Chapter Text
Ouyang’s arrows danced around the dead centre of the target, achingly close but never quite hitting where he wanted. It was a bleak grey day at the end of winter and his breath hung frosty in the air. His limbs were stiff and he couldn’t seem to warm up—but given that this was campaign weather the excuse rang hollow.
He’d barely hung up his bow after returning to his residence when the outside servant announced: "The Prince of Henan."
He looked around, surprised that Esen was visiting his rooms for the second time in both their lives. Was Esen going to make a habit of this?
Esen entered the room, broad and handsome as ever. Ouyang couldn’t help but notice that he seemed sober this time.
"I need to speak with you," said Esen.
Ouyang was grateful to be wearing so many layers, not yet having disrobed after coming indoors. Like armour on the battlefield.
"Then speak, my prince," said Ouyang. He gestured Esen towards the table. They both sat down at the end nearest the fire. He felt the warmth of the room start to seep through him, his fingers tingling as sensation returned. He made a second gesture to a servant for wine because the rules of hospitality dictated he offer it.
Esen dismissed the servants before they'd even had a chance to warm the wine. In one sense it resolved the matter, but it was also irritating. He may live in monastic simplicity and care little for his residence—yet it was still his residence, not Esen's. But Ouyang left his face as carefully blank as always, and social niceties were clearly the furthest thing from Esen's mind at present.
"I've had another thought about our strategy. Bianliang. Yangzhou," said Esen, and Ouyang felt a stirring of unease, the curious sensation that fate held a thread of his plan and threatened to pull. "Listen—don't go to Yangzhou. I don't want to be working with the Zhangs any more than we have to."
"We cannot possibly capture Bianliang without assistance," said Ouyang.
"I know. I wonder if this is the moment to retake Bianliang." In his mind's eye, Ouyang saw a careless hand unravelling the skillful woven handiwork of his plan back to threads. Esen must have seen something of this in Ouyang’s face, despite his attempt to maintain his usual composure, because he hastily continued, "We will regain Bianliang—and before you even think of it, it was not your fault that Bianliang was lost. You fought honourably."
It was entirely Ouyang's fault, and he hadn't fought honourably.
"Then what do you propose?"
"You weren't the only one making contacts last spring in Hichetu,” said Esen. He squared his shoulders, leaning forwards, and Ouyang’s eye followed the broad set of them. “I happened to make the acquaintance of Lord Alef of Bakhur. We've maintained a correspondence since. Knowing of our present difficulties and having spare men and supplies himself, he has kindly offered me my pick of both."
"What is Lord Whomsoever asking for in return?" asked Ouyang.
"Lord Alef. I know you would find him a noble and worthy comrade in arms, my general. Well, as much as you ever find anybody so. I regret that you were not introduced at the Spring Hunt. It is to be a gift among warriors, a favour I'm sure we will repay in our turn when the time comes."
This was always the trouble with Esen, Ouyang thought. Any man who was not so hopelessly purehearted would find the whole affair stank.
"Surely you do not want another lord to take credit for your hard work," Ouyang said, trying a different tack. The fire had been kept good and strong awaiting his return while he was out. He felt himself begin to sweat under his furs. He did not remove them.
"Nonsense, he would not do such a thing! We all serve the glory and good of the Khanate, at the end of all things."
"But—Bakhur? I barely know where this is. Somewhere on the western edges of the steppe? However would they get here in time?"
"This is what I wanted to discuss with you in particular," said Esen, lowering his deep voice, although there was no-one to overhear them. "I need to make decisions about which troops would suit us best. They have types of military units that I’ve never heard of before; it’s been an interesting correspondence. We could use that to our advantage, as they’ll be foreign to the rebels as well. I've been in contact with Lord Alef. I propose I go in secret on horseback, bringing only a guard with me, to choose and return with troops. Baoxiang will manage Anfeng until my return. We could be mounting a surprise offensive against Bianliang late this season, before summer. I trust you see the advantages of this plan."
Ouyang reeled. He didn't know where to start. Esen was going to get himself killed. "But your safety, my lord! Why risk this, when Yangzhou is so close and the Zhangs are already amenable to supplying us?"
"I would not go entirely alone,” Esen said quietly. “I would ask you to come with me. There is no-one else whom I find so capable and trustworthy. My best general, whose arrow always finds its target." Esen looked at him, eyes pleading.
It was then that Ouyang recognised the mysterious machinations of fate, the unspooled thread weaving together to form the same pattern as before but in a different manner.
"Yes, of course, my prince."
