Chapter Text
He is getting old; that is the first reason Yan Wushi can come up with. Time's relentless march spares no one, and Yan Wushi, despite his well-maintained physical prowess, is not exempt, although he does not like to admit it. Still, he reasons, gone are the days of youth, replaced by aching joints and a weariness that settles within him.
Yet it is not merely physical discomfort that plagues him. No, there is something deeper, something that lingers behind his every breath, coiling in his chest.
His second reason, one that he can more readily accept, is that he has been cursed. By someone who hates him and wants to lead him to a horrifyingly painful death. Which makes more sense. Yet, as he ponders who it could be, he realizes it matters little.
The list of those he has offended or humiliated, or even killed stretches long and winding, leaving no shortage of potential enemies. What matters now is curing it, and to cure it, he must find out when it started.
But the thing is, he has no inkling of when this pain started in the first place.
No matter how much he forces himself, he cannot fathom why the pain brews between his temples like a tempest or why his joints creak and throb with every movement. Why is his breath coming out in gasps, as if something is lodging itself in his chest and refusing to yield?
Looking back, in the beginning, it was a mere tickling sensation. An annoyance. Gradually, it transformed into an uncomfortable heaviness that engulfed his whole body. Now it hurts with searing agony...
... but Yan Wushi is not one to succumb to pain or weakness. This pain may attempt to conquer him, but it will not prevail. No challenge is too great for him to overcome. He delves deep within himself, searching for the well of spiritual energy that has sustained him in the past, hoping to find relief from this wretched pain. But it is as if his reserves have run dry, the once abundant source diminished to a mere trickle.
Though he still conceals the torment through sheer force of will alone and keeps acting as if nothing is amiss, deep down he knows that without a cure, he may be reduced to a pitiable, bedridden state. A shadow of the powerful man he once was. And Yan Wushi has, somewhere along the line of enduring this mystifying pain, come to realize that he might need to ask for help, which is a humiliating feeling in itself. Yan Wushi never asks for help.
Yet, confronted with the agonizing pain that burns him, he understands that his choices are limited. Either he solicits aid or endures this torment until it eats away his very core, until he breathes his last.
Contemplating his options, Yan Wushi wonders if he even possesses trusted allies within the Huanyue Sect to confide in and reveal the vulnerability gnawing at him. While his disciples count among the numbers, Bian Yanmei is currently engrossed in the responsibilities of managing the capital, and Yu Shengyan has secluded himself in meditation to bolster his martial strength.
Then who else could he turn to for help? There are not many people he actually trusts. While he was reaching the peak of his power, he had flung aside everything and everyone who was or had the potential to be a burden. Now he is at the top. But he is all alone.
If he were to seek help beyond the confines of the Huanyue Sect, on whom could he rely?
One name rises unbidden in his mind—Shen Qiao.
If Yan Wushi were to approach Shen Qiao for assistance, Yan Wushi believes that the man would extend a helping hand. But casting all his tumultuous feelings aside, given the number of times he has hurt Shen Qiao, it feels like he should not be a bother to him anymore. That Daoist has finally found some peace; Yan Wushi should not trample on it. Again.
He should not waste his time thinking about Shen Qiao. He has a lot to handle. Curse to cure. Reputation to maintain. Schemes to execute. But every time Yan Wushi makes up his mind not to be in contact with Shen Qiao, the universe, or perhaps their fate, intertwines their paths. And deep down Yan Wushi cannot deny that he looks forward to those shared paths.
The curse is turning him sloppy. That is the only reason why Yan Wushi is feeling so melancholic. Yes… Because of the curse, his arrogance is slipping, his thoughts muddled by the pain. That is the only reason why he is trying to justify his decision to his own conscience regarding the Daoist. Nothing else.
Nonetheless, he should study this curse, whatever it is, and understand its nature and history. He could not possibly be the first person affected by this.
He hopes he is not.
Determined to understand the nature of this curse, he immerses himself in the Library pavilion, poring over countless scrolls and tomes that delve into the demonic afflictions. With his swift reading skills, he exhausts the entire collection yet finds no viable answers.
If his own vast collection fails to contain the answers, then surely no other sect could possibly possess such knowledge. Was this curse, then, tailored specifically for him? Such a notion, while infuriating, seems fitting given the way it tightens its grasp on him, robbing him of even a peaceful breath.
Summoning what little strength remains, he manages to drag himself back to his chamber, thoroughly irritated by this vexing situation. Settling in for meditation, he seeks to reconnect with his spiritual energy but finds it sluggish and unresponsive. His once-harmonious dantian is now plunged into turmoil, while his meridians clog like obstructed pathways.
