Han Xin didn't speak. He couldn't. He sat on the cold marble floor, his back against the bedframe. The jade pendant still clutched in his hand he buried his face into his mother's shoulder.
She was curled around him, her tears soaking into the folds of his robe. She wept without restraint, her sobs raw and unfiltered, the kind that cracked through centuries of composure.
Who would have thought the Divine Empress stern, unyielding, revered by gods and mortals alike would break down in tears? But in that moment, she was only a mother. And he was only a son.
Han Xin didn't really know how to comfort her so he simply stroked her back in slow, steady motions, his fingers tracing the embroidered sigils of her mantle. His gaze was distant, unfocused. His mind was elsewhere, lost in the echo of a name, in the phantom warmth of a hand that no longer held his.
Xiang Yu.
The ache in his chest was unbearable, but he let her cry. She needed it. Maybe he did too.
