After that day, he changed.
Not a sudden, earth-shattering change. But a subtle one, like the grass on the steppe slowly turning green from the withered yellow of winter—so slow that if I wasn't by his side every day, I wouldn't have noticed.
He stopped bringing his knife to class.
The first day I noticed, I didn't ask. The second day, neither. On the third day, I couldn't help but glance at his empty waist.
"Looking for something?" he asked.
"Your knife."
"Didn't bring it."
"Why?"
"Don't need it."
When he said this, he didn't look at me, head down writing on the board. But I noticed his ears—they weren't red. He wasn't being stubborn; he genuinely didn't think he needed it.
I withdrew my gaze and continued teaching him to write "Xia" (Summer/Western Xia).
"Xia. The Xia of Western Xia. This character has many strokes, write slowly."
He wrote it once. Crooked, but recognizable.
"You before," he said suddenly, "at that U-something place of yours—"
"UCLA."
"UCLA." He pronounced it much smoother this time. "What did you study there?"
I looked up at him. This was the first time he actively asked about me.
"Psychology," I said.
"What study?"
"Psychology. It means studying people."
"Studying what about people?"
"Human behavior. Human thoughts. Why people do one thing, and not another."
He stopped his brush and looked at me.
"Then you study me," he said. Not a question, but a statement.
"I am teaching you to read."
"You are also studying me."
I looked at him. The eleven-year-old youth, sitting opposite the low table, holding a piece of charcoal, looking at me with an expression I couldn't quite read.
"Yes," I said. "I am studying you."
He didn't get angry. Nor did he say "you have a screw loose" like before.
He was just quiet for a moment.
"Studied out what?" he asked.
I put down the charcoal in my hand.
"You don't want others to see you," I said.
His fingers paused.
"You don't want others to see your fear, your hesitation, your not knowing what to do. So you turn yourself into a knife—"
He stood up.
He didn't leave. Just walked from one side of the low table to the other, back facing me.
I didn't stop.
"Knives don't need to fear. Knives don't hesitate. Knives always know where to cut."
He didn't speak.
"But you are not a knife."
He turned his head to look at me. That look—not sharp, not probing. Something I couldn't quite read.
"You are a person," I said. "You get hurt, you get tired, you sit alone in the dark after everyone leaves, not knowing what you are thinking."
He stood there. The wind in the tent poured in through the curtain seams, blowing the stray hairs on his forehead.
"Your father tells you, you must become the King of Western Xia. You must be stronger than the Song, stronger than the Liao, stronger than everyone. But you don't know what 'strong' means. Is it defeating everyone? Is it making everyone fear you?"
I paused.
"Or is it so that no one can ever hurt you again?"
He walked back.
Not back to the opposite side of the table. But to in front of me. Looking down. Close enough for me to see the reflection in his eyes.
"What you fear isn't losing," I said. "You fear being seen losing."
He didn't speak. Didn't move.
"So you hide yourself. Hide behind the knife, hide behind the two characters 'Prince'—"
"Are you done?" His voice was very flat.
"Done."
"Then it's my turn."
He stepped back two paces and sat back opposite the low table.
"You are also very good at hiding," he said.
I paused.
"When you smile," he said, "your eyes don't smile."
My fingers twitched.
"When you teach me to write, you look at my hands. When you speak for others, you look at the faces of people around you first. When you are afraid—"
He looked at me.
"You also smile."
The tent was very quiet.
"Since when did you start noticing?" I asked.
"The first day."
"First day?"
"When you entered my tent. You saw the blood, you were afraid, but you didn't run."
He lowered his head, picked up the charcoal, and scratched a line on the board.
"People who don't run when afraid," he said, "are not unafraid. They are used to it."
My heart skipped a beat.
"What are you used to fearing?" he asked.
I looked at him.
"Used to fearing being discovered," I said, "that you actually don't know what you are doing."
His fingers paused. Then he continued scratching that line.
"Do you know," I spoke, my voice lighter than I expected, "in the subject I studied, there is a sentence."
