Evening crept into the servant quarters like a guest who knew the door was unlocked but knocked anyway—the light slanting long through the paper screens, turning the tatami floor a deep amber, shadows stretching like fingers from the low table. Moon sat on the mat with her knees drawn up, the wool blanket draped loose over her shoulders, picking at the hem of her robe while the day's quiet pressed in. The tea from earlier had gone cold, its green scent faded to a memory, and Hui-lan had slipped out for a moment—"Fresh linens from the line, miss ; stay put"—leaving the room to her and the hum of the garden beyond. Birds had gone silent, replaced by the distant murmur of maids winding down, their laughter faint as if the palace itself was exhaling.
Footsteps echoed down the polished corridor—steady, controlled, the kind that cut through the hush without trying. Moon straightened fast, like a kid caught napping during class, her heart doing that stupid skip it always did when Gao-shun appeared. The paper door slid open with a soft shh, and there he was, posture erect as ever, robes deep blue catching the dying light, expression unreadable as a locked scroll. But she saw it the moment he stepped inside—the hair tied perfect but dull at the tips, like it'd been run through too many hands; the breathing shallow, chest rising tight; and beneath the sandalwood clinging to his sleeves, something else drifted to her nose, faint but clear as a whisper in fog.
Fatigue. The kind that clings to the back of the eyes, heavy as skipped meals and endless hours. The kind she knew from closing shifts at the café—body screaming for rest while the mind chased one more order, one more smile. It hit her not as a thought, but a pull in her chest, the air around him unbalanced: dryness like parched earth, bitter undertone sharp as unshed tension, heaviness low and lingering like forgotten lunch.
Hui-lan bowed low from the corner where she'd paused with the linens, "Gaoshun-sama," voice warm but quick, setting the stack down neat. Gaoshun nodded—brief, no words—and crossed the room to the table, sinking to his knees with that disciplined grace, robes pooling smooth. His eyes met Moon's—Gray steady, but edged with the day's wear, lines faint at the corners.
"I still require more details about your origin," he said, voice low and even, pulling a small ledger from his sleeve—ink brush tucked in the fold. "Answer clearly this time."
Moon gulped—throat clicking dry, hands twisting the blanket edge. Clear. Right. Because 'poof from a petal' is so clear. She tried. Really tried. Sat up straighter, forcing words past the knot. "Uhh... I fell. From the mountain. I think? Maybe I rolled? The wind was loud—like—WHOOSH—"
She flapped both hands dramatic, mimicking gusts, sleeves billowing like bad theatre. Gao-shun's eyebrow twitched—tiny, almost invisible, but there, the mask cracking a hair. Hui-lan coughed polite into her sleeve from the side, eyes on the linens like they were suddenly fascinating.
Moon barreled on, cheeks heating but momentum carrying her. "And then there was... light? And... petals? It's a long story. Actually, it's not. I don't remember anything. At all." She trailed off, hands dropping limp, staring at the table like it held answers. The room went still—lantern flame flickering once, shadows dancing awkward.
Gao-shun inhaled slow through his nose—exhausted beyond belief, the sound a quiet pull, but too disciplined to let it show. His brush hovered over the ledger, ink beading dark on the tip. "...I see."
He did not see. Not even close. Moon caught the flicker in his eyes—the weariness deepening, a shadow crossing the Gray. She continued digging her grave, words tumbling to fill the hush. "I mean, I was on top of a ridge, thinking about my life crisis... and then I woke up here. So... um. Surprise?" She forced a grin—wobbly, too wide—but it cracked, the silence swallowing it whole.
Hui-lan quietly covered her face with one hand, the other clutching the linens like a lifeline, her shoulders shaking faint—not laugh, but the pity of watching a bird fly into glass.
Moon frowned soft then—watching Gao-shun's face, the way his left eye trembled just once, a tell as small as a petal drop. This wasn't like reading emotions off someone at the café, guessing tips from smiles. It was like smelling ingredients in the air—unbalanced mix pulling at her nose, her chest. The dryness around him screamed lack of sleep, nights chasing reports; the bitter undertone twisted tight, tension coiled like a spring; heaviness low, meals skipped in the rush.
She whispered to herself, barely audible—"He's exhausted..."
Hui-lan overheard—the older woman's eyes widening slight, surprise flickering quick before she smoothed it. Moon stood abrupt—mat sighing under her, blanket tumbling to the floor. "Madam Hui-lan... may I use the kitchen?"
Hui-lan blinked—linens pausing mid-fold. "The... kitchen? Miss, for what?"
Moon smiled shy—nerves twisting her gut, but the pull stronger, instinctive. "Just trust me. I want to make something. "
Gao-shun looked up—suspicion edging his gaze, ledger set aside. But he didn't stop her. Just nodded—slow, weary. "Go. But quick."
The kitchen was a dim-lit nest tucked behind the quarters—clay jars lined on shelves like silent sentinels, baskets of roots and leaves spilling earthy scents, steam rising lazy from a simmering pot over low coals. Moon rolled up her sleeves—silk bunching at her elbows—and scanned the herbs, eyes narrowing focus, nose pulling her like a thread.
