prince wen

SONG JIYANG, NINETEEN, ZHU WEN. ❝ ⤚⟶ EUROPE, 1458. thanks is given by the PRINCE OF THE THIRD RANK, ZHU WEN, from CHINA. they are at best HARD WORKING, and at their worst RECLUSIVE. whilst abroad, their ambition is to ENSURE LIJUAN FINDS A KIND HUSBAND, AND MEDIATE BETWEEN HIS WARRING BROTHERS. HE seems to remind everyone of SONG JIYANG & WARM EYES CAST SHYLY DOWN, FINGERTIPS BLOODIED BY OVER-PRACTICE, AND THE POWDERY SMELL OF A INKSTICK RUBBED AGAINST INKSTONE. ❞

prince-wen·:

In the interest of showing an open mindedness, Wen had been encouraged to attend a French church in order to experience their culture. He had studied religions of the West to a point, but it is another thing altogether to see a cathedral in person. He was particularly taken with the stained glass, and found himself staring at it through most of the sermon. It was incredibly peculiar, with strange stories and stranger singing, but he’d been expecting that. What he’d not expected was the horror of transubstantiation. Nobody had warned him about that.

“The wafer…” Wen said, quietly horrified by the violence of the notion. “Becomes the body of Christ? This is meant literally?”

The Mass has ended, and people have begun to file out while others remain in the pews. Wen is one of these people, processing what he’s just heard, wondering if there’s been a translation error, and he had turned to address the person sitting across the aisle from him.

for a while now the prince of cordoba had been loitering around the darkened pews at the back of the church. he knew he wasn’t exactly welcome here— though no singular person had dared to say it directly to his face, his ears had often caught wind of the maligned whispers of certain europeans, hushed tones filled with reproach and fear about the muslim scourge currently afflicting the iberian peninsula. but he was curious about the seemingly brutal ways of catholicism (much to the disappointment of his aunt amira) and he’d been using this decidedly catholic celebration to explore the churches of paris, if only for a clinical curiosity. 

he’d spotted wen early then made his way over as the people started to filter out, avoiding their stares best as possible by sticking to the shadows. karim had only been able to pick up a bit of chinese while visiting the east, but he was able to pick up the gist of wen’s murmurs, punctuated by the expression on his face. “ah, better to ask a more god-fearing sort that question, my observations have left me with few clues on their more opaque rituals.” he slid in without introduction, fairly confident that the young prince hadn’t forgotten him yet.

.

"Karim!” Wen said, quite forgetting his manners in the face of his surprise. He had not know Karim was here -- in this church, or in Paris at all. It seemed foolish not to have realised, since he was aware that at least some of Cordoba would be in attendance, but he had had a lot on his mind so hadn’t devoted much thought to Karim. 

He wasn’t sure if he would call Karim a friend, exactly. Rather, Wen got caught up in the current of his wild adventures and wondered bemusedly how he was fortunate enough to have the company of someone so bold, so charismatic. There was a quiet voice in his head that suggested that the likely answer was simply that Wen never said no, but he tried to ignore it. Karim’s time in China had been brief, but memorable. “What are you doing here? I hope you have not decided to convert. This Western religion seems quite violent.”

Decorum and refinement were never crowning jewels that wore upon Joanna’s fine crown — she had never been pushed to make sense of it, and instead, always drove herself forward with question. What. How. Why. Where. It seemed, her questions never stopped, even in the face of new and imposing courtiers who came from across the world to become one upon the luscious earth. And so, with narrowed eyes and the fall of red curls that framed such delicate features, Joanna stared and clutched the arm of the pew.

