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"Forty-five."
The leather is ripping and so is his skin.
"Eighty-three."
He coughs up blood, staring at the dark pool after it splatters on the ground.
"Ninety-four."
It goes from sting to pain to fire. He wonders how much pain a human can take before he dies from agony.
"One hundred one."
How many more? He can't remember. He can't remember anything except the sound of the snap of the lash as it strikes against his back.
"One hundred eight."
He tenses for the next blow, but it does not come. What is happening?
After a moment he tries to move and fails. His hair hangs in strands around his face, and Xie Zheng falls onto his forearms. Everything hurts: his shoulders, his knees, his head pounds, his teeth ache. But it is nothing compared to the screaming that comes from his back.
Vaguely he is aware he is being watched; his instincts as a fighter have not abandoned him completely. But there is no way he could fight right now, so if his uncle decides this is the perfect time to get rid of his ungrateful nephew, there is little Xie Zheng can do.
At least he will die in front of his parents.
"Xie Zheng!"
His mother's voice, raw and beautiful. He looks up through watery vision and the candles on the shelf swim. His head spins, dizziness making him sink lower to the ground. "Xie Zheng!" she says again, and he tries to reach out.
The effort is too much. He collapses, consciousness slipping away as her hands grip him. His name again, a whimper this time, and through his hair he sees his mother kneeling over him. Soft and elegant. His heart tightens.
…
He hears voices. They are hushed as if whispering, and he wishes they would speak up so he can understand. But then his body is on fire, and as a cool hand presses to his fevered face he slips back into unconsciousness.
…
"…the worst of it."
"But when will the bleeding stop?"
"It's slowed enough. The bleeding does not worry me. Any infection will kill him."
"I won't let that happen."
…
The candles are soft. He is on his stomach, and it feels as if he has not moved his limbs in weeks, months maybe. What happened?
When he had been ambushed, the arrow hitting his shoulder and his body covered in slices, he had felt everything. The pain was bitter, keeping him moving, willing him to keep breathing and moving and motivating him not to die. Even when dragged away, he fought against the blackness, sinking into his injuries to find himself.
He must be injured again, but how? His brows draw in as he tries to think, but thinking is too hard. He is thirsty, and he needs to urinate. He needs to move.
"Don't move!"
His mother's voice stops him. That's right, she had been there: and it comes back, the kneeling and the argument, the rocks under his hands and the searing whip against his back. It comes back, and so does the pain.
"Yan Zheng, don't—"
It's too late. He turns his head and vomits.
…
Something soft brushes his face. He opens one eye, wondering if his mother is there. But it is Changyu.
At first, fear grips him. A new, uncomfortable feeling. The Marquis of Wu'an fears no man, and that includes the emperor. He does not fear death or the death of his men. He does not fear making mistakes, because he makes none.
But since meeting Changyu, fear has crept into his life like an unwanted companion. Fear for her, and little Changning, and Lin'an.
There are soldiers. They are waiting for him to fall, and on his uncle's command they are going to kill him. What is she doing here? She will fight, he knows she will, and a new reason to fear has him groaning. She has to get out of there.
"Yan Zheng? Yan Zheng, it's okay. I'm here."
She's here, but she needs to go, but he can't move.
"Shh. You're safe."
Something brushes a tear away. His vision clears a bit and he finds Changyu sitting next to him, stroking his cheek. Pain flares somewhere, it's hard to say where. It seems to be everywhere. He has so much to ask, but first—
"Wei Yan."
His voice surprises him. It comes out like a croak. How long has he been here?
"Shh."
"Danger."
"No. You're safe. We're safe."
He winces. "Where?"
"We're in the capital. At my mansion." She presses a hand to his forehead. "You should be resting."
"How long?"
Changyu shakes her head. "Two days."
Two days, like this? How humiliating.
…
It is two more days before he remembers again. He had been dreaming of flowing robes and soft petals and the scent of sweet osmanthus. It fills his senses as he drifts back to life.
