If the old Emperor wanted a last vision of his life to be of a boy he tried to break, he would not find him. If he wanted the shape of the throne to bless him, he would meet only a wall.
Words tried to form and broke.
The eyes, untroubled by humility for seventy years, hunted the corridor for a minister, a petition, a screen, any furniture with which to props a life.
The only furniture here was a bowl, a pile of straw, a bar, and four men whose history with him had never included worship.
A tremor took the left hand, crawled up the arm, and then lost interest. The right hand stilled on the floor.
Yaozu lifted two fingers again for the second stick.
The physician watched the mouth for the moment when the body chose silence over effort and found it at the end of a breath that never turned around.
A long time passed in a short space.
