Crocodile Tears

If there ever was a man to walk out of a piece of poetry, then I must have just seen him.

Falling pear flowers fluttered around him before settling softly into his flowing white gown, and it was difficult to tell where the scenery met man. Though his long robes dragged onto the floor, not as much of a speck of dust dared to land on him.

Whether it was the timing or pure luck, as soon as I saw him, he began a new tune, the atmosphere of this one differing from the last.

He was fully immersed in his music, and his expressions moved along with every change in the positioning of his fingers as they flew across the strings of the lute.

During moments of calm, a slight smile took to his lips. But immediately as a trill sounded, his eyebrows knit into one in concentration. And at points of intensity, he would lean closer to the lute, making instrument and man into one and never taking his eyes off the instrument.

It was as if the song was coming alive. And though I knew nothing about music, never being able to afford lessons for this sport of the wealthy, I could sense the rippling emotions that mirrored the melody. I had once passed by a brothel, where there too was music, but none of its notes had ever touched me in such a manner.

Surprisingly, for a Southern song, it spoke no tales of everlasting beauty nor love but instead told a winding yet powerful message. Just when the melody was flat and dwindling to nothing, a sudden series of harsh plucks would dramatize the chords, disturbing the unity while adding a sense of renewed life.

And the musician himself encapsulated the song's supposedly juxtaposing sequence of passivity and vigor.

His features were not rough like that of a typical Northerner but not effeminate either. It was a strange combination, characterized by both sculpted lines and rounded angles, but somehow, on his face, these conflicting descriptions fit perfectly like a work of Heaven.

Was he another Southerner trapped in this foreign palace? No, he couldn't be. His hair was slightly curled at the tips, bearing the tell-tale traits of a nomadic tribe and giving him an aura of unconstraint. Yet, his features were too fine to be chiseled by the harsh Northern winds.

Just when the song reached its final notes, he strummed the final chords almost carelessly, ending the perfect song in a frankly disappointing manner, looking up. The bubble around him burst.

Two warm tea-colored eyes locked with mine, and only then did I catch myself staring. I could feel my face heat up from his intense gaze as he scrutinized me. Was he evaluating me?

"Liang Princess, do you know of this song?" I jumped at the sound of his voice. By any measure, it's deepness and roughness did not match his face. Even though I was used to the crude Northern accent by now, his was worse than most, almost reminding me of generals whose vocal cords have been eroded from countless battle cries.

To further, it was slightly hoarse from usage, and I almost wanted to prescribe him chuan bei to soothe his failing throat. He was young too, wear from age not at all the reason for overusing his voice. His master must have taken a fancy to his face and continually battered at him to sing.

"So the Fourth Princess of Liang is an unresponsive one," he stated, smiling without showing any teeth, an underlying thorn hidden in his words. He was not as angelic as his appearance, I realized as I snapped back to reality.

"At least I know my manners. Has no one taught you how to bow before a royal?" I glared while straightening my back, reminding myself that I was the one in a position of authority. "Too bad that your music is much better than your attitude."

Usually, I would not have been so harsh. But I suppose with greater expectations was greater disappointment. His music had so much promise, nearly transporting back to home, but the figure himself had an excess of pride that masked over his talents.

He made the motions of bowing before pausing and locking eyes with me once more. I couldn't tell his thoughts, and the uncertainty frightened me, the fear forging itself into a mask of calmness onto my face.

But his eyes. Of all of his features, his eyes had to be his most gripping characteristic. As cold as they were, they sparked and were curved in such a way that it seemed like he was always smiling.

Much to my surprise, he followed through with my command without any protests, performing a perfectly-angled bow.

"You are truly much different from what they said." Countless emotions swirled within his eyes, and I realized that I was incapable of fully interpreting them. The whole time, he acted as if he had read me like an open book.

"Are all Sui court musicians as such?"

"No," he responded as a sly smile lit up his face. "They're not all as handsome as me."

If I had been drinking water, I surely would have choked. While my first instinct was to chastise him, seeing his smug grin, I decided otherwise.

"Your Highness, you haven't answered my question," he reminded, running his hands over the lute as if brushing off the dust, transitioning seamlessly from casual banter back to interrogation.

I shook my head no, not at all sure why I was answering to a court musician in the first place. Perhaps it was because his voice was easily influencing, a soothing aspect to it that pried at the secrets locked inside you despite its harsh sounds.

"This song is titled 'Melody of Guangling,'" he paused. "Does that ring a bell?"

Once again, I shook my head no. Music was never within reach for me, the official lessons of proper misses being too expensive and the intentionally pleasing sounds of the p.r.o.s.t.i.t.u.t.es bringing shame to my uncle and aunt's honor.

Only the name Guangling was familiar, but that city too now belonged to the Chen.

"It's quite an old tale, dating back to the Warring States, but a celebration of ultimate triumph after perseverance all the same," he said while playfully plucking at a string. "A son of a blacksmith commits suicide after stabbing the king of Han, avenging his father before bringing the sword to his own neck."

He closed his eyes, recalling a selection from memory.

"Hatred." The shrill trills sprung to life, screaming battle cries.

"Chaos." His hands flew across the entire lute, seemingly in multiple places as once as various chords created purposeful dynamics.

"Indignation." The notes gradually decrescendoed, loneliness gripping the air.

Before the final note echoed to an end, he pressed both hands to the lute, stopping the strings from resonating.

"So, Liang Princess, what do you think of this song?" His eyes pierced through me.

Behind that question, he was asking what my path would be.