Chapter Text
A gentle breeze was coming in through the window. Shen Qingiu’s body stirred, a small frown forming on his face. His fingers twitched minutely against the sheets.
Had it all been a fever dream? Was there a fate cruel enough to birth such a nightmare? Or was it the beast twisting the knife just so, pulling at the remaining threads of his frayed consciousness? A passing reprieve. A taunting spark to rekindle the pain long dulled by habit. The king opens the cage, forces pray to run. The king draws the bow–
Relentlessly, clarity began to seep in. He resisted.
No use. The beast could come bearing as many gifts as it wanted. It could wail and roar, it could beg and tear and disgrace however it pleased, here, at the blasphemous altar it had placed Shen Qingqiu upon. The altar where it had anointed him, made him into a god forever kept from culmination by his one ardent devotee. God of unreachable quietus. God of perpetual disembowelment.
No use. Once corporeal pain had been exhausted as a bargaining chip, the beast had turned its greedy claws to the overflowing well of Shen Qingqiu’s emotional trauma. It tried to lay him open, to gnaw at his heart and curl up in the cradle of his ribs. It replicated in all likeness the broad face of the slaver, the revolting warmth of diseased bodies piled up against him from all sides. The fair hands of the young master down to the blue mapping of veins under fragrant sleeves. The expanse of his presence. The blooming of skin under punishing fingers and the feel of bamboo stick hitting the back of his legs. Even the oblivious chirp of a singing bird happily perched on its cage.
No use. He had always been self-sufficient. The sycophant could rest assured; torment would never be lacking. As the beast nosed the sullied skin of his neck, little nothings falling from his lips, Shen Qingqiu would just lock himself on a loop of his most intimate heartbreak where none could enter. Shen Qingqiu’s hallucinations had the aesthetic appeal and the martial prowess of a doubled edged sword. Left behind was the insentient body of the master for the unfilial disciple to be accompanied by.
But wasn’t the other a god, too. God of hunger. God of malice. What if? The capital is besieged, pestilence finds its way through the cracks.
Ah. Such a flimsy rope to walk on.
He refused to open his eyes, feeling Yue Qingyuan’s gentle breathing to his right. Rough hands caressed his knuckles intimately. So much time had passed since he last caught a trace of the Sect Leader’s scent – warm and dry, like a wheat field at the peak of summer. It could feel different. Messier. A daring taste at the back of the tongue.
A violent shudder forced some blood up of his throat. Before he could hide his mouth behind a sleeve, Yue Qingyuan kept him steady with a gentle grip. He dabbed the corners of Shen Qingqiu’s mouth with a handkerchief, staining it red beyond repair.
Shen Qingqiu kept his eyes fixed on the Sect Leader’s chest, unable to meet that intense gaze boring holes in him. Dizziness brought migraine along to the party. What would it feel like, seeing himself reflected on the eyes of the man whose life had been dragged down from High Heavens just by association?
‘Get away,’ his heart pleaded. No words were allowed to come out. The skin on his lips broke and then bloomed as he pressed them into a tight line. Light pierced through his skull like an arrow. The pungent smell of iron helped him settle a bit, like a trusted cane. When Xuan Su’s remains had been presented to him, gleaming scales torn from a formidable dragon, he had wanted to shallow them all. Let them pierce and let them fester.
Yue Qingyuan’s sword was now resting against a wall, cast aside in a careless manner.
Whether rebirth or delusion, this was nothing. It meant nothing.
Yet the possibility was a dirty street cat rubbing his body against Shen Qingqiu’s legs. A chance. A chance.
“Shidi, let me –”
Yue Qingyuan’s hand was slapped away before it could once again breach propriety.
He ought to steel himself, ought to keep himself ready for the act to be dropped. If this was yet another mind game – What? What if it was? What could Shen Qingqiu possibly do but to face it, unyielding? It had become easier after a life of practice to alienate himself from his bodily experiences. Yue Qingyuan’s ghost had shaken him, that was all. He would gather himself soon enough.
The back of his hand still buzzed from the collision.
It had been real, hadn’t it? The man-eating wolf, the swinging of his dismembered body.
It had been real.