The pain crashes over him like a relentless tide, sweeping away all other concerns. He can't tell how much time has passed.
Night and day have become indistinguishable, lost in the haze of his suffering.
Every movement, no matter how slight, sends waves of excruciating torment rippling through his body.
His head throbs insistently, while his stomach convulses with cramps, inducing waves of nausea. Uncontrollable shivers wrack his weakened frame. Seeking respite, he curls into a protective ball, mustering a desperate effort to coax himself into sleep.
Yan Wushi feels pathetic in every way conceivable to have been rendered in such a state because of a measly curse, which he can neither comprehend nor conquer...
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With the morning light filtering through the windows, Yan Wushi awakens to a searing, scorching pain again. Even his skin feels foreign, as though someone had sliced it away while he was asleep and crudely reattached it, leaving behind a pervasive discomfort.
He should call for someone, maybe a servant or a healer. But his throat feels constricted as if someone is holding it tight so as not to let even a breath escape out of him. He groans in exasperation, frustration etched deep upon his face as he runs his hands over it, only to have the pain surge in response.
Annoyed by the inexplicable torment, Yan Wushi forces himself up from the bed, wincing at his body's protest against the motion. His gaze falls upon a pitcher placed nearby, atop the table beside his bed, and he pours a glass of water with unsteady hands. Mustering what strength remains in his hands, he lifts it to his parched lips, allowing the cool liquid to saturate his mouth.
And then it feels a little bit better, so he calls for the healer, who comes stumbling and falling as if he is on the way to catch the last-minute sale offer in the market.
Taking his pulse to examine, questions spill forth from the healer's lips, seeking answers that Yan Wushi, quite obviously, doesn’t know. If he knew, he would not have resorted to having a healer brought into his chamber in the first place.
So he only glares instead of replying.
The healer’s fingers trace the pathways of Yan Wushi's acupuncture points, searching for clues within the depths of his body. "Can Sect Master Yan recall any peculiar or untoward suspicious occurrence before you started feeling the pain?" His touch on a particular pressure point elicits a sharp stinging sensation.
Yan Wushi thinks back, and nothing that might have caused this catches his memory.
"You have been prodding this venerable long enough. Should you not be able to tell what is wrong by now?" Yan Wushi's frustration manifests in a sneer; his patience is worn thin. "Or do you want to get stripped of your position?"
The healer visibly pales at his words. "Forgive this lowly one, Sect Master. I am doing my utmost. Though there is no physical ailment, I can sense that there is a gradual depletion of your spiritual power, as if it seeks to compensate for something unknown."
Hastily, he bows, seeking to appease Yan Wushi before his anger further escalates. "This lowly one believes it is not of demonic origin; rather, it might be in the domain of Daoist practices. If the sect master does not mind, this servant suggests that you take a visit to Mount Xuandu. The sect master is already acquainted with sect leader Shen Qiao. I believe he would surely help you in curing this."
"Yes, he would... It is inherent in his nature," he murmurs... his thoughts drifting already.
Memories of Shen Qiao's capacity for forgiveness and his ability to extend kindness even to those who have wronged him still linger in Yan Wushi's mind. When required, Shen Qiao would help even the snake that bit him, let alone a human. Though Yan Wushi does not know if he counts as human in Shen Qiao’s eyes after all the cruel and unnecessary suffering he has caused him.
The pain intensifies again, as if sensing his momentary weakness. Yan Wushi winces, feeling its fiery tendrils writhe through his being. "Go and seek knowledge from a Hehuan healer. They surely possess more insight than your pitiful self," he snaps, his voice carrying a biting edge. It is not the healer’s fault that he has no idea what this is. Yan Wushi does not either. But it feels too good to lash out at someone.
"Shall I make preparations for your journey to Mount Xuandu, Sect Master?" his attendant inquires, head bowed in reverence. "Time is of the essence. It is imperative that we act swiftly to spare you further agony."
Yan Wushi's heart flutters erratically within his ribcage like a caged bird desperate for release at the thought of visiting Mount Xuandu—at the thought of seeing Shen Qiao. Also, time really is of the essence because there is tightness gripping his chest, constricting his breath as if a vise were squeezing his very soul.
"Sect Master?" The attendant stands by, respectful and attentive, awaiting his decision.
