land in front of Wei Ying and Jiang Cheng, the former notices the uniform white of their robes, the pristine purity in their elegant gait.
They lower to their knees in one smooth motion. “Your Majesty,” they greet in unison.
“Stand.” Wei Ying doesn’t know how he did it, only that he did. And they obey, wings gliding off the alabaster ground.
“We are here to escort the Empress to the palace. Flock Elder Lan Qiren awaits Your Majesty’s presence.”
Wei Ying steels himself, breathes in carefully. He looks to Jiang Cheng, but his brother is gazing forward, dead set on ignoring Wei Ying until forever apparently. He reaches out for his brother’s arm, and Jiang Cheng — bless him — extends it for Wei Ying to hold.
This encourages a smile out of Wei Ying. “Please do,” he tells the escorts.
They are round-eyed when they lift their heads to see him, owlish and…well, owlish. They are owls, after all. The entire Lan flock is full of owls.
They lead their little processional through the cloud-embraced pathway, silent. Wei Ying takes the time to study his new habitat.
Cloud Recesses truly is a work of art, elegant and beautiful. The Lan flock are wealthiest because of their omniscience, their wisdom, and wisdom is but an Emperor and his empire’s greatest strength.
Some say that within those tall spires ahead of Wei Ying’s procession are the bountiful vaults of the Lan family — neither full of treasure nor riches, but of books and all the knowledge the world has to offer. Because of this, Wei Ying is somewhat less hesitant to enter the palace. He loves to learn, and loves to read. Perhaps he can spend his time exhausting those libraries. What else is expected of him as an Empress anyway, if not to stand in his Emperor’s wing and do nothing? He can at least read a book while he is at it.
Cloud Recesses’ heavenly palace looms larger as they near it, and Wei Ying finally finds himself led into the largest tower there is. It is the same hall where the biannual parties are held, with its glass dome roofs and the aviary perches and the large silver throne. Two silver thrones, he notices. He can also see little owls fluttering about up above them.
“Stop gawking,” Jiang Cheng mutters beside him, pinching his hand.
Wei Ying hisses. “Bodily harming your Empress is punishable by death.” He thinks. It sounds plausible.
Jiang Cheng merely rolls his eyes, the brat. “You aren’t married yet.”
“Talking back to your elders now, I see!”
The escorts stop walking. Suddenly, they spread out and disappear into different directions, different corridors, until only one is left. This owl turns to Wei Ying, smiling gently.
“Please follow me, Your Majesty,” he says. He glances at Jiang Cheng. “Flock Leader Jiang is requested in the Emperor’s court.”
Wei Ying turns to his brother, sees him nod. “I’ll be there,” Jiang Cheng says.
The escort leads Wei Ying to an empty corridor. Here, the ceilings are lower though still considerably high, vines and flowers crawling up the walls. If Wei Ying squints, he can just make out the subtle carvings in the beige cement walls. They are clouds, the carvings.
“In here, please.”
Wei Ying is escorted into a large room. He looks around, waits. Tall windows, alabaster drapes. Wow, is that a mural of a vulture feasting on a dove? Horrifying. There is a large tub in the centre of the room, which makes him dread. Beside the tub there are various bottles and tools, all of which he cannot discern. Beside those, there is a rack of what appears to be garments in all shades of white and maybe-white. Oh my heavens, are those diamonds on those shoes? Why would you put diamonds on shoes?
The door opens again.
He turns and sees a tall, bearded man marching into the room, wings large behind him. With him are a dozen women waiting on his back. He stops in front of Wei Ying, eyes narrow.
“Wei Ying?” he asks. Demands, really.
Said Wei Ying curtseys. “Your Highness.” Heavens, his knees are dying.
“Rise.”
Wei Ying does.
This must be Lan Qiren. He certainly looks like it. The long goatee, the infamous scowl, the wings that resemble the Emperor’s — or what Wei Ying can remember of it anyway.
Lan Qiren’s glare rakes over Wei Ying, hard and appraising. Judgemental.
“Wings open,” he barks out.