When his eyes open this time, Changyu is asleep. Her head rests on the mattress under tucked arms, her legs curled up to the side. A mixture of guilt and fondness fills his stomach. She has been caring for him all this time. Has she eaten? Has she rested?
He takes a deep breath. The scent of osmanthus, of his mother, clears, replaced with lavender and sage. And her, the soap she uses to wash her hair. The long, dark hair that falls in thick waves down her back. In Lin'an, he would watch her wash it, wringing it out meticulously over the bucket before combing through. He was still injured so he would count the strokes to himself as something to do. Changyu would think he was sleeping, her back turned to him. But rhythm of the combing and her quiet humming would lull him into a half daze.
That is what he likes best about Changyu. She is effortlessly beautiful. So unlike the powdered and perfumed ladies he usually encountered. All he wanted was her soft hair and the smell of good soap.
He moves his arm cautiously, wanting to touch her. The experiment fails spectacularly as pain sears across his back and down to his fingers. Xie Zheng sucks in a breath, and it wakes her.
"Oh Yan Zheng," she breathes, sitting up quickly. "Don't move."
"Changyu." He swallows thickly. "Have you been here all this time?"
Her face softens. "Of course, where else would I be? Try not to move. I'll get the doctor."
"No." Xie Zheng clears his throat. "Just let me… Just tell me. What is happening?"
She looks nervous, but to his relief sinks to sit again. "You've been here a few days. Do you remember being in your uncle's mansion?"
"Yes." Xie Zheng sighs.
"Does it hurt?"
He assesses. It hurts terribly, but the burning has subsided. Now it's just a dull throb that threatens to take his breath away. "Is it bad?"
"Not that bad." She is a terrible liar.
He doesn't know what to say. He needs his generals, get an update on the army and the court. Has the emperor learned he is there? Surely he must have, which means trouble is coming. He has to get up and move.
"Wait here. And if you move, I'll stab you."
Well, that settles that.
…
It is difficult to be a patient. Xie Zheng spends much of his time sleeping, which the doctors assure him is normal and natural and needed for this kind of injury. It will take ten days before he can stand, they say. But the Marquis of Wu'an does not sleep for days on end, so it feels like a failure. He should be able to do in three days what a normal man does in ten.
He isn't typically awake for the dressing changes, but sometimes he is. It is agony feeling the strips pulling away, sometimes sticky with his blood. Then the washing, gentle and soft but still torture. Nothing they do makes any difference. His world is nothing but sleep and pain.
Sometimes it feels as though there is a boulder on his back. He tries to take a deep breath and when that fails, he gets angry.
He imagines what he must look like. The generals come to give reports more regularly now, and Changyu pulls up the blankets at his insistence even though it makes his skin hot and itchy. He doesn't want them to see the mess of flesh or picture the mass of scarring that will replace it. He doesn't want them to know he is in misery.
It is demeaning to be like this. Humiliation is his constant companion. Changyu must spoon feed him like a child, the doctors must change his dressings, the servants must change his bottom clothes.
Had his uncle known? When he handed out such a punishment, did he know it would continue for two more weeks, and beyond? The doctors warn him about using a weapon after this. Three months they say before he can ride a horse. How can he lead his men without a horse? Is he to give commands from a carriage? Maybe this was the plan, to cripple him enough that he loses his position and allows the prime minister to be unrivaled completely.
An angry tear falls down his cheek. Wei Yan had to have known. One hundred and eight lashes are enough to kill, but Xie Zheng is—was—a healthy young man wearing a thick leather coat. It wouldn't kill him, no, but there are worse things.
He knows the whip he had used. Xie Zheng had been on the receiving end before, a bit of misbehavior or slacking at his lessons gaining the attention of his uncle. The punishments were quick, though. No more than a handful of strikes.