"Yes, make the necessary arrangements," Yan Wushi replies... because he is shameless. So shameless that despite never being one for stupid romantic gestures and feelings, he thinks that if he were to die, he would very much want to die in Shen Qiao’s presence. After all, he does not think he has that much time if this searing pain continues to burn in his chest.
Besides, a faint flicker of hope tugs at his heart—a glimmer to find kindness where he himself has rarely shown it.
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The carriages are readied; a necessity that Yan Wushi begrudgingly accepts. He despises relying on carriages, finding their pace to be an unwelcome hindrance compared to his own swift travel. However, his current condition makes walking, let alone embarking on the journey to Xuandu alone, an impossible task.
Provisions for the road are arranged, ensuring their travel will be as smooth as possible. Alongside the necessary supplies, gifts meant for the Xuandu sect are prepared as a gesture of respect and goodwill.
The whole journey towards Xuandu town is in bits and pieces in his mind.
Yan Wushi outwardly maintains the appearance of being in deep meditation, but his mind is consumed by the task of regulating his Qi, directing it towards his dantian and meridians in a desperate attempt to alleviate the relentless pain. Even a little less pain is comforting right now.
Upon reaching the town, the attendant secures rooms at an inn, ensuring his comfort and privacy. Another one of his attendants is dispatched to Mount Xuandu, tasked with securing permission for their entry into the Daoist sect. Yan Wushi would not have thought of that had he been in control; instead, he would have barged in unannounced, consequences be damned. But maybe that is the difference between him and others.
He creates ruckus and chaos when things can go harmoniously.
The unnamed attendant attends to a myriad of other trivial details, all of which would have been deemed beneath Yan Wushi's attention. Begrudgingly acknowledging the thoroughness of this attendant's efforts, a thought crosses Yan Wushi's mind. "A raise", he muses, would be a fitting reward for the diligent work carried out.
A steaming bowl of congee is presented before him, its aroma infused with the earthy essence of mixed herbs.
Ordinarily, Yan Wushi would exercise caution and refrain from consuming such a dish without first inspecting it. Given his condition, even a weak poison can harm him, but the attendant so far has been trustworthy, demonstrating a level of competence and loyalty that belies any ill intentions, and if he had wanted to kill him, he indeed had an awful lot of opportunities by now.
Reluctantly grasping the bowl in his hands, Yan Wushi reminisces about another time—a time when Yan Wushi was standing where this attendant is standing and Shen Qiao was sitting where he is sitting right now. The hot vapor of the congee wafts into his nose, and he feels the complicated emotions surging within him.
Trust does not come easily to Yan Wushi, at least not in its truest form. But this nameless attendant feels trustworthy now.
Was this how Shen Qiao felt when Yan Wushi fed him in his moments of weakness?
Despite his deeply ingrained instincts, Yan Wushi sets aside his suspicions—for once—and empties the bowl in one decisive gulp, sighing. Maybe instead of corrupting Shen Qiao, Shen Qiao corrupted him with his kindness instead, which whispers like a beguiling temptation, softening the edges of his sneer.
How else would he describe this feeling?
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The pain comes in bursts and waves, rendering him completely unable to even sit straight. Each breath becomes a struggle, and every movement is torment. His skin is taunted with pain, and his whole body burns like he is standing on a pyre.
He closes his eyes, hoping that sleep will claim him. It doesn't; instead, he lays there on the bed, aching and burning, while his mind roams around, thinking soon he will meet Shen Qiao.
What would Shen Qiao think upon witnessing his vulnerability? Yan Wushi reflects upon the times when Shen Qiao exposed his own vulnerabilities, only to have Yan Wushi mercilessly trample upon them. Now, could he even beg for even a shred of sympathy from the one he has wronged?
Yan Wushi knows he does not deserve kindness, but that does not stop him from imagining it all the same...
Somewhere along the way of playing this tug of war in his mind, sleep finally claims him. But even in his sleep, his mind doesn’t get rest.
Yan Wushi dreams of himself being weak and helpless and bowing in front of Shen Qiao for help.
"Please, A-Qiao, help me."
Shen Qiao, in his dreams, looks as stoic and angelic as ever. Those doe-like eyes are long and narrow, tilted like willow shoots, but there is viciousness in his face and hardness in his eyes that Yan Wushi has yet to see. "It hurts. A-Qiao~"
"You, who are without mercy, now plead for it?"
Shen Qiao's words cut like a blade.
The Yan Wushi in the dreams has no reply to that question.
When Yan Wushi jolts awake, drenched in sweat, and remembers the dream, he has no answer to that question either.