Wei Ying’s lips thin with displeasure but he obeys, smoothly spreading out his wings. He sees the scowl on the old owl’s face darkening by the second, the curl of disgust on his lips. Well, rude. Wei Ying plasters a smile. Lan Qiren’s scowl only deepens even more.
“Strip,” the old owl orders next.
Oh wow, how bold, Wei Ying thinks, mildly shocked. Is that why there’s a tub?
He carefully undoes his robes’ sash, then lets the fabric slide down the rest of the way. Do it elegantly, he reminds himself. Fake it until you make it. He removes his trousers next and shimmies it downward, until all his clothes have pooled on the floor. The more of his clothes are removed, the closer his wings tuck into himself, subconsciously covering his body.
Lan Qiren hums disapprovingly. “Your hips are too narrow. Your ribs are showing.” He turns around Wei Ying, moves his wing upward. “Your feathers need a proper cleaning. Wangji does not like blackberries. We will assign you a proper diet to help with your figure.”
Wei Ying tries to hide his bemusement. “Yes, Your Highness,” he only replies. When can I see my husband, he does not ask. Instead what comes out is, “Might I ask for suggestions? Instead of blueberries, what shall I use?”
“Sandalwood, full body,” Lan Qiren says, which, truthfully, is very nice of him. The old owl turns until he is standing in front of Wei Ying again, a foot’s distance between them.
“Open wide.”
Wei Ying opens his mouth obediently.
“Front teeth.”
Wei Ying grins.
“Hmm, good. Show me your arms.”
Wei Ying does.
“You need a good scrub. Full body.” Wei Ying is beginning to think the owl is actually talking to the servants behind him.
“Quit your terrible habits, boy,” says Lan Qiren lastly, Wei Ying’s hand in his, surprisingly gentle. He is glaring at the uniform abrasions on Wei Ying’s knuckles. “You are a songbird, are you not? Those habits will one day damage your throat. Do you wish to inhibit your ability to sing?”
“No, Your Highness,” replies Wei Ying. This is the only advice he might actually sincerely heed.
“Good.” Lan Qiren turns to the servants. “See to it that he is properly cared for.”
Even as Lan Qiren leaves, Wei Ying doesn’t yet relax. He gently steps out of his pooled garments and waits for the servants to move. When they do, they lead him to the tub and put away his discarded clothes. There is water in the tub, blue as sapphire, cold as silver. Violet petals float on the water and he takes a moment to cup his hands underneath, suctioning the flowers into his hands.
The servants smile at his antics but they say nothing. They pour the bottles’ contents into the water and Wei Ying suddenly inhales the mixture of wood and something faintly sweet.
“Is that vanilla?” he asks them.
It sure smells like vanilla. Only the richest of the rich can afford pure vanilla, that strong velvety musk.
They nod and rinse his limbs with it.
Later, he walks out the tub feeling like a wet rag. His hands are quick to prune and he has poor heat regulation. Luckily, the servants are rather perceptive, and they carefully put a silk robe around him. When they notice he is utterly hairless, they smile approvingly and go on lathering some sort of cream across his skin.
“What’s this for?”
It smells like sandalwood — just as the Emperor likes. Apparently. The first thing Wei Ying has learnt about him today and it isn’t even from the man himself.
“For Your Majesty’s scars,” they answer.
“Huh.”
It feels good. Everything about the palace feels and smells and looks good. Is this really happening to him? He still cannot believe he’s getting married in a day.
“What’s he like?” he asks them, suddenly.
They remain silent. They fuss over his toes, his fingers, his neck, his wings. It’s rather strange having strangers touch him like this; he is used to the doves at home, not these birds. He shudders when they reach between his buttocks and the back of his thighs. Is this truly necessary?
“Is he ugly?” he asks them.
He knows the Emperor cannot be ugly. Even he wrote a song about the Emperor’s supposed beauty. Many songs. The ladies in the bars loved it.
“Is he cruel?” he asks the servants next.
They falter, momentarily, then continue with their work.
He must be cruel for them to react like so, Wei Ying deduces. He sincerely hopes he is wrong.
Finally, they retreat, helping him into a clean and regal (but still simplistic, as expected of the Lan) set of robes. When he is fully ready, they leave, and the escort from earlier returns.