“I thought Catholicism was not practised in China, why do you sit beneath His roof?” She asked, sapphires glistening as curled lashes blink in stubbornness. “Do you not feel… out of place? Or, treason against your own beliefs?” Shifting herself upward, as if Wen was to run from her interrogation, Joanna offered the Prince of China her hand. “I am Infanta Joanna of Portugal, the second daughter of King Cristiano and Queen Crara — I wonder, your grace, would you prefer to talk beyond this building? It’s rather cold out, but I must admit, I feel as if you may only whisper here,” she hissed, a smile daring to creep up on soft lips, before gesturing his Highness to follow her down the aisle of the Cathedral, out to the cold and snow-whipped wind of Paris.

She was very fierce -- it was the first word that presented itself to Wen. The image of a tiger cub, with vibrant golden fur and claws like piercing needles, yet still somehow with a little of the softness of childhood. She was a little intimidating, in truth, but there was also a great charisma about her that made Wen want not to look away.

He took the proffered hand in his own and kissed her fingers as he had been trained -- it was a strange custom to him, but when in someone else’s country it was important to follow their customs.

“And I am Wen, prince of the third rank of China,” he said, a quietly suppressed chuckle at her comment on how it felt as though one could only whisper. It was true. “You are quite right. It would be my pleasure to accompany you on a walk through the streets of this beautiful city.”

A great comfort they were indeed; in a sense, he supposed, the stars were evidence always to the stability of their world—as well as the temporality of it. The same stars that Batlamius and al-Farghani had once watched and studied, shone down on them today still, marking their time as infinitesimal in the face of these heavenly bodies. And yet—were not these astronomers renown today, too? Were not their own thoughts and writings significant now? Comfort indeed. 

He turned to Prince Wen, nodding as he pointed towards what Mehdi assumed was the brightest star in the east—the Satevis. “What you call the canglong, I believe, we call the Satevis—the Watcher of the West. One of the stars we use to navigate the skies by.” He gestured to another, appearing only a few inches away in the sky, but in reality thousands of miles distant from each other.

“Do you know what I find so wonderous about the stars?” he asked. “It is that we may follow them in such a way; navigate by them, know them to lead us north or south or west or east—that even when we seem to be on the other end of the world, the stars remain the same. What a distance they must be from us, to remain so unchanged! What glory must they shine with, to be visible from so far. In the brightest of daylight, there is only so far we can see—some tree, some building, some mountain, must limit and end our vision. But at night…”

Satevis. It was not a word Wen had heard before, but he liked the sound of it, and he liked the meaning of it. Despite growing up in different countries with different educations and different histories, they saw the same stars and attributed to it similar meanings. He would try to remember that: Satevis. He wondered if the royal astronomer knew, and how he felt about other country’s views of the heavens. Were they wrong, just because they were different? Or could all interpretations be true, depending on how one read them?

ℛ For my muse to catch yours swimming naked in a lake

It was rare for Wen to misbehave; though he is not fully convinced of his talents, he is ever committed to trying his best. But he is also a whimsical young man, prone to flights of fancy. This morning he had sneaked away, stealing a few moments for himself, determined to face the consequences later.

He had always loved swimming, for the same reason he loved to ride: it felt free. When he stripped bare and sunk into the dark, deep waters of a lake, he felt the weight disappear from his shoulders. As the water buoyed his body, so it did his spirits. This swim was a cold one, certainly, but Wen had always had an affinity for the winter. He loved the snow, and the cold, and so did not heed the chill as he dived into the water this morning. In the pale sun, sparkling from the water, he thought even his scars looked almost lovely. The pattern of them shifted and winked beneath the water’s flowing surface.

Drifting in quiet contentment, Wen peered lazily up at the sky through half lidded eyes. Sometimes he quite envied the servants. They worked hard, but they had far more freedom to take off and do these things, should they wish it. The servants at home had assured him his life was far better, but Wen always liked to dream of other things.

And then he was stirred from his reverie by the sound of footsteps, and certainly not the quick picking footsteps of a doe.

Ah. Oh dear.

“...Good morning, Sultana.” Wen smiled, the expression a little crooked and a little awkward as he rolled over so that his body dipped below the surface and only his head emerged, cold water lapping at his chin. “I must apologise, I... did not think I would have company this morning. I find that I have forgotten my robes on the shore.”

