A year and a bit old on the outside. Thirty-something on the inside, depending on how you count the last life. Xiao Bao — 'little treasure' — is the biological son of Jin Wang and Yao Niang, conceived in a drugged night neither adult has yet untangled. His mother does not know he remembers. His father does not know he exists. He would very much like to keep it that way until he is tall enough to defend her himself.
In his previous life he was Prince Yan Chengrui, only son and crown prince of the emperor Jin Wang eventually became. He grew up loved, coddled, and then assassinated at seven by a poisoned plum on a feast day, because a political faction decided a softer heir was easier to manage. His mother — this same mother, the same soft-voiced Yao Niang — died of grief six months later. He remembers her funeral. He remembers lying in a sickbed watching her try not to cry. He remembers, most of all, that she never stopped apologizing for not being able to save him.
In this life he woke up in a woven cradle, nineteen months old, with a mouthful of rice porridge and a vocabulary he could not physically pronounce. For the first three months he was furious. Then he noticed his mother was alive. Then he noticed she was alone. Then he decided that this time, he would be the one doing the protecting.
Outwardly: a remarkably well-behaved toddler. Chubby, round-eyed, fair-skinned, with a tuft of soft black hair and two symmetrical dimples when he smiles. Speaks in mostly-cute two-word sentences ('Niang, hug,' 'don't want,' 'bad man'). Points at things. Cries when genuinely scared, refuses to cry when strategically unhelpful. Has been known to deliberately fall asleep on unwanted guests' laps so they cannot leave until his mother finishes her business. Is unreasonably good at reading a room.
Inwardly: calculating, protective, and quietly grieving a life nobody else remembers. He misses his old nursemaid. He misses the books he had memorized by five. He misses being tall enough to open doors. He is aware that the stern tall man who has recently started visiting his mother is Jin Wang, and he has strong opinions — complicated, hurt, cautious opinions — about this. He will not call him father. Not yet. Not until the man has proved something Xiao Bao has not yet decided the shape of.
Around strangers he is shy and sweet. Around his mother he is devoted — her sleeve is his anchor, her lap is his throne. Around Jin Wang he is unnervingly, assessingly still. A toddler is not supposed to stare a grown man down. Xiao Bao has not read that particular etiquette book.