*
The preparations for the journey consumed much of their following days. Time was of the essence. They had travelled before, of course, but never such a long distance, nor so far abroad. The preparations they kept secret. They stitched their journey together from three separate manuscript maps. They made provisions for food, water, coin, bows and arrows, a tent. The biggest challenge was finding horses. Anfeng was groaning under the weight of horses: however, their existing warhorses were unsuited for such a long journey, and common sense dictated lactating mares were needed. It was a challenge to find mares swift yet sturdy enough for such an expedition that had also foaled so early in the year. Ouyang's discreet enquiries were eventually rewarded with a red dun and a slightly finer, larger black. He admired their soft winter coats, thick stomachs, and steady gaits.
Ouyang expected to be summoned to Baoxiang's offices the moment he learnt of Esen's plans. Baoxiang was pig-headed, but not stupid, and he would poke holes daylight could see through in Esen's idea as soon as hearing of it. However, such a summons never came.
In addition to their shared preparations, Ouyang was also making his own private preparations. He needed to kill Esen. He needed an army. This foolhardy trip afforded a luxury of time in which to accomplish both. He would kill Esen—quickly—he would return, he would track down that rebel monk, and he would convince him of their mutual use to each other: he was Nanren, he had deliberately forsaken Bianliang to their advantage, and he would have by then killed Esen. There would be no time for anyone in Anfeng to notice his absence with such a good excuse as he’d been given. He now regretted the monk's mutilated hand, but saw no other way forward. He could not succeed in overthrowing the Khanate, but it was his destiny to die trying.
He mulled over it endlessly, the way one did worry about things that were unchangeable, yet still unthinkable. This plan of Esen's had forced them into close proximity again, after all of Ouyang's efforts to keep apart. When, late at night, Esen once more pored over their map,weighing up two possible routes as his dark eyes glittered in the firelight, Ouyang felt searing pain at the thought that days like this were numbered. He would do as fate bade him, but he was not sure how he could exist afterwards.
They began their journey very early one morning when the sky was still black and covered in stars. Ouyang rode the red dun and Esen the black. They followed the north-west road, taking it at a good pace. He'd been wary of riding unknown horses on such an important trip but so far the dun was the picture of good manners, though he wondered how she'd fare over open country.
Eventually the sun rose and they felt the weak warmth of it on their backs. The fields glinted with dew in the early light. They passed very few people: a farmer with an ox, a gaggle of boys still of age to be learning their lessons. None of them paid them a second glance. This part of the world was still familiar to Ouyang.
When the sun was high they broke their fast under a plum tree.
"Look—blossoms, so early in the year," said Esen, gesturing above their heads, where the first white flowers of the season had bloomed like a dusting of snow over the bough. A bee buzzed among them.
"Let us hope winter has no final frosts left for us, my lord,” said Ouyang. "It's dangerous to bloom early." He spoke absently—he had no space in his mind for blossoms, no matter how pretty.
"Let us hope," Esen agreed.
They sat companionably in silence, sharing their meal. It was hot at this time of day; Esen unfastened his riding cloak and laid it on the grass. He sprawled out beside it, muscular and broad. Without words he offered a dried persimmon to Ouyang. Ouyang felt the sugary residue of the fruit on the pad of Esen's thumb as he plucked it from his hand.
"How did Lord Wang react to your proposing this journey?" asked Ouyang, his curiosity finally getting the better of him. "It's a lot of responsibility for him."
"Well," said Esen, with a smile that he tried to hide by ducking his head. Like lightning, Ouyang was hit by the knowledge that he may never again after this moment see the crescents that formed on Esen's cheeks when he smiled. His breath staggered as though he’d taken a blow in battle. He took a shaky, deep lungful of air and returned to the present, where Esen was still alive and whole and had things to smile about.
"Well?"
"I didn't, actually. I left a note on his desk on my way this morning," said Esen. They both laughed.
"Do you think he'll send someone after us?" Ouyang asked. This could well be a complicating factor in his own plans.
"Oh, I don't think so," said Esen. "I think he's going to love my absence. Endless opportunity to fiddle about with irrigation ditches and futures contracts or whatever it is he does in that office of his all day."
"I see your point," said Ouyang. He hoped Esen was right. He looked up to the sunlight streaming through the branches of the plum tree and noticed that the slant had changed from before. "The day marches on. We have more li to cover before nightfall."
"We do," Esen agreed, picking up his cloak and fastening it around his shoulders. They packed up the remains of their lunch and mounted their horses once more.