Wen ran his fingers across the scarred skin of his shoulder and chest, the skin dappled in lilacs and glossed over white -- pale looking, a sickly thing compared to the healthy pink of his fingers. The skin betrayed little feeling even as he touched it. A dozen doctors had prescribed two dozen ointments, but they never helped. His right shoulder was soothed by the touch of silk as he drew his silk undershirt across it, but the left shoulder felt nothing. A whisper, perhaps. It was his habit to avoid looking, and he tried to point his eyes away now, too. He would be fortunate indeed if he found a wife that was not repelled by his scars, never mind the inevitable talk of more intimate marital relations. With a fluttering sigh, Wen looked at the painting that hung on the wall opposite him. The French, regrettably had a love for painting in the nude, and looking upon an oil portrait of a perfectly muscled, perfectly smooth man made matters worse. He looked down again, a small frown upon his face, when he heard the door open. Instinct had him whirling around, the thin scrap of silk that he wore billowing out, and Wen took in a sharp breath. “My lord!” He did not need Lorenzo to see him in this condition. Drawing the undershirt around himself with one frantic arm, he reached out with the other for the sturdier protection offered by the hanfu that was laid upon the bed. “You should have been announced. It is not proper for you to see me so,” His tone was snappish, made brittle by the vulnerability. It felt like an insult, for this man with his bronzed Venetian skin and his quick, easy smile to intrude upon this moment. Lorenzo was something Wen may never be: desirable.

WRITING BASED POINTS:

GIF CHAT / PARA REPLIES : 40 SUBTOTAL: 40

If only all diplomatic affairs should feel so much like friendship. It was a certainty that England was in want of fortified connections, and prosperous unions to bind them. Perhaps China sought the same, though there seemed little gain from an outing of the princes except further camaraderie. It felt a balm then, to be in company without pretense - for there was no business to be discussed, except those matters that must spring forth from the soul to greater life. Prolific, Thomas found his thoughts much clearer on paper - great wellsprings of his true intentions spilling out where the simple tongue could not keep pace. How amiable it was that Prince Wen seemed to share this proclivity. 

With parchment spread, held down at the corners, Thomas admired the quill pen in one hand and the knife in the other. It was an act of passion, and like love-making, writing required both hands. Similarly, men were prone to ruining the venture entirely, and so focus was an essential precursor. In search of centering, he turned his eyes upward to the sky - a stretching silence giving air to flame of thought. In that expansive blue nothingness, he allowed his mind to sift, catching rough gemstones and polishing them into prose. Tumbled, cracked, and cleaned, each idea was inspected for merit - the good majority of them discarded. It was a craft, not without its scraps and errors. 

Wen’s voice broke his concentration, and light eyes fell to meet dark ones with amusement. “I am a poet, not a vendecolori,” he teased, shrugging one shoulder. “My role is to make things of these materials. You, however, appear more apothecary than author. What is it that you’re doing, then? Making the ink yourself?”

Thomas shifted, drawing his knees up as he gestured toward the unfamiliar items. “Would you mind?” Fingers traced the side of the turtle-shaped container, eyes narrowing with curiosity. “Teaching me, I mean.”

.

There were so many ways in which each of their cultures differed from another, and often in such small ways that Wen would not have even considered it. Writing is one of those things; he had always written with a brush, and always supposed that was the norm. Yet the people here write with feathered quills, which is just as sensible, and yet would never have occurred to Wen.

He had tried his hand at using a quill, and found that it did not suit him. A brush felt like velvet upon the parchment, whereas the quill scratched and pecked like the bird from which it was drawn. Even though it did not suit him, it was one of his favourite parts of this expedition: new experiences, broadened horizons, a vast education. He was more than happy to share this art with Thomas, who had so politely asked. Wen was often protective over his possessions, but found that he did not mind Thomas’ fingers upon his inkstone. Thomas was an artist at his heart, and had the delicate touch to go with it.