Still heavy with the lingering effects of the dream, he finds himself confronted by a harsh question. With what face is he here to ask for help when all he has ever given Shen Qiao was disdain and betrayal?
Making haste, Yan Wushi calls for his attendant. To order the carriage to return them back to Huanyue Sect. He will seek aid from somewhere else, and if there is no cure, he would rather die than subject himself to that hardness in Shen Qiao's eyes. Because he is craven when it comes to Shen Qiao. And does not know what to do if Shen Qiao really looks at him like that. What he knows is that it would break his wretched heart.
And that is the kind of heartbreak that time can never mend.
But before he could voice out his command, the attendant delivers unexpected news: someone from Mount Xuandu has arrived to escort them back to the Daoist sect.
Soon enough, a young man enters the room, bowing respectfully before Yan Wushi.
"This one greets the sect master of Huanyue Sect," the young man says.
Yan Wushi acknowledges the greeting with a nod, studying the face before him. He knows his name, though Yan Wushi requires a conscious effort to recall it. Ah, yes. Yu Shengyan had mentioned it—Yuan Ying, the fourth disciple of Qi Fengge.
"If the sect master is willing, then we should proceed towards Mount Xuandu," Yuan Ying suggests. "The trail is steep, and it would take time in a carriage."
In a moment of hesitation, Yan Wushi asks, "Did your Shixiong say something about—" about what? What did he want to know? Yan Wushi does not know what he wants to know. He does not know if he even wants to know.
"Was sect master Yan hoping my Shixiong would be the one to personally greet him here?" Yuan Ying asks, and the words somehow sting.
Did he hope? He did, deep down, but he is also glad Shen Qiao has not personally come here. He feels vulnerable, weak, and in need of some time before being in the presence of Shen Qiao.
"He is not here. So what does it matter?" Yan Wushi dismisses the matter with a curt response as he rises from the bed.
The attendant, whose name he has yet to inquire about, busies himself with the task of dressing Yan Wushi. Absentmindedly, Yan Wushi allows the servant to attend to him, his thoughts consumed by what he should do or say when faced with Shen Qiao's presence.
He gazes into the mirror, experiencing a sense of relief that he does not appear overtly ill, though subtle signs of his agony are noticeable. His eyes bear the weight of fatigue; his lips have lost their color; and his skin appears stretched and pallid. The number of white strands adorning his temples has multiplied, evidence of the toll these recent days have taken on him.
The pain is still there, lingering like his second skin. Yet his countenance manages to retain the familiar air of arrogance befitting a sect leader. It offers him some semblance of solace—knowing that despite his suffering, he will not appear pitiable while asking for help.
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The journey to the mountaintop unfolds in silence, accompanied only by the rhythmic roll of carriage wheels and the steady cadence of horse hooves.
Each passing moment draws them deeper into the ethereal embrace of Mount Xuandu, the mist thickening and shrouding the surroundings in a beautiful veil. Towering trees reach skyward, their branches stretching as if yearning to caress the heavens. The air is filled with the melodies of chirping insects and singing birds, their harmonious tunes echoing through the tranquil landscape.
Beauty manifesting itself in every corner of this place.
While Yan Wushi had previously visited Mount Xuandu, his prior expedition had occurred under the cloak of night, when his arrogance blinded him to the sect's inherent splendor. Now, in the light of day, the serene calmness of Xuandu demands a different level of respect, one that Yan Wushi begrudgingly acknowledges.
Closing his eyes, Yan Wushi directs his focus inward, attempting to tame the tumultuous storm within and regulate his Qi once more because he does not want to topple down the moment he gets out of the carriage and make a fool out of himself.
His dantian and meridians feel like they have tangled in a web, blocking the flow of energy. Despite this, Yan Wushi, with his doggard stubbornness, forces the qi to pass through the meridians. Though each surge of energy brings its own measure of agony, it feels better once Qi is forcefully recirculated in his dantian. Eyes fluttering open, he inhales deeply, drawing in the crisp mountain air and focusing on the steady rhythm of his breath. Exhaling slowly, he steadies his heartbeat and channels his focus, commanding his body to heed his command and resist succumbing to the relentless grip of pain.
Soon the gates of the Xuandu sect come into view, and Yan Wushi's heart quickens, pounding against his ribcage with an intensity that renders all his efforts to steady it in vain. The palpitations reverberate through his chest, a physical manifestation of the anticipation and apprehension he feels.
There are people at the gate who open the door after seeing the fourth disciple of Qi Fengge. Entering the gates, the carriage comes to a halt, and Yan Wushi steps out, taking a moment to observe the surroundings.