He doesn't remember if his father ever hit him. Xie Zheng prefers to think he had not.
"Here." Changyu presses a cup to his lips, and Xie Zheng drinks eagerly. He sighs and lays his head back down.
"Are you okay?" Another tear drips down his nose, and his disgrace is complete.
"Xie Zheng!" Her lips press to his temple. "Please don't be upset."
"I'm not," he says. "I'm angry."
"Oh. Well. That's fine." She sets the cup down and sits on the chair that has been left by the bed. "I'm angry too."
Xie Zheng's mouth twitches. "Are you angry with me again?"
"What? You? No!" She folds her arms. "Wei Yan. When I get my hands on him—"
The thought of her gutting his uncle like one of her pigs makes him to laugh, and laughter hurts. "Changyu," he winces.
"Well, it's true. I'd like to turn that whip on him."
Xie Zheng sighs. "It was punishment."
"It was cruel." She picks at a thread on her dress. "I mean, what is the point? You're a grown man. He just wanted to humiliate you."
It makes him smile to know she understands that much. "It's not the first beating I've gotten from my uncle," he murmurs. Changyu looks at him in surprise and he raises his brows. "What? Didn't you ever misbehave as a child?"
"A child? You mean, he…" Changyu shakes her head vigorously. "A swat on the bottom, maybe. But my parents never used a switch."
That hangs in the air between them for several minutes. Xie Zheng tries to picture Changning in trouble, and someone hitting her. Xie Zheng would take their hand.
He will never hit his children, ever.
…
The hours tick by interminably. His generals bring him intelligence reports and he gives his instructions, but little else happens. He trusts them to follow his orders and he knows he must be patient but the waiting is almost as bad as the pain. At least he is used to pain now.
Gongsun Yin comes to visit him once. He allows that even as he has refused all other visitors. His friend looks him over with pursed lips and Xie Zheng can't help but roll his eyes. "Yes, I know," he mutters.
"Well at least you're not dead," comes the reply.
They speak for hours, sometimes joined by Changyu, once interrupted by Xie Wu. It sounds as though the entire city knows he is there, an open secret that is sure to bring trouble. "There is much gossip about you and the lady," Gongsun Yin says with a chuckle.
"What is there to gossip about?" Xie Zheng grumbles.
"You're staying at a lady's home without a chaperone."
"My wife's home."
"Yes, but no one knows that, do they?"
He can't stand the thought of Changyu being on the receiving end of some crude remarks. In the hours that stretch on, he starts to plan their wedding. Yes, he knows they had one already, but that was as Yan Zheng. This time he will marry her as himself, in front of the gods and the kingdom.
He realizes how little he knows about weddings.
…
The days are filled with the most boring sensations.
Food is nothing more than soups and the occasional soft vegetables, cooked to almost nothing. The doctors say he could choke if he ate meat, so Changyu keeps a strict eye on his diet. He doesn't mind that much because she feeds him by hand.
The breeze through the window brushes against his back. His hair pools around him until Changyu wraps it up into a thick bun on his head. The robes are warm and the bed beneath him is starting to get uncomfortable. He can feel pressure points on his hips.
The boredom threatens almost as much as the injury. There is little to look at and even less to hear, only the servants moving through on whispered steps. Changyu is his companion most often, and they share stories of their youth, of Lin'an, of the battlefield. His favorite are the ones about her family. He does not speak of his own.
A week goes by with this newly found existence. And existence is not what he would call this. He is used to movement, a weapon in his hand, a task to accomplish, a speech to give. Not this wasted time wasting away.
Then, a summons comes.
…
The doctors are arguing but Xie Zheng does not care. There is a lot of shouting, mostly from Changyu, and it makes his head hurt. "Enough," he says sharply.
The room goes quiet. Xie Qi and Xie Wu, who stand on either side of the bed, exchange a glance. "Now," the Marquis of Wu'an says. "Help me up."