“Indeed, making the ink is part of the process. I had not realised it was not so everywhere.” Wen smiled, taking quiet delight in this curiosity. He finished laying out his tools, touching each one in turn. “The brush is very important, for it must become an extension of your arm. This one is made using hair cut from my head when I was newborn, but more commonly the hairs will be from tiger or rabbit or some such animal. The water must be pure and clean, so that the ink may be smooth. This is an inkstick, made from soot and glue, sometimes with incense added.”

Ever since he was a young boy, Eivor had been told that his gaze was far to intense for his own good. He hadn’t always known why that was a bad thing. He was simply a listener, a watcher. It wasn’t his fault that he did this intently and others were put off by it. Eivor could not help that his piercing blue hues set some people off and yet they did. Truth be told he’d never made much of an effort to dull his looks down. If this man was truly uncomfortable he would simply leave. He had all the freedom in the world to do so. Eivor would not follow him either. He was not one to pursue when his company was not welcomed. 

Raising an eye brow at the others words, Eivor sat back a bit. He leaned his hands on the back of his head and kicked out his feet. “Is that so?” He asked looking slightly amused now. The man had a bit more bark than Eivor expected. “And how should I look at you? Or would you prefer I avert my eyes all together?” He asked sounding mildly sarcastic now. As if Eivor was one to ever break eye contact. He was a human and humans were animals. When an animal looked away from another it was a sign of submission. A sign which Eivor very rarely gave. 

A sigh left Eivor’s lips as Wen came out and said what Eivor had been assuming. Royalty then. He didn’t move from his spot, nor look away even when hearing of Wen’s status. “You’ll find, Wen, that I am not a man who does what they should. Often I find myself running in the other direction.” He admitted. “Besides that I care very little for title or rank and much more for what you’d personally like me to call you.” He sat forwards now and looked Wen in the eye or tried to. “So what would you like me to call you? Hum?” Eivor questioned with a small but wicked smile crossing his lips now. 

.

"I think that you know what I mean,” Wen said, trying to sound more confident than he truly felt. He felt as though he were about to be eaten alive, and he was quite sure Eivor knew; that the man did this on purpose. Wen did not like being toyed with, but he also wasn’t sure how to defend himself from this particular brand of teasing. This wasn’t the good natured teases from his older siblings, this felt like something far hungrier.

“I would like you t-to--” Wen set his jaw, feeling the stutter trip his tongue as it was wont to do when he grew nervous. He took a short breath, continuing as if he had never paused. “-- address me as everyone else does: your grace. How should I call you, sir?” The words were delivered with the hint of a pout. Clearly this was a game to Eivor, and he enjoyed feeling special. He did not want to be beholden to the rules of polite society, maybe because he thought himself above it, and maybe because he simply liked the attention that came with being difficult. Either way, Wen found himself quite determined not to give in. If he could not be strong in the face of an impudent man with no rank of consequence, then how was he to call himself a prince at all?

Lorenzo nodded, gesturing to the aisle so the prince could lead the way out. “Perhaps indeed; I should truly like to visit your home very much. All I have heard of it tells me that it should appeal to me in all ways.” If it were not for the distance between their kingdoms, Lorenzo would go, but he could not afford such a period away from Firenze… and yet, to say that was to imply that he could not return the very very turn they made, in appearing in Florence, Lisbon, Paris. 

“I am entirely in agreement! Though Florence is but a small republic, and our representation in these grand summits is far less than that of great empires such as your own, I come with hopes to introduce what is great and grand in our culture to the world… and with gratitude, of course, to have the opportunity to see what I might never have otherwise.” He placed his arms behind his back, looking up at the cathedral… though really, he might have seen Paris and its many churches a dozen times. It was the more distant world that had been brought to him—to all of them, in truth, inspiring new art and fabric and music, new styles and foods, new entertainments and pleasures. 