In the bright daylight, the whole visage of the Xuandu sect appeared almost ethereal—not excessively opulent yet far from minimalist. The architectural structures exude an ancient grandeur; their majesty has stood the test of time. A grand fountain takes center stage, its tranquil waters glistening beneath the sunlight. Memories resurface, reminding him of the place where Shen Qiao once had a confrontation with his martial brother.
The sect members go about their duties, their attention barely wavering as their gaze briefly falls upon the arriving party and then back to their tasks at hand. Yan Wushi finds solace in not being the center of attention for once. Definitely not when he is here to ask for help.
Then a young girl, who addresses the fourth disciple as her Shixiong—a likely indication that she is the fifth disciple of Qi Fengge—bows respectfully and leads the way into the sect grounds.
The girl...Gu Hengbo, he learns the name from hearing the fourth disciple speak to her, leads the way toward a pavilion that is probably designed to meet the resting needs of guests.
The pavilion awaits them, and within, wise and knowledgeable-looking elders—probably the healers of Mount Xuandu—stand ready. Shen Qiao is not among them, and that fact gnaws at Yan Wushi, leaving a sour taste in his mouth and a peculiar tightness in his chest.
Despite their differences, Shen Qiao should have been here because, evil as he might be, and hurt he may have Shen Qiao in the past, Yan Wushi is still a sect leader. It is customary, even in the face of animosity, for a basic courtesy to be extended—a simple appearance to acknowledge his presence.
Is Shen Qiao going to disregard his arrival in Xuandu, let healers do their jobs, and then send him away? It would not be wrong if he did just that considering their tangled past, but it still pricks at Yan Wushi's pride, for he is not just any ordinary visitor seeking aid. He holds a position of power and influence, deserving of a certain level of respect.
He recognizes the irrationality of his emotions. He has no right to feel this way and should feel glad that the gate was opened at all for him, but still, right now, the absence of Shen Qiao hurts him more than the pain in his body.
Guided into the room, Yan Wushi's eyes take in the sight of neatly arranged medical equipment sprawled across a table. The pungent scent of medicinal herbs and potions permeates the air, stirring a queasiness in his stomach. The room itself is bathed in soft light, casting long shadows that dance upon the walls.
An old man asks him to sit down on the other side of the table on a chair as he asks the question his own healer had asked. Yan Wushi, though annoyed to have to repeat his answer again, replies truthfully.
The old healer's weathered hands retrieve a bundle of needles, their sharp tips poised to pierce Yan Wushi's flesh. Each insertion sends a prickle of discomfort coursing through his body. Soon, he resembles a porcupine, bristling with tiny implements. Following this procedure, the healer proceeds to assess Yan Wushi's pulse as his brows furrow with deep concentration.
"Strange. This one has never encountered an illness like this before," the healer murmurs, his forehead creasing with confusion, and Yan Wushi finds it frustrating that he must hear what he already knows. This is a waste of time. But just as he is about to withdraw his hand, the old healer speaks again, "Ahh. Yes, it is a curse."
"A curse?" Yan Wushi finds himself echoing the question, despite having already deduced as much.
"Yes, indeed. There are faint traces of it around your core and lungs," the old healer confirms, his gaze now on Yan Wushi. "Fortunately, though I have a suspicion of what this might be... Unfortunately, my knowledge of healing such curses is limited. I fear that Sect Master Yan may need to remain ignorant until I can gather enough information. Till then, will sect master Yan be staying in the Xuandu sect?"
The word "no" lingers at the tip of Yan Wushi's tongue, almost slipping forth. Almost, because staying in the Xuandu sect means he might meet Shen Qiao. And being this close and not seeing the man might haunt him more than this curse.
"Very well, then," Yan Wushi concedes, "This venerable will."
The old healer nods then prepares to take his leave. However, before departing, he instructs his subordinates to concoct a potion that will offer some respite from the pain.
As Yan Wushi waits for the potion to be prepared, his gaze falls upon his attendant standing in the corner of the room. The prolonged period of sitting has taken its toll on his back, and he decides to rise from the chair, motioning for the attendant to follow him.
"But, Sect Master, this lowly one should bring the potion to you as soon as it is ready," the attendant insists.
"You have done more than enough already to be of use. Do not sell yourself short."
The attendant looks taken aback by his words. "This one thanks the sect master for his kind words." He quickly kneels down on his legs with his hands cupped and his head lowered in a bow, saying, "This one will make sure to keep his usefulness."