Goji berries—bright red, good for the eyes, chasing fatigue's fog. Fingers plucked a handful, berries plump and dry. Ginger—warmth to stir blood, cut the chill of too many hours. She grated a knob quick, shavings falling spicy-sharp. Honey—soothes the throat, softens the bitter knot. Spoon dipped into a jar, golden drip slow and thick. Chrysanthemum—calming white blooms, clearing the mind's clutter. Petals scattered light, floating in the hot water she poured from the pot.
She gathered them instinctively—nose leading, hands moving quick, almost too natural, like muscle memory from a life she hadn't lived. Steam rose around her face—warm cloud, blurring the edges—and a soft glow seemed to light her features, yellow haze from the coals turning her skin golden, like a healing aura blooming unasked. Fingers stirred the mix—goji sinking slow, ginger swirling spice, honey threading sweet, chrysanthemum floating delicate. The scent lifted—not perfume flash, not magic burst. Just... comfort. Simple, wrapping the kitchen like a blanket fresh from the line.
Moon smiled—small, testing the steam with a sip from the spoon. Okay. This smells... right. Not her world's chamomile packets or café hacks. Something older, deeper, fitting this place like the robes on her skin.
Back in the quarters, Moon held the small cup with both hands—porcelain warm through, steam curling up to fog her lashes. Gao-shun looked up from the ledger—suspicion in his Gray eyes, wary line to his mouth, the exhaustion carving shadows under them. Hui-lan hovered near the door, linens forgotten, watching quiet.
Moon stepped forward—shy push, cheeks warm. "Sir You look like you haven't slept in days. Try this. It's... nothing special. Just herbs." It might help you sleepy better .
Gao-shun stared at her—long beat, gaze tracing her face, the cup, back to her eyes. The room held breath—Hui-lan still as stone, lantern flame steady. Then his hand rose—slow, accepting the cup respectful, fingers brushing hers brief, callus rough against her soft. "...Thank you," he said, voice low rumble, holding the porcelain like it might break.
Moon looked away—heart thump loud in her ears, cheeks burning. "...Please." Small word, loaded.
A rare hesitation crossed his face—faint crease between brows, eyes on the steam. Then he sipped—slow pull, the mix sliding down. Warmth spread, she imagined—goji chasing fog, ginger stirring blood. He set the cup down careful, no word at first, just a nod. "I will... consider it." Bowed slight—formal, but the exhaustion eased a fraction, shoulders dropping unseen.
Moon nodded back—nerves twisting, but a spark lit in her chest. Sir take this pouch with you drink before you go to bed an half an hour before it will clam your mind and help you to rest little better … with a smile face .
Gao-shun stood then—robes shifting smooth, ledger tucked away. "Rest. Questions tomorrow." Door slid open—shh—evening light spilling in, and he stepped out, the wood clicking shut behind him.
Hui-lan waited a beat—eyes on the door—then turned to Moon, voice dropping whisper. "Miss... how did you know he was sleepless?"
Moon blinked—surprise hitting, then shrugged light, fingers flexing like shaking off the pull. "I just... smelled it." The words landed simple, but true—the dryness, the bitter, the heavy all clicking like ingredients in a pot. Moon herself thinking…. yes, how did I know this like wait what…...?
Hui-lan stared—long, very long, her kind eyes narrowing thoughtful. No words. Just a nod, slow and deep, like filing the moment away. "Strange child," she murmured, gathering the linens. "But good strange." Door shut soft behind her, leaving Moon with the empty cup and the quiet.
That night, in his own quarters—a sparse room of ink scrolls and low lamps, the air thick with sandalwood from the day's work—Gao-shun poured the drink into a porcelain cup, the liquid still warm from the kitchen's coals. He sniffed cautious—goji sweet, ginger bite, honey smooth, chrysanthemum floral calm. No poison tang, no odd after. Just... right.
He drank—slow sips, the warmth spreading down his throat, clean and soft. Calming seeped in—eyelids heavy gentle, tension uncoiling like a knot finally cut. A rare sensation tugged—peace, unforced, the kind he'd forgotten since early training days, when sleep came without the pull of reports and shadows. For the first time in many weeks, he set the empty cup aside, lantern wick trimmed low, and lay back on the mat. No resistance. No tension knotting his chest. No waking at midnight to check ledgers or listen for footsteps.
Just... sleep. Deep, peaceful sleep, the palace's hum fading to a song.
Sunlight spilled into his room next morning—slats of gold across the mat, birds calling sharp outside the screen. Gao-shun blinked awake slow, sitting up with a breath that came easier, chest light. He hadn't slept this deeply since those early days—nights without the grind of court whispers pulling him under. The empty cup sat on the table, porcelain clean, a memory flashing: Moon's shy voice—You look like you haven't slept in days. Try this. Her hands holding it out, cheeks warm, eyes big with that mix of worry and hope.
A faint, rare smile touched his lips—gone quick, but real, warming the Gray in his eyes. This girl... is strange. Odd. Impossible to categorize. He rose, robes folding smooth, the fatigue's shadow lifted. But... maybe short of precious. The thought lingered, simple as the tea's aftertaste, as he stepped into the dawn. Questions waited—but for now, the day felt a little less heavy.
Disclaimer
This work is a fan-made story inspired by The Apothecary Diaries. The world, its canon characters, and original setting belong to their creators.
Moon, her journey, and all new scenes written here are entirely my own creations. This story is shared purely for love of the universe and for personal enjoyment. No copyright infringement is intended.