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[consignation]

jiang wanyin

missives | encounters

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[silverneedles]

[ is there an occasion? no, no one she can remember. she can't remember when they died, the days and nights and seasons blending into each other. it's hard to deal with that, sometimes.

her voice isn't quite as steady when she replies. ]

No. Merely a desire to share their memories and honor their spirits.

[consignation]

[ that grief on the voice he's ever yearned to hear happy and always fallen achingly, laughably short is, too, what jiang wanyin deserves.

there's a measured silence on his part, and his next words are as carefully doled out as the first.

this is not a place for his regrets or his shame. ]

I understand. May I inquire the names?

[silverneedles]

I'll send them to you.

[ Easier that way than saying the names, especially with how her voice shakes, a sign of weakness Wen Qing hates. ]

Thank you.

[ She follows that with a message containing their names, the characters written out. ]

[consignation]

I ask only that you save your thanks for one who has done right by you.

[silverneedles]

I'll consider your words, but I get to decide what that means.

1/2

[consignation]

That is, of course, your right.

I beg a few days of your patience.

[consignation]

[ a silk wrapped parcel arrives to wen qing's attention exactly three days after her bid. the craftsman, though he worked his gentleman's hands scraped bloody and raw, joints swollen and fingers dyed dark, is nowhere to be seen.

within are three finely sanded, polished, stained, finished memorial tablets with names etched in a precise, meticulous hand. both parents, as requested. one wen qionglin.

there is a fourth item in the parcel, a plain wooden comb that shows decades of wear, of sitting in a pocket with a hand worrying at its surface, the clear resting spot of a thumb.

atop them, a letter, in that same steady script. the paper is crisp, the brush strokes steady. it does not show the dozens of drafts that came before, that were too shaky, too tear-stained, rendered illegible by a stalled hand and running ink. ]

Lady Wen,

I, Jiang Wanyin, ask nothing of you. The blood debt owed cannot be repaid, and I will not insult the ways in which you have been wronged by suggesting otherwise. Please accept these tokens as a gesture of our unspeakable regret.

Yunmeng Jiang will end with me. This is not to be mourned, for it has been chosen. I will take no wife and have no heir. My nephew is and will remain with Lanling Jin.

Though there may soon come a day when no one will sweep our altar, the tablets to my left and right bear no script but carry names in this humble heart.

It is almost nothing. I know this. As ever, as always, I offer you so much less than you deserve. I do not, would not fault you for taking insult.

It is all I have to give. I pray it is at least something.

I ask nothing of you, except that in the next life I should be a tree. Carve me to build your shelter. In my next life I should like to be an ox. Let me till your fields and fill your larders. In my next life I should like to a flower, that I might give you reason to smile even once.

In my next life, let me be anything but a man, to have wasted the great gift of living in the same time as you.

May kindness and justice find you.

Jiang Wanyin

[silverneedles]

[ when wei wuxian told her about wen ning and his resurrection, she cried, in happiness and dismay. otherwise, wen qing hasn't given in to the grief that haunts her. for wen qing, her brother is still dead, along with the rest of her family but a-yuan. she traces the characters of his name, the courtesy name rarely used by anyone, and feel the tears gather in her eyes, brushed away quickly.

it's jiang cheng's letter that breaks her. she reads it once, twice, then carefully folds it again, saving the ink just before the tears start. she cries quietly in a deserted corner, the sounds muffled in her hands. there is no time for such displays when they are at war, little chance for rest and respite, and wen qing knows this better than anyone, but her heart breaks. for jiang cheng, a fool, who loved her still; for the love she couldn't accept; for the shattered families broken apart by wen ruohan. for herself, dead and gone from her world, and yet still impacting it, a decade after changing the course of jiang cheng's life, wei wuxian's life, and even her own.

regret isn't something wen qing ever lingers on: there's no regret for giving jiang cheng a new core, for refusing jiang cheng, for saving wen ning, and for leaving wei wuxian in the burial mounds and going to face death with her family. but she can mourn for those. the lost chance to love someone, to see her family settled and a-yuan grow. to know, even now, she can offer jiang cheng little comfort.

she cries for what seems like ages and then washes her face and squares her shoulders, ready to be back to work. she does feel better, even if her head aches from the crying. she tucks the letter and comb among her things and sends jiang cheng a letter in return. ]

Jiang Wanyin,

You have my humble thanks for the tablets. All of them. I will make sure Sizhui receives the ones for his parents. The third will remain with me. They are perfect; please give my thanks to the craftsman.

A tree, an ox, and a flower. Pick one of the three; I do not need all of them in my next life. More than something useful, I would like a friend. Consider that an offer even now.

Wen Qing