Yan Wushi regards the young man, noting the resemblance he bears to his former attendant. This mannerism. this speaking style. "Are you Zhurong Li's son?" he inquires.
"Sect Master knows this one’s father's name." He exclaims and looks visibly elated with undisguised joy. "He would be so happy if he knew the sect master knew about his name."
This should not matter, Yan Wushi thinks. It should hold no significance whatsoever if Yan Wushi knows their names or not. Yet, as he gazes at the smiling face of his attendant before him, a realization washes over him—it matters to him . And it mattered to his father as well.
Do all the attendants working for him feel this way?
Yan Wushi has never bothered to know them and has never taken the time to learn about their lives except when necessary.
It is quite a revelation that Yan Wushi knows the names of foreign concubines, their allure, and their exotic origins. Yet those who toil tirelessly in front of the blazing fire, preparing his meals, are unknown to him.
He is acquainted with the names of the emperor's illegitimate children, their lineage and their probability of claiming the throne, but the name of the one who scours the sloppy hills, gathering medicinal herbs in the blistering sun for his treatment, is blank to him.
The intricate details of the emperor's eunuchs, their roles and positions, are etched in his mind. He can recount their plots and schemes with meticulous precision. Yet the one who weaves the fabric of his robes, laboring tirelessly with every prick of the needle, is but a nameless entity, their presence fading into the fabric itself.
All this time, while he was writing in pain, countless nameless and faceless attendants dedicated their time to attending to his every whim, ensuring his comfort and convenience without question. Yet Yan Wushi is not even bothered enough to know their names.
For the first time in his life, Yan Wushi feels like the monster he already knew he was.
A sigh escapes his lips. Yan Wushi resolves within himself that this shall no longer be the case. Each nameless soul who has supported him deserves recognition. There is no better time than now to rectify this oversight. "What is your name?" he asks earnestly for once.
"This humble one's name is Zhurong Lian!" the attendant chirps happily.
"Hm," Yan Wushi acknowledges, one name learned among the countless others awaiting discovery. He will make an effort to learn them all in due time.
"You must be hungry." Yan Wushi asks, and the attendant—no, Zhurong Lian—looks up sharply as if Yan Wushi has grown a second head. "What do you want to eat?"
"Sect master?" Zhurong Lian stammers, looking mystified by this unexpected display of familiarity.
Cannot really blame him, though, as from being an arrogant master to directly asking what his favorite food was in a matter of seconds, Yan Wushi surely missed several steps of the good-natured camaraderie that slowly develops between master and attendant over the years. Thankfully, the young man manages to hold himself together.
"Just go and eat something," Yan Wushi instructs, realizing he may have overwhelmed the young attendant with his newfound interest. Besides knowing the name is enough progress for a day. There is no need to drag the young man along any further. Moreover, he can feel the pain building once again behind his temples, necessitating a regulation of his qi.
Zhurong Lian opens his mouth to speak, but a stern look from Yan Wushi silences him momentarily.
Still, he chirps, "Sect Master should drink the medicine first."
He should. "Bring it here."
With a bow, the attendant acquiesces to the order and walks towards the pavilion, and just as fast as he had disappeared, he reappears with a cup of medicine on a tray. Without question, he drinks the bitter medicine in a single gulp, places the empty cup back in the tray, and orders the young man to go back in the pavilion to find himself something to eat, which he obediently does.
Now left to his own devices, Yan Wushi ambles along a trail, not sure where it leads.
The ground beneath him is adorned with smooth stones, meticulously arranged to create a pleasing symmetry. Vibrant flowers meticulously tended to line the sides of the trail, their petals a riot of colours, grown with the utmost care. Such a nice path to walk on. It's a pity he has no one beside him to talk about its beauty.
The trail soon turns into a flight of stony steps leading towards the forest, hopefully. Yan Wushi walks for a few moments until he arrives at a rest stop—an exquisitely constructed platform of piled stones—sheltered beneath the canopy of a banyan tree and a peepal tree.
A swift breeze sweeps through the area, causing his hair and robes to sway and dance in synchrony with the wind's whims. Despite the roaring wind, it feels peaceful.
The medicine is working well enough, providing temporary relief. With this opportunity, he decides to focus on his core this time. Taking a seat on the elevated platform, he assumes a meditative posture, legs crossed in the half-lotus position with his left leg over his right leg, palms upturned, and forming the cosmic mudra.
Time seems to lose its hold as he immerses himself in his inner stillness, his core and consciousness merging with the whispering wind. Gradually, the burden of pain begins to recede, and he feels like he is one with the wind.