“I find also that while—it has broadened my mind, as you say for yourself—our very meeting creates a new world in which we live. A world where silk from Ming dresses a Florentine noble, and you in turn stand here in a cathedral. Shall not one day you return to say, perhaps we might sing in such and such a manner, and create a new thought in your own land? A remarkable broadening, to me.”

.

Wen was learned enough in the ways of politics to be aware that a great deal of words exchanged between two representatives of any nation were likely to be padded more with flattery than true meaning, and yet he found himself believing Lorenzo’s enthusiasm. Perhaps it was his naïveté, a trait for which Wen was often chastised. He liked to see the good in people -- which he thought was a strength, in spite of so many telling him otherwise.

As Lorenzo gestured for Wen to lead the way out, he complied -- with very little notion of where they were really going. He had discovered, however, that if you do anything with enough conviction, people assume you’re doing it on purpose. In any case, the wonderful thing about being a prince is that nobody would comment anyway. That is, apart from his siblings, but he is used to their teasing.

The pace he set was leisurely, having always been a slow walker (borne of a fondness for stopping and admiring the world), but in a few moments they are outside in the chill air, insignificant in the cathedral’s shadow. It was such a different building from those back home, but it had a certain alien beauty that Wen struggled to look away from -- and yet his gaze was drawn by Lorenzo, who spoke so eloquently of the sharing of cultures. Wen rarely dared to hope he might have found a kindred spirit, but he certainly heard his own feelings echoed in the words Lorenzo spoke.

“You look on the world with the eyes of a poet,” Wen remarked with a gentle smile. It was a beautiful thought, to create new worlds in the meeting of two different cultures. “And I believe it is truth that you speak. Among the many countries gathered here, it is my hope that we can look upon our differences and think upon how they might be shared, and not focus on the ways in which they set us apart. To tell the truth, I am not a natural born diplomat, and I care little for the machinations of politics. We are all people, and all capable of creating such vibrant and diverse beauty, and it seems to me that this ought to bring us together.

- &&. ❝ WILL YOU NOT? ❞ SHE cannot help but chuckle at his sheer innocence; she silences herself quickly after registering his sad expression, ❝ I thought the same, when I was your age. I thought I was not to be wed until father had found me the perfect Prince, off in some far away land where I would one day become Queen, but, we all know how that fairytale turned out. ❞ Yicheng sighs, resting her head on her palm. Her words will not be the comfort he seeks, Wen will find no mercy at her hands, she speaks to him honest and true, no matter the discomfort it may cause him. ❝ You are an handsome young man, dear 弟弟 ❞ In signature gesture, she tucks a lock of dark hair behind his ear, ❝ You will have women of the world falling at your feet - as they should. You are a Prince of China, the greatest Empire the world will see. ❞

The mention of the conflict between Xianmin and Zhao causes a stir in Yicheng. It is no secret that Yicheng favours Xianmin; she always has done, as her only full-blooded sibling Yicheng has stuck to him like glue since they were infants. For months, their father has attempted to brush their quarrel beneath the rug, stalling the two brother’s inevitable confrontation. Only, Xizong will not be around forever and his eventual passing will no doubt the the catalyst that causes their brewing resentment to explode. ❝ Zhao is not a good man, ❞ Yicheng speaks freely of her discontent for her half-brother, whom she sees as a man driven solely by selfish ambition. She finds herself uncomfortably reminded by just how similar they are, ❝ He is an opportunist. But, you are not like him. You are good and kind and pure. When the time comes, I will protect you. So will Xianmin. ❞  

❝ Yes, I suppose in some way it is. ❞ Once more, Wen is greeted by Yicheng’s blunt honesty rather than the embracing reassurance he seeks, ❝ But, as humans we are all selfish, in a way. I will not claim to understand the bond you share with Lijuan; it is not something I could ever comprehend. The two of you shared a womb, you came into this world together and I suspect that you shall die together. It is not selfish for you to want to remain with your other half, however, it is selfish for you to believe that you can. ❞           

Her laugh was amiable, and yet Wen still felt embarrassed by it. He lacked the worldly experience his older siblings had gained, even in the short few years between them. And often he felt it acutely, a certain naïveté when he said  things with great confidence, only to be proven utterly wrong. Maybe in this case it wasn’t  naïveté, as much as it was raw hope. He didn’t want to marry soon.