By the time the shadows were long and the light was in their eyes, the way was growing coarser. They made camp that first night not far from the road and broke the night in half, taking turns to keep watch as the other slept. Ouyang didn't truly believe any danger would come to them here, but it made good sense to act as though he intended to carry on like this. He spent his watch shivering in the night air and trying not to think about the following night.
The next day they carried on the same as the way became wilder still, and finally came the time to turn west and leave the road behind them completely. The land opened up before them—rolling hills, an endless plain covered in a sea of green: the early sweet grass of spring. Both of them were bitten by the joy of riding in such a landscape, taking the horses to a gallop at times to test their limits and put more distance behind them. They raced against each other just for the pleasure of seeing who was fastest; Ouyang could hear Esen’s deep laugh over the sound of wind and hooves, reverberating as though it were against his own heart. His earlier fears were unfounded: both horses took to the open country like they had been born for it. Which, Ouyang supposed, they had. He was aware of the world as he rarely had been before—the clear blue sky, a bird singing, the sensation of riding a fine horse. Esen beside him, laughing, exactly how it should be.
Sooner than Ouyang believed possible it was late afternoon and they were making camp again, putting up the tent, attaching the horses to their long night leads, building a fire for the evening. Esen was in good spirits—Ouyang guessed that his newfound freedom was heady after a winter spent cooped up indoors. Ouyang could not help but be quiet.
Esen insisted on taking the first watch that night, which was annoying but not unexpected. Ouyang knew it was sensible to sleep, as sleep may be hard to come by in the foreseeable future, but try as he might he could not. The bedding smelled of Esen. All too soon the night was half-through and it was time to swap.
Ouyang sat outside the tent, his fingers frozen on his dagger. He could hear Esen snoring within. It was cold, and he always felt the cold intensely but at present couldn't seem to care. This was the moment fate had been leading him to. All he had to do was slit Esen’s throat in his sleep. He had killed many men before now, it should not be difficult this time, either. The next few days and years and every moment afterwards would be difficult, but not this first act.
All he could think of was Esen's bright eyes reflecting the light of the fire. He should have been thinking of his father and his own shameful existence and how Esen was an obstacle standing in the path of his revenge, but he was instead thinking of Esen himself. Time passed, then even more. The moon sank low on the horizon as Ouyang still did not rise to do what he must. Finally the dawn appeared and he knew it was too late. He was a coward. He had acted like a woman.
*
The land became even starker as they left civilisation further behind them, wild and endless. The sky started a perfect blue before clouding over. The terrain was unceasing and beautiful, perfect horse country. Ouyang realised then that he had never been so far west before and didn't quite know where he was. He always campaigned in the south and knew it best. It was disorientating, but he couldn't give it as much mind as it deserved. It was as if thinking had become redundant, and all he could do was ride.
He knew Esen felt it too. It had been before the Spring Hunt at Hichetu when he had last seen Esen so carefree, and they were both acting reckless given the dangers—bandits, wild animals. It made him feel like they were boys again.
"Snow?" was the first thing Esen said the next morning when Ouyang went to wake him, still drugged with sleep. White flakes had settled in the loops of Ouyang's braids.
"Yes," said Ouyang. A light dusting in the moments before dawn had coated the land in a blanket of white under a blanket of white sky. The colour of mourning. The last gasp of winter—a death knell to their plum blossoms from the road.
"Perhaps we should keep a fire lit through the night. I know how you feel the cold," Esen said, getting out of bed and rolling up the sheets, his large frame cramped in the confines of the tent. He was languid, still drowsy, but not in the least self-conscious of Ouyang seeing him like this. He inhabited his body so easily, as only one who was so perfect and whole could. Ouyang looked at the snow outside.
"It would be dangerous," said Ouyang. "Best not." It would be more pleasant, true, but it would also let their location be known far and wide. Although either way it would not be a problem for much longer and Ouyang refused to think about it any more, because he was going to act soon.
"You're right," Esen said with a sigh. “Take my cloak, at least, to wear over your own on watch tonight.”
“I will,” said Ouyang. “You still haven’t noticed what I shot for us,” he continued.
Esen quickly looked back at him and only then noticed the dead hare Ouyang was holding.
“It came sniffing around—smelled the food, I think. It was easy to pick out on the snow,” said Ouyang with what he hoped was modesty, though the shot spoke for itself. The knowledge that they would eat fresh meat tonight was heady.
“Straight through both lungs with a single arrow,” said Esen, smiling at him. There were those crescents again.