A sigh of relief escapes his lips, and he opens his eyes, only to be met with another pair of eyes staring back at him. Caught off guard by the sudden presence, his first instinct is, of course, to fight, but as soon as he realizes the face of those eyes he just saw, he feels overwhelmed.
"A-Qiao?"
"I was beginning to wonder if sect master Yan would even open his eyes today or not." Shen Qiao nods in greeting.
"You should have called me out." Yan Wushi offers. Looking at Shen Qiao, Yan Wushi wants to say something more. But where to even start? There are so many things—questions, apologies, confessions—but the words elude him, confined to the depths of his soul.
"Hm. I should have." With a graceful motion, Shen Qiao catches a drifting banyan leaf in his hand and says, "But you looked so peaceful while meditating. It would have been wrong for me to disturb your tranquility."
"No, it would not have." Not after everything Yan Wushi had done to Shen Qiao.
He remembers the time Shen Qiao had his guard down at the old monastery while he was meditating and how Yan Wushi had seized his acupuncture and gave Shen Qiao to Sang JingXing.
If there was anyone else in place of Shen Qiao today, they would have taken revenge after figuring that Yan Wushi had his guard down. But not Shen Qiao. Not him. He is too pure, too kind, and too righteous to resort to such underhanded methods.
And it hurts, but oddly enough, it is not painful; rather, it is shameful. A feeling he has slowly grown accustomed to dealing with whenever he sees Shen Qiao.
What he did… it was… to be honest, Yan Wushi does not think he was wrong then. Looking back, were his methods cruel and selfish? Absolutely. But was his reasoning logical? Yes, it was. At least for him, it was... twisted as they may be. He never was a saint, to begin with.
What he did, he regrets deeply. But he is not going to make any excuses for what he did, either. He owns those choices, and making excuses will not spare him from the consequences. Besides regrets as much as he does, it never changes the past. Instead, regret poisons the present.
Yan Wushi inhales deeply, the scent of his remorses are amplified by the earthy fragrance of decaying leaves. Only by confronting the remnants of his destructive choices can he hope to find the strength to rebuild and carve a new path—one that leads not to ruin but to redemption.
He needs to say something, maybe apologize, but he doesn’t know how to do that. Apologies have never come easily to him, and he fears that his attempts may only cause further harm.
Probably sensing that Yan Wushi is not going to say anything more, Shen Qiao speaks up: "I heard sect master Yan was feeling under the weather. But looking at you now, I think you look just like you always did."
… Just like you always did...
What was he always like? Yan Wushi wants to ask but doesn’t. He knows the answer already. Instead, he swallows the hurt that is trying to wrench his heart and chuckles. "Oh yes. My venerable self thinks old age is making me weak."
A distant rumble of thunder resonates through the air, amplifying the intensity of the wind. Shen Qiao's robes billow around his figure, and his hair, held up in a ponytail, is gently caressed by the gusts. Yan Wushi's hand itches to reach out and comb those strands away from Shen Qiao's face… to savour the softness of his touch, but he resists the temptation. (He has already trespassed upon Shen Qiao's boundaries too many times, and he will not allow himself to repeat those mistakes.)
"Only a fool would think that sect master Yan is old. You still have hundreds of years on earth." Shen Qiao's gaze turns skyward, assessing the darkened and brooding clouds. "I believe it would be wise for us to return to the sect before the rain tramples us."
Nodding in understanding, Yan Wushi gets up from his position and stands up. His legs feel numb from sitting on the cold stone platform for too long making him wobble. Shen Qiao does not add any comment about it if he noticed that.
As they walk back in silence, the path that once felt short now stretches out immeasurably. Yan Wushi looks out at the rugged landscape where the trail of stony stairs vanishes. "I think the path was short when I walked here," he murmurs. "Now, walking back, it feels so long."
A moment of silence hangs in the air, as if the wind itself holds its breath, before a response comes: "Hm. Yes, It is so easy to walk ahead alone, oblivious to the passage of time and filled with the allure of the unknown. But when you look back, when you dare to cast your eyes upon the trail you've left behind, that is when the true magnitude of the distance reveals itself, stretching out in front of you like an endless expanse of tales you wrote along the journey."
It sounds like something Yan Wushi would find in the scroll written by an enlightened monk who had been through all the hardships and difficulties and still prevailed on the journey. So thoughtful yet measured. Yan Wushi supposes that Shen Qiao is no less a monk given that he was able to emerge righteous despite the crushing cruelty of the world.