"What sentence?"
" 'The reason a person becomes what they later become is not because of who they are. It is because of what they experienced.' "
He looked up.
"You are a knife now," I said, "because someone sharpened you into a knife."
"No one sharpened me," he said.
"Yes. Your father. Those people around you. This place that makes you have to be strong, strong, strong just to survive."
He didn't refute.
"But if someone told you," I said, "you don't have to be a knife. You can also be a person. One who gets scared, gets tired, doesn't know what to do—"
"And then?" he asked.
"Then you can choose."
"Choose what?"
"Choose what kind of person you want to become."
He was quiet for a long time. Long enough for the charcoal to snap in half in his hand. He didn't notice.
"That place of yours," he said suddenly, "UCLA. Why did you study this thing?"
"Psychology?"
"Mm."
I thought about it.
"Because I wanted to know," I said, "why people become what they don't want to become."
He didn't ask "Did you find out?". He just looked at me.
"What are you afraid of becoming?" he asked.
This question made me silent.
"What are you afraid of becoming?" he asked again.
"I am afraid of becoming—" I paused, "someone who is nothing."
He looked at me.
"Your fear is useless," he said. Not a question, but a statement.
"Mm."
"You fear they will say to you, you shouldn't stay here."
I looked up at him.
"You came here," he said, "haven't cried, haven't begged."
He paused.
"Not because you aren't afraid. But because you need this place to need you."
The tent was quiet enough to hear the sound of charcoal ash falling from the broken charcoal stick.
He saw me.
Not "Jiang Jinyue, Han woman, Prince's teacher" this identity. But me. The one from Los Angeles, who doesn't know why she is here, who thinks "what am I doing here" every day.
"Are you done?" I asked.
"Done."
"Then it's my turn."
"You still have more to say?"
"No more." I stood up, knees a bit numb. "Class ends here for today."
He looked up at me.
"The 'Xia' character you wrote," I said, "left side too big, right side too small. Rewrite tomorrow."
I turned to walk out.
"Jiang Jinyue."
I stopped.
"You just said, people can choose what kind of person to become."
"Mm."
"Did you choose?"
I didn't look back.
"Choosing," I said.
I lifted the curtain and walked out. Sunlight shone on my face, warm. But my eyes stung a bit.
Not because of sadness.
Because he saw.
An eleven-year-old child who just learned to write "Xia", saw.
I took a deep breath, walked forward. Sunlight stretched my shadow long.
I didn't look back.
Inside the tent, the youth sat behind the low table.
He looked down at the "Xia" character he wrote. Left side too big, right side too small. Need to rewrite tomorrow.
He didn't flip the board over.
He picked up the charcoal, chose the longer of the two broken pieces, and wrote a line of text in the corner of the board.
Very small. So small you couldn't see it without looking closely.
"Jiang Jinyue."
Three characters. Crooked. Even uglier than the "Xia" he wrote.
He picked up that board, placed it deep inside the pile of furs. Pressed it down.
Not hiding. Just placing.
She said, people become what they later become because of what they experienced.
He thought about what he experienced.
He didn't know where to start thinking.
She said, you can choose what kind of person to become.
He closed his eyes.
Then what kind of person do you want to become?
He asked himself.
No answer.
But he knew—
She wanted him to become a person. Not a knife, not a Prince, but—
He didn't know what that word was called.
But he wanted to try.
She asked him since when he started noticing. He said the first day.
Not the truth.
It was before the first day.
When those people brought her in from outside the camp, he stood behind the tent curtain, saw her walking from a distance. She walked very slowly. Not the slow of fear, but the slow of "I am looking at this place".
Everyone else walked in with heads down.
She walked in with her head up.
He didn't know why he remembered this.
He turned over, pressing his right hand on his chest. There was a piece of paper there. And a board—the one pressed deep inside the fur pile.
He didn't move them.
She said, people can choose.
He closed his eyes.
Outside the tent, the moon rose.
The wind on the grassland stopped.
End of Chapter 7