The dead man that was Yue Qingyuan was staring at him with heartfelt worry. No complaint or gibe or meek retreat. He wished this person would just devour him whole, let him rest under placid waters. How would that feel, to be worn under skin and bone. To feel Yue Qingyuan’s heart throbbing all around him. Like vermin on hidden paths moving to the beat of the earth, a deafening drum within.
Yue Qingyuan was a mountain. He forced Shen Qingqiu’s wrist up and pressed two fingers over his pulse. The audacity of it took Shen Qingqiu by surprise. His quibbles were drowned amidst thunder, for the Sect Leader’s voice travelled outside the room with oppressive force. “Go,” he commanded to some disciple or other guarding the door, “send word to Qian Cao.”
Yue Qingyuan took advantage of Shen Qingqiu’s bewilderment; a tentative hand rested gingerly on his forehead, providing both discomfort and relief. He felt a little pleased knowing his sweat would taint that fine sleeve of his illustrious shixiong. He also felt a little disgusted with himself, and so he tried to push the hand away rather soon. He found he couldn’t, much like a hare struggling against the hunter’s grip. Yue Qingyuan whispered a word of reassurance. Nausea was throwing punches in his stomach. He felt faint. Weakened. Yue Qingyuan just wouldn’t stop staring. He felt like he was being pulled in all directions at once. Yue Qingyuan cupped his face, fingers trembling in obvious distress, said the fever was rising. Shen Jiu ceased all efforts and lost consciousness for a while.
He might have dreamed. Then again, if a dream happens within a dream –
Shen Qingqiu came to himself just as Mu Qingfang engaged in his examinations. There was no use in feigning unconsciousness in front of these two people, so he braced himself for the second act. The two of them talked in hushed voices. Shen Qinigqiu could fill in the gaps just fine: don’t let him wake up, he’ll only make things difficult. He’ll refuse, he’ll hurt himself, he has a knack for veering matters into unpleasant experiences.
“… light sensitivity?”
“I think so,” the Sect Leader whispered as he drew the curtains. If only he was always so receptive to subtle orders. Shen Qingqiu opened his eyes with a soft exhale of intense displeasure.
“Shixiong,” Mu Qingfang’s gaze always felt so heavy. Unlike his hands. The careful hands of his shidi – never invasive, ever so clinical – got a hold of him and settled on his wrist. A stream of qi travelled through his body, reopening channels and digging out his crushed organs from underneath. He could picture it vividly, like thunder piercing through suffocating clouds. His eyes seemed to follow the energy trail from the outside; maybe the doctor was picturing it too. Shen Qingqiu didn’t have the mind to be embarrassed by his sorry excuse of a foundation at present. Not that it had ever been much of a secret to begin with. He stared at the man in front of him and willed the pain out of his features.
Ah. He had never given much thought to this shidi of his, had he? Shen Qingqiu had only known how to sort people into “himself” and “troublesome”. If someone were to fall in between, it would most likely blend into the background. But that wasn’t entirely true, was it? He did notice Mu Qingfang. He noticed the soft edges of his face, the intense shadows under his eyes, the pleasantness of his voice which was on the coarser side. It gave a special kind of weight to his manner of speaking, always so steady. The way he seemed to have a tacit understanding of ugliness, that was something Shen Jiu had very much noticed too, and thus kept his distance. His weariness towards his shidi had been of a particular flavor. There had been an intimacy of sorts, in their youth. Shen Jiu refused to go to Qian Cao out of pride once the beatings from the Bai Zhan brute became a regular occurrence and Mu shidi started to show up on Qing Jing uninvited. At his weakest, head cushioned on the lap of a woman, Shen Jiu had almost craved the caring touch of the other; the remnants of spring, a loneliness to be artfully composed. But yearning was a recreational pursuit, and in the end Shen Qingqiu had risen high enough to isolate himself and Mu Qingfang hadn’t needed to fuss over broken ribs and fingers anymore. Surely all past affections would have been dragged through the mud after accusations piled up on Shen Qingqiu’s shoulders. Out with the pretense. It had never been this man the one Shen Qingqiu had burnt for.