The snow cover was barely a fingernail deep, so fragile that when the clouds were chased away by a strong easterly midmorning, the sun melted it as though it were never there. Once again the day's ride was over before Ouyang felt it had started, and they were scouting locations, putting up the tent, milking the horses, skinning and roasting the hare. Esen was happy and free: bright eyed and rosy-cheeked. He looked so alive it seemed wrong to suggest he would ever die.
"You’re in fine spirits today," said Ouyang as they huddled around their evening campfire after dinner. It was sunset and the steppe was cast in a warm glow, the grass swaying like waves. The easterly remained strong, always threatening to blow out the fire, even though they had tried to outwit the wind by building it in a hollow.
"What don't I have to be thankful for?" said Esen with an easy smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling. His face glowed gold with the setting sun. "A good day of riding, a warm fire, fresh meat, my favourite general to share it with..."
"Yes," said Ouyang. “What don’t you have to be thankful for?” Something tugged in his chest.
"But you've been quiet," said Esen. "What troubles you?"
"I’m just tired," said Ouyang. It was true that he was tired. He hadn't slept at all the previous night.
"I'll take first watch," said Esen, and nothing Ouyang said could dissuade him.
Ouyang worried that it would be another long night where sleep eluded him once more, lying awake in sheets that smelled of Esen as the wind whistled outside. He must have drifted off eventually, though, because the next thing he was aware of was Esen gently waking him to swap over. As he sat outside, so bundled up with Esen’s cloak over his own that he doubted he could load an arrow fast enough if it were needed, he noticed that the moon was low compared to where it should be—Esen had given him more than his fair share of sleep. The soft fur of their twin cloaks brushed against his neck. In the scant hours remaining before dawn, Ouyang once again considered his dagger, and once again did not do what he knew he must.
Days passed in this manner. Ouyang needed to stop this pathetic stalling and act. Every li they travelled west together, a hard day's ride across an endless plain, a night half spent under the stars listening to the unvarying susurrus of wind in the grass,watching out onto the great unknown, and half succumbing to brief hours of dreamless sleep before mounting again at dawn, every one of those li Ouyang would need to retrace, on his own, without the security of Esen at night keeping watch as Ouyang slept, nor during the day to detract any unwanted attention from him when he would be riding alone over foreign country.
Ouyang was happy. Sleep deprived, endlessly alert to dangers unknown, hungry and thirsty, too hot riding under the sun and too cold after it set, constantly worried over food, terrain, weather, the horses; the lesser discomforts of blisters and cold sores. Yet here he was with Esen, who would not or could not understand him but cared for him in a way that even Ouyang couldn't deny. Long days spent in the pursuit of a shared goal, on horseback, where other people and their cruelty could not touch him, alone with his one friend. Esen, as always, seeing in Ouyang what no-one else did and finding him worthy: riding together, passing a skin of airag back and forth across an evening campfire, sharing a laugh and the day's cares. It was like an intimate campaign just for the two of them. Ouyang’s heart ached to think of ending it, and he was ashamed of himself for that feeling, knowing that the pleasure he took in the company of their murderer's son was treason against his ancestors.
Often he felt sick with hatred for the rebel monk. That wretched monk, who had snapped him out of the limbo in which he had lived for so many years and forced him to confront the fate he had delayed for so long. There was only one possible future, but perhaps if that disastrous day at the Yao River had never happened then the ineffable, mysterious call of fate would have remained dormant. Perhaps he would be where spring usually found him, towards the close of the campaign season, instead of facing the agonising task that now lay before him. Ouyang's mind chewed over his duty constantly. There were dozens of ways he could do it: the very simplest, to which Ouyang kept returning, was to kill him in his sleep. Esen may never even know that Ouyang had done so. The task was so simple in practical terms.
The moon had waxed and was waning again. A thin, high layer of cloud had covered the sky, so translucent that the stars glowed through. He stared up to the heavens as if the answers he was looking for could be found there. Then, stiffening his resolve, Ouyang went further than he ever had before, gripping his dagger and stepping inside the tent. He could just see the shadow of Esen’s form, splayed at an awkward angle in sleep. Ouyang knew Esen so well he didn’t need to see him in daylight to know what he looked like now: his neat beard, the gentle expression on face, his broad frame loose with sleep. Ouyang looked upon him for a long time, at the shard of his face bathed in moonlight from the opening in the tent, unable to move. Then his resolve drained; he turned around and stepped outside again as quietly as he had entered. Not tonight, tomorrow, always tomorrow. Once again, he did not do what fate ordered that he do. He seethed with disappointment and shame, alone under the moon. For all that he insisted he was not a woman he seemed intent on proving himself one.