Work Text:
“Here is a poem,” says Wen Kexing, appearing at his side without warning and brandishing a sheet of paper. Weining starts, dirty washing water splashing his robes; he’s up to his elbows in laundry.
Wen Kexing holds out the paper, waiting. Weining draws his hands from the water and dries them carefully on an old cloth, not wanting to ruin this unexpected gift.
When he takes the poem with murmured thanks, Wen Kexing gives him a hard stare. “Learn this one correctly,” he says. “I can’t stand to hear you mangle the classics.”
Weining blushes, but Wen Kexing does not spare him another glance as he turns and stalks from the room. Weining peers at the elegant strokes on the page. Two familiar characters catch his eye: Wen-xiong’s name, Kexing. Reading on, he realises why he has been given this poem.
The traveller, thinking sorrowfully of his home…
Guxiang, hometown: it is a perfect match for the sound of A-Xiang’s name.
Weining clutches the paper to his chest, mouthing the words. He knows that one day, when A-Xiang complains that her master no longer wants her, this will be worth more to her than any dowry of gold and jewels.