"My lord, I don't recommend—"
"Quiet."
He doesn't dare to look at Changyu's face. Xie Qi and Xie Wu each grip him by the arm and pull. And it feels horrible.
Xie Zheng makes a gasping sort of groan. The doctor tries to step in but halts at one dark look from the marquis. The generals steady him on both sides until he is sitting up straight.
His stomach churns. He closes his eyes, praying he does not lose his breakfast.
"Xie Zheng." His name on her lips has his face snapping up to meet hers. She watches with folded arms and a tense look on her face. "You don't have to do this."
He sways a bit. He is filthy, he realizes; eight days and laying on a bed unmoving has him needing a bath desperately. Every bit of his front itches, while the back throbs in protest. This is true torture, true agony. And he can't do a thing about it.
"Leave us."
The doctors scurry off but the rest disobey. Changyu clucks at him and turns to get something as the two men keep him from falling to one side or the other. His sense of equilibrium is certainly confused.
"My lord," Xie Qi says quietly. "Perhaps you should lay back down."
"I can't."
Changyu appears again. "Will you both be so kind as to move him to the stool? If he's going to do this fool thing, we might as well get the sheets changed."
Xie Zheng's face heats but he says nothing. Walking is nearly impossible; Xie Qi and Xie Wu practically drag him the few feet to where a stool awaits, settling him on it and letting him steady himself against the table for balance before letting go. "Come help," she orders, and the two hurry to the bedside.
It should be humiliating to watch them clean his bed, but Xie Zheng can't notice. He is focused solely on not collapsing.
…
They take their evening meal at the table after Xie Zheng has had a long nap. Moving for just those few minutes were enough to take all of his energy, and so spent the rest of the day in a deep sleep.
Changyu eyes him from across the table as he tries to use his spoon. It's as if his body does not remember how to do anything. It's only been a week, he chides himself. This time, he does not miss his mouth.
She huffs at him impatiently. "You are too stubborn."
Xie Zheng nods. "You're right, I am."
"You shouldn't be up like this. You had at least three more days."
He sets down his spoon. "And in two days I am to report to the emperor. Would you wheel my bed there on the back of a wagon?"
Changyu makes a face. "No. You could just… not go."
Xie Zheng shoots her a look that has her rolling her eyes. "You know I can't do that."
"I know you're not healed enough."
"I've been summoned to the palace. If I don't go, the sentence is death. And besides…" He blows on the hot soup before continuing, "They need to see me as I am. They need to see the Marquis of Wu'an."
Thankfully, she does not argue.
That night they share a bed. After dinner she insists he return to resting and he goes gratefully, once more exhausted from his excursion across the room. Tomorrow he will need to walk on his own, and he will need to try on clothes. But that is a worry for tomorrow.
Tonight, he settles onto his side, tilted on one arm. Changyu walks around the room blowing out the lamps until there is just one burning. The room is bathed in moonlight except the dancing flickers of the flame, brightening her eyes.
"Come lay with me," he murmurs.
She slides in next to him, and they lay facing one another, staring. He remembers sharing a bed in Lin'an, and the Zhous outside listening for their activities.
"Why are you smiling?"
"Thinking about you."
Her lips curl slightly. "You should get some sleep."
"Tomorrow, we need to go to the Wei mansion."
Changyu half sits up. "What? Why?"
"We need to perform rites for my parents."
Her mouth falls open and she stares at him. "What are you talking about?"
"Can you lay back down?"
Slowly she does, careful not to bump him. "Why would you go there?" she whispers.
"I want to introduce you to my mother and father."
Changyu's expression softens. "We will one day."
"No. Tomorrow. Before I go to the palace." Sleep is threatening, and he closes his eyes. "We're married but never performed the rites. We need to do that so it's official."
Something soft touches on his cheek. "If you want to, we will go."
But he is already asleep. For once, he does not dream of osmanthus. For once, it is dreamless.