With good luck, he could have a genial enough marriage, but it would never be fruitful, nor traditional, and it was just something he preferred not to think about. It was almost certain that Lijuan would marry before him, and that felt like a far more pressing matter. He avoided Yicheng’s gaze as she spoke of women falling at his feet; Wen was always shy on the matter of women, and people seemed quick to assume it was as simple as just shyness.

Truthfully, he had noticed in recent years as he matured into his looks that women looked at him differently. Not just because of his appearance, but because although he is a  prince of the third rank, he is a prince regardless. He’d grown quite adept at pushing these thoughts away, and indeed they dissipated in the same moment that Yicheng said Zhao was not a good man. He would always be taken aback by her bluntness.

“I cannot deny that Zhao is an opportunist, but I do not think he is a bad man. I think he is... unhappy with his lot in life.” Which is a sentiment Wen could certainly empathise with. “I hope that he will accept the situation because I do not wish for strife between any of us. But if such a terrible thing should happen... I will not look to you nor Xianmin for protection. I am a man grown, now, and I ought not look to my siblings for protection.”

Wen had always been ensconced so comfortably in his role as a little brother, and had always been quick to let people defend him. But it could not be so forever; he could not live a soft, childlike existence. Like it or not he would marry, and have his own family, and would it not then be his responsibility to defend them? He could not rely forever on his siblings. Even he and Lijuan would, some day, have to learn to tolerate a little distance.

He did appreciate Yicheng’s bluntness on the matter, however difficult it was to stomach. Like a bitter concoction brewed by the doctor, Wen swallowed it anyway, because it was necessary. Yicheng was right, of course, as she always was. Wen’s dreams were selfish. He didn’t expect them to come true, but they were selfish none the less. “I do not truly believe we can remain together, always. It is just a childish wish. Don’t you have wishes like that? Wishes that you know cannot be true, and yet you cling to regardless?”

WRITING BASED POINTS:

GIF CHAT / PARA REPLIES : 90 EDITS / GRAPHICS : 10 MEME RESPONSES : 30 STARTERS : 15 SUBTOTAL: 145

It was uncommon for Wen to feel comfortable around people before getting to know them intimately. Perhaps it helped that he knew Yicheng thought very highly of Prince Thomas; more likely, it was because of a very pleasant conversation they had shared about poetry. Wen loved art in all of its forms, and it was one of the few topics upon which he would speak easily and at length. 

So it was that the two came to be sitting in the gardens of Chateau de Fontainebleau, wrapped in warm cloth to ward off the biting chill of winter, with a view to composing a little verse. It was a quiet pursuit, not one that lent itself to social bonding, but sometimes Wen preferred that, to sit quietly in another’s company and enjoy their presence. Perhaps it came of being a twin: he and Lijuan could communicate without the need for words, and though he knew he would never share that bond with another, he had become a quieter person for it.

With all the necessary greetings out of the way, Wen began setting up his calligraphy instruments, first setting aside his inkstone -- his favourite one, carved in the shape of a turtle. Lost as he was in quiet focus, he still spared a glance to Thomas, who had no inkstone at all but instead a bottle of prepared ink. Wen gasped, an expression somewhere between genuine surprise and mock horror. “The prince is cheating. The ink is already prepared! I have never heard of such a thing.”

location: da forrest 

for: @prince-wen

    The prince still retained the affinity of a fledgling boy of but fourteen, despite being nearly twenty; his cheeks swelled with youth, spontaneously communicating happiness with rosy blushes.  Jianjun noted the changes in his countenance still, granting further notice, of his flittering ambitions and the glow of his eye, since bloomed since they were last intimate friends – he aspired thus, to undo, the pains of estrangement.  A requested the prince to favour him, with an eve of hunting had been made and accepted – the outskirts of the regal city, rife with crystals moons, descending into lush mountain lines. 

