Often Jing Yuan ponders what the historians would have to say about the nature of his relationship with you.

“The General and his secretary; intimate friends”, perhaps? His soldiers have already labelled it as that, laughing as they down their drinks, too intoxicated to realise he was hanging onto every word, the glass in his hand near to shattering.

Will things forever remain this way? When all that’s left of him is legacy, where will you stand? His letters to you; his countless my love’s and my dearest’s, would they be hidden away for the sake of reputation? Worse yet, ripped apart and lost to time?

The thought makes his teeth grit. In a moment of abandon, Jing Yuan kisses you in front of those prying eyes you fear so much, but instead of love and adoration, he sees only horror on your face - and knows right there and then he has damned you both.

Late that night, he slips into your room. You barely glance his way, gaze distant as you stare out the window. “They will think of it as mere jest,” he offers quietly, for an apology would be wrong. Though he holds many regrets, you could never be one of them.

When his attempt at placation fails to break your trance, Jing Yuan rests his head on your lap, tracing circles on your knee. The silence is gnawing, but it feels deserved. He has lived centuries; he can wait however long you need him to.