In the throes of deviation, it was always Yue Qingyuan who’d bring him back, who’d sit by his bedside just like now. At the moment Yue Qingyuan towered behind Mu Qingfang’s slender frame, looming like a hungry ghost. Every single thing had to become a study on duality when it came to Yue Qingyuan, right? Open fire between them while mutiny undermined their ranks behind the trenches. Once again, Shen Qingqiu’s eyes narrowed in ire and anguish he himself couldn’t process. All the staged care, the natural talent for decorum, the spitting image of Budha; what a laugh. There were embers to be fanned.
Fire bears fire bears fire.
“Zhangmen shixiong, it would be best if you stepped outside for some time.” Mu Qingfang’s face blocked Shen Qingqiu’s view without making eye contact with either of them. “I need to ask Shen shixiong some questions and he might be distracted by your presence.”
Yue Qingyuan’s qi flared almost imperceptibly. Shen Jiu’s lips curved slightly, just for a second. He could smell the desperation, that revolting need the man had to wait on him like a dog. Shen Qingqiu’s heart rate picked up and Mu Qingfang frowned.
“Zhangmen shixiong,” Mu Qingfang’s voice didn’t waver. “Please step out.”
Yue Qingyuan turned his silence into the string of a bow, drawing it taut only to let it loose. Ever the disappointment.
“Qingqiu,” he sounded so defeated, restraining himself from locking eyes again. “I’ll be outside. It won’t take long.”
Were not for the presence of another, Shen Qingiu would have aimed the porcelain jug to that useless head of his. The nerve of him. Seeing Yue Qingyuan’s back leaving the room at last, Shen Qingqiu let go of the air he didn’t know he had been holding. He became lightheaded, sinking deeper into the bed. Mu Qingfang’s qi retreated from him. Shen Qingqiu felt drained.
He took in the room, faced with the life accounted for by these walls. Which disciple had been tasked to sweep the floor? By name, he knew not more than ten. On his desk, someone had favored a delicate bouquet over incense.
With great effort, he brought a cup to his lips and nodded to Mu Qingfang.
“Shixiong, I’ll refrain as much as possible from asking the obvious but bear with me. Some questions are unavoidable.” Shen Qingqiu did not react. “Are you noticing any gaps in your memory?”
If this was in fact another sick game, what did it matter? If it wasn’t, then for sure he had gone mad. The finality of it provided him with some respite. Play along, not play along. Whatever.
“I am well aware of my surroundings, but I have trouble pinpointing this exact moment in time.”
“I see. Could you tell me what’s your most recent memory?”
“I can’t. But it just feels like I’ve been sleeping too long to remember. I can infer from your faces that I’ve suffered from severe qi deviation once again, so the haze is to be expected.”
“Yes. It was laced with a strong fever, though, this time. Shixiong really did almost die, then closed up to the world for a month. That’s how long it has been. Please, circulate your qi – a whole cycle through your body and into an object.” Mu Qingfang placed a tattered fan into his hands. It had a deep split and someone had clearly tried to wipe it clean to no avail. Shen Qingqiu circulated his qi, a fragile stream writhing though rubble. It took some time to reach his hands and accumulate enough to be transferred into the wretched thing, but he managed. He had a core. A phantom pain bit deep into his bones.
“Could you call forth your sword?”
He tried. He could. Xiu Ya purred softly inside its scabbard, all the way across the room. That felt easier. Felt like Xiu Ya was doing all the work, eager to be by its master’s side.
He had Xiu Ya.
If this was not a dream –
“It seems like there’s no permanent damage, even though it is too soon to decide whether shixiong has suffered a setback in his cultivation.”
“I won’t abstain from practice,” he said.
“This one merely hopes his shixiong will abstain from worrying this shidi too much, that’s all. I will be providing regular check-ups.”
“I’m sure you’ll try.”
He was answered by Mu Qingfang’s private smile. It really had been long. But why bring it back? Was it pity? Hardly, what would be the point.
“Now, regarding internal injuries. Will Shen shixiong apply the salve himself?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll leave for now. Should I keep Zhangmen shixiong from coming in?”
“Yes.”
“Alright.”
A name got swallowed before it even began to form on Shen Jiu’s lips. Mu Qingfang looked at him inquisitively but didn’t press.
He needn’t ask. Figuring it out was a matter of time.