    The general buoyancy of Wen’s look and manner, had longed provoked ardent admiration from the ladies of their native court – Jianjun, had since mused, it would not be long before his in-law’s acquisition, of a foreign bride.  Astride their horses, the dense greenery of the forrest was but a leagues distance away; the evening, fastening a deep conviction within Jianjun’s chest, that all was best, embalmed . Covered with a cloak, he pressed upon Wen now, addressing his brother with only a compassionate eye and favourable phrase, endeavouring to break the common course, of silence. “You never fail to express yourself agreeably, dear brother, but I sincerely wish you, to convey any displeasure, as we venture forth this eve - my dear prince, as I should further address you. Have you still, a fondness for the hunt? Much fabled admiration, has been spewed in favour of the French forests. May we hope, that the West had no once more, fattened itself beyond the realm of reality.” Jianjun, was at his happiest - the February suns, shone for him alone, across the frosted French plains, where winter moons had begun to bestow their mellow beams. “The French court is rife at least, with an assortment of amusements and cultural delights – what has occupied your time most, thus far? Societal engagements, the arts, or perhaps a pretty face?” 

Jianjun was so diligent in reaching out, making an effort with Wen. Perhaps that had been the beginning of it, the reason for Wen’s nervousness around the man -- Wen was not accustomed to feeling special, or remembered. With two such strong willed older brothers, he often fell naturally into their shadow, and yet Jianjun still made an effort with him. Wen was always delighted to receive his invitation, and the promise of spending time with his brother in law would brighten his mood immeasurably in the days before they met.

Although, he preferred not to think of Jianjun as ‘brother in law’. He would confess it to no one (not even Lijuan), but the way he looked at Jianjun was emphatically not fraternal. He was sure it would pass, because it must. Wen had had infatuations before, and he had learned to outwait them. If there is one skill a youngest brother learns, it is patience.

Even outside of his excitement to spend time with Jianjun, Wen enjoyed hunting. That wasn’t to say he was a particularly skilled hunter; his arrow rarely found its mark. But he enjoyed the process, the freedom of galloping through crisp fresh air and kneading out whatever combination of stress, worry, and discomfort had fallen upon his shoulders. When he and Jianjun had first ridden out that evening Wen had taken off at a gallop and cantered in great circles around the man, taken by a boyish sense of whimsy, before he slowed his horse to a more sedate walking pace as they approached the forest, and the two fell into conversation.

“I enjoy the hunt very much, General. I am sure it is because I have learned alongside such a renowned warrior.” Wen said, voice warm and honest. He enjoyed the company, also, but feared to say it. He cast a quick glance towards Jianjun, whose military bearing bore him upon his horse with an immutable sense of power. He looked strong, as though born to ride a horse. 

Ah. His laughter, the immediate reaction to an innocent, but surprising question—one that he himself had never had cause to ponder—had been understood as laughter directed at the young man. Young prince, he corrected himself mentally, the bearing and costume of the man indicating his rank. Lorenzo nodded as the prince immediately grasped his meaning, if perhaps a youthful understanding, and not the studied one that philosophers’ and theorists’ held. “Precisely, yes! It is a form of remembrance, also, for the sacrifice made by Christ for mankind, and in consuming it, we remember, and realise it.”

Rising, he shook his head. “Not at all, Your Highness. I know what it is to be unfamiliar with a way of thought; why, my first meeting with… your own sister, the Princess Yicheng, was on a day such as this. It is where I learned much of what I know today of your own peoples’ religion, though to this day I know less of it than I would wish.” He looked around at the high-raised windows of the church, its curving walls, and gestured to them. “Many would agree with you, Your Highness, including myself. The very walls of cathedrals are meant to elevate the singers’ voices.”