“Follow me to your personal chambers, Your Majesty. Your brother is waiting there.”
Wei Ying’s personal chambers are not far from here, just down the corridor. It is huge, though nothing he isn’t used to from those times he has spent leeching off Jin Zixuan’s wealth whenever he came to visit jiejie.
Jiang Cheng is sitting cross-legged on a chair next to the bed, looking majorly displeased. When Wei Ying enters, he stands and bows.
Wei Ying groans. “Ugh, stop. I’m gonna break out into hives.”
“Please don’t, you have a wedding tomorrow,” Jiang Cheng replies, rising from the bow. He sits back down. “His Majesty is pleased with the arrangements.”
“Glad to know someone is happy about this, at least,” Wei Ying easily retorts.
He flops down the bed and lies down. He tries not to spread into a star — it’s good practice for when he is finally throned.
“Aren’t you?” Jiang Cheng’s brow arches. “Haven’t you been wanting this for…what? A decade?”
“Shut up.” Wei Ying’s cheeks burn with embarrassment. “No, I didn’t.”
“He seems like a good man,” Jiang Cheng says.
Wei Ying hums, nonplussed. “Is he interesting?”
“Not really, no.”
“Is he good at conversation?”
“Far from it.”
“Does he seem like he’d enjoy it if I sing?” Wei Ying asks, this time sincerely concerned.
Jiang Cheng must notice this, because he thinks long and hard for an answer. Then, “He needs to be. No one can stop you from singing. Even if it were the Emperor. Especially if it were the Emperor. You’ve always wanted to sing for him.”
This time, Wei Ying breaks out a real smile.
“You’re right.”
As soon as Wei Ying falls into a long nap, Jiang Cheng leaves and returns to Yunmeng. Wei Ying only wakes up several hours later when there is a knock on the door. He sits up, rubbing his eyes in the darkness. He isn’t surprised to find his brother gone but he does feel disappointed.
“Come in,” he calls out, voice hoarse.
Lan Qiren enters and light floods into the room. Suddenly, Wei Ying wishes he hadn’t woken up at all.
“Up,” orders the old owl.
His wings rustle as he enters the room, flicking on the chandeliers and then rummaging through the wardrobe perpendicular to the bed. All throughout Lan Qiren’s still-strange behaviour, Wei Ying remains sitting on the bed, bleary-eyed and half-asleep.
Lan Qiren has managed to acquire a full set of robes and throws them to the servants. “Dress him,” he says.
The servants wait for Wei Ying to stand.
When Wei Ying finally does, he lightly groans and takes the clothes from them. He doesn’t need their assistance — he’s sleepy, not crippled — and puts on the clothes himself. They’re a beautiful lace-hemmed set, the beige warm and vibrant over his skin. It feels soft. Really soft. They feel like nightclothes, more than anything. He wants to sleep in them.
“You will be having dinner here, in your room. You cannot meet His Majesty yet until the wedding. I will order the attendants to bring you some reading material.” Lan Qiren is carefully not meeting Wei Ying’s eyes as he speaks.
“Reading material?” Wei Ying echoes. He fixes his hair into a loose braid, plaits it over his shoulder. “What sort of reading material?”
“For your marital duties. You are…expected to fulfill what is required of you as the Emperor’s husband.” Lan Qiren sounds unsure.
Wei Ying grins, teasingly. “Do you believe I can bear children?”
“No,” Lan Qiren replies, disappointment evident. “Not as you are now. We shall scour the libraries for methods.”
“What methods?”
“To grant you fertility.”
Wei Ying’s eyebrows shoot up. “You truly wish for me to conceive?”
“His Majesty needs heirs,” Lan Qiren answers. “Legitimate heirs. Purebred.”
“I cannot get pregnant, Your Highness, I’m a male at birth,” Wei Ying points out what is clearly obvious. “I do not have the faculties to bear heirs.”
“We will make you have faculties.”
I pray you are unsuccessful, Wei Ying thinks, dismayed. He catches sight of his own feathers, fluttering darkly in the warm chandelier light. Lan Qiren’s gaze flickers down to his wings as well.
“I hope you know I did not approve of this,” says Lan Qiren.