.

It still seemed to Wen quite a barbaric notion; remembrance is a wonderful thing, but is it necessary to consume some simulacrum of their saviour’s flesh in order to do so? But it was not Wen’s place to make such comments. Should these Westerners travel to China, they would surely find many of Wen’s own customs odd. 

As Lorenzo rose to his feet, so Wen followed in kind and allowed his gaze to search curiously around the rafters and the jewel coloured glass depicting strange scenes far above them. As different as this cathedral was to the temples of home, it inspired a similar feeling in his heart: awe, at the scale of things and the vastness of the universe. How small we all are! Wen thought. Emperors and kings may rule by divine right, but it follows, then, that in the grand scheme of things an emperor is not so mighty after all. It was a matter of scale, he supposed.

“Perhaps one day China will be honoured with a visit from you, and you will experience our faith just as I have been so fortunate as to experience yours,” Wen offered. “It is my belief that art and culture is the greatest thing our countries can share. Indeed, being exposed to such unique works of art here -- from the structure of the buildings to the music -- has broadened my mind greatly.”

Yes, the two men sat close together could not have been more different. Wen was nothing like Eivor had ever seen before. Well, other than at these summits but that had always been in passing. He was beautiful in a lot of ways. Soft like a woman and yet he held distinctly male features. Striking that perfect balance between femininity and masculinity. Where Eivor came from that was not so common. Not so common at all. Yet this man walked that line effortlessly. He did not know what to make of it but he did know that he found an odd beauty in it. Eivor’s eyes flicked across Wen’s face, down his neck and chest, eyeing him down rather shamelessly. Sinning again, Eivor, and in a church no less. A smile pushed its way on to his face as he looked at the other man in the eye once more. 

He sucked in a breath to answer the other but only let out a light, amused, hum as he answered himself. “When death itself does not frighten you, it takes a great deal to.” Eivor agreed. “Though, even if it were true and this- whatever they call it is a piece of their god, I would not fear eating it.” He went on. “After all if we can eat a piece of a god does that not make us gods ourselves?” He asked before leaning back against the pew. “What are you called then little bird? What would you have me call you?”

.

Countless advisors had told Wen that a strong prince must be able to hold eye contact, because to look away first was to betray your own uncertainty. That was well and good for princes like Zhao, or Xiamin, because they were strong. They felt strong. Wen did not. Eivor’s gaze raked shamelessly down Wen’s body, and when he looked back up Wen could not meet his eyes. The feeling in his belly was not one he could put words to, nor could he even tell whether it was good or bad.

“You should not look at me in such a way,” Wen scolded, consumed by a brief moment of boldness. Something about this strange, wild man awoke a fight or flight response, and princes did not flee. He knew how many regarded him: little brother, by blood or by reputation. A boy, just a soft silken slip of a thing, and it wasn’t who he wanted to be. He would be strong like Zhao, though perhaps with better judgement. He wanted to be the sort of man that could, at least, tell someone to point their eyes elsewhere.

“I... I think my English is not as good as I had hoped,” Wen said, quite unable to meet Thomas’ eyes. This was not political, nor diplomatic, and Wen was quite at a loss. It took some strength to lift his gaze to meet Thomas’, bright blue and glittering in earnest. “For surely you would not ask such a thing of me. I--” Wen ought to be offended. Outraged, even. It was a wildly inappropriate question. And yet he was not outraged. He was flattered, with a shy fluttering in his belly. “I think that you could find a more handsome subject for your painting,” For surely Thomas could ask anyone at all, and they would be pleased. Nobody had ever asked Wen such a question before. He had sat for portraits, of course, of the formal variety -- but nobody had ever looked at him and desired... this. To see his body, as if it were something beautiful and worthy of the oil paints used to commit it to canvas. It made him feel quite special, as though Thomas saw him through different eyes. An artist’s eyes. Or perhaps it was Thomas that was special, to be able to look upon someone such as Wen and find beauty there.