Wei Ying knew this, of course, but it feels strangely painful to have it confirmed. What does it matter to Wei Ying, anyway? He already knows this.
“If so, why am I marrying your nephew tomorrow, then?” Wei Ying asks. He remembers to sit down and does so, sits as primly as he can manage.
Lan Qiren huffs. “His Majesty insisted on it.”
“He did?” Wei Ying is surprised. He did not think His Majesty knew of him.
“Wangji has his reasons, I am certain,” Lan Qiren replies, firm. “And he is ‘His Majesty the Emperor Wangji’ to you, since you are not yet married. Do not defer to him otherwise.”
“I only said he was your nephew,” Wei Ying says, smiling. “Is he not your nephew?”
Lan Qiren’s brows meet, dark. Then he harrumphs and leaves the bedroom, as abrupt as his entry.
Not long later, attendants bring him his dinner, with two others carrying stacks of books. Wei Ying’s eyes widen at the books. Is he meant to read them all tonight?
He looks down at dinner and masks his disappointment. It is some sort of fish broth, with a ton of vegetables and an absence of spice. He tries it, then thanks the milky fish meat for some flavour.
When he is done with his dinner, he goes to the ensuite bathroom to brush his teeth while they take away the dishes. The bathroom is just as grandly minimalistic. He wonders how the Lan manage it, but it’s so bland it has become appealing to him. He brushes his teeth and checks the bathtub.
Those same bottles and soaps he had used earlier are laid out next to the tub, with baskets of flower petals whose scents he cannot get enough of. He leaves the bathing for tomorrow morning, realising he has already been scrubbed twice today.
He checks out the books. They’re rather boring, to be honest. Endless instructions about his responsibilities as Empress, his duties. Apparently, he is to manage the household, though it says he can apply the assistance of a ‘Parliamentary Chamberlain’ (whatever that is) if he so wishes.
It also says here that he is in charge of social events and diplomatic efforts, basically socialising with the general public, and everything else one needs to rule the empire and its society without managing the technicalities. Smile and look pretty. Be the role model. Everything else — economical and political — shall be the Emperor and his court’s to handle.
Those biannual parties…
Wei Ying wonders about those parties, oftentimes more than he wants to.
Ever since the former Empress died, the parties have been different — or so they say. They are apparently not as lavish, not as rambunctious. Before, the parties had purpose; Her Majesty the Empress was the wild type who enjoyed seeing oddities and pleasures in spite of her husband’s refutals. Some say this fact has driven a wedge in their marriage, some say she was a simple woman — though anyone who has met her personally will say she is far from simple. Wei Ying still remembers the sharpness of her gaze. But those parties should have ended with her death.
And yet, even after his mother’s death, Emperor Lan Wangji held them biannually anyway. The party for the Hunt is understandable — it is the Hunt — but the one for the Parliament’s pleasure is more or less optional.
Wei Ying is starting to believe that perhaps this is why Lan Wangji is so intent on marrying him. So that someone else can handle those parties. It would be a shame to stop them altogether, after all. Such is the way of tradition.
He wishes, suddenly, that he attended more of them before. If he truly was to host them in the near future, then he could’ve applied what he has learned from previous parties. But he hasn’t joined a single one at all, not since the second prince’s — the current Emperor — fifteenth nameday.
Groaning, he moves to another book and this time finds it a lot more intriguing than the one before it. It discusses his true marital duties. Evening duties, so to speak.
Wei Ying hopes he does not have to bear an heir, and yet wishes he could raise fledgelings of his own too. Although, pregnancy sounds rather terrifying.
But he reads the concepts in the book, the suggestions, the instructions, the visual representations of their husbandly activities — his cheeks burn when he sees the various positions, stomach curling hotly when he imagines himself and the Emperor in their place — and he wishes he can enjoy it.
Heavens, he wants to enjoy it. Enjoy this, at least, while the other aspects of his marriage are surely bound to crumble. He hasn’t had sex before, and it’s a strange notion to think that his first would be His Majesty the Emperor. More than all else, he only hopes he is treated well.
With these hopes, he falls asleep on the carpet hugging the book and dreaming of little amber-eyed owls.