"I heard the sect master visited Xuan Jing." Shen Qiao says, "Although he may be brusque and direct in his manner, he is undoubtedly the finest healer in the Xuandu sect. I trust that whatever ailment the Sect Master is suffering from will be identified and treated."
"He did not reveal much. I will go talk to him in the evening to ask if he found out about this." Shen Qiao had not probed about his pain, and Yan Wushi sees no need to mention anything about it either. Mentioning pain won't heal it.
Strangely, though, he is not feeling any pain at the moment. Typically, it would have surged back, crashing upon him once he finished regulating his qi. But now the ache is absent, or at least not present in the way that would make Yan Wushi writhe in agony.
"Until your affliction is remedied, Sect Master is welcome to stay at Xuandu Sect," Shen Qiao says, his steps momentarily halting as he turns to face Yan Wushi, a peculiar expression on his face. "However, I must emphasize that while you are here, please refrain from causing any disturbances. I cherish the peaceful nature of my sect and would like it to remain that way."
Shen Qiao resumes walking. But now it is Yan Wushi’s turn to stop in his tracks.
The words are far more gentle and mellow than Yan Wushi believes he deserves. He anticipates sharp words that would curse him and everything associated with him—the sky above him, the ground below him, and even the air he breathes. But Shen Qiao does not. It is not within his nature.
From his vantage point, he can see Shen Qiao’s retreating back. It hurts him for some reason to see the man walk away... like he is always just out of reach, no matter how much Yan Wushi tries to catch up or extends his hands. He wants Shen Qiao to stop walking away from him, So he hastily asks, "Do you have nothing else to say to me? Not about the sect, but about you."
How are you, A-Qiao? Are you well?
Have recent years have been kinder to you than those spent with me?
What about my sudden arrival? How do you feel about me being here? Do you have no grievance regarding me? Do you not hate me? How can you still be that stoic as if me being here doesn’t affect you at all?
Will you not lash at me? Demand why I made you walk through that hell? I hope you do. No, I want you to. That is preferable to your stony indifference.
The words—both spoken and unspoken alike—are carried by the wind, and Yan Wushi watches as Shen Qiao comes to a standstill, his robes swaying gracefully in the breeze.
"I have lived my life, made my choices, and faced the consequences," Shen Qiao says, and there's a hint of weariness in his voice. "There is nothing left to say about me."
"That is not true. There must be things you have to say to me, after all that happened between us back—"
"I had hoped Sect Master would not bring this topic up, but now that you have, I can answer that." Shen Qiao turns around, but his eyes are closed, and his head is turned to other side... as not looking at Yan WUshi would spare help him in holding back his overwhelming tide of emotions. "Imagine being bitten by a snake. And instead of helping yourself and recovering from the poison, you are trying to catch the snake, find out the reason, and prove to the snake that you did not deserve to be bitten." A dry smile emerges on his face. "Only fools with an excess of idle hours to waste do that. I am no fool, nor do I possess a sliver of time to spare to pursue the snake."
Then, as if parting the calmest of seas, Shen Qiao opens his eyes, twin pools of serenity meeting Yan Wushi's gaze. "This is not about a snake, nor is it about you. Rather, it is about me. My life belongs to me, and how I choose to invest my energy in it is my decision. I am happy in my sect. Also, you don't need to worry about me harboring ill-intentions or seeking revenge, or anything of the sort. You are very welcome to stay in Xuandu as long as you're receiving treatment and as long as you do not revert to your past behavior."
Yan Wushi feels a chill not on his skin but within his heart, a coldness that the raging wind cannot account for. He wants to say something—anything—but whatever he says is not going to spare Shen Qiao from suffering from painful moments or overcoming the emotions they evoke. No amount of Yan Wushi's explanation can excuse his behavior.
"I am acutely aware of the immense pain I have caused you," Yan Wushi confesses and his voice sounds strained, "but A-Qiao, grant me an opportunity to rectify my wrongs. Through this chance, I hope to offer some form of penance for my willful blindness to your anguish throughout these years." He had never said those words out loud before, not even in his most private moments, but they are true, and he can feel them scrape in his throat.
Shen Qiao outright scoffs upon hearing the words. "Learning to trust again takes time, no matter how close we were before. Perhaps someday in the future, I may allow myself to indulge in sect master Yan's words again, but that day is not today."
Faced with such a response, what can he possibly say?
A chasm has opened between them, and no matter how much he longs to bridge the gap, he cannot. Not on his own. With his heart clenched in his ribcage, Yan Wushi can only nod silently. The remainder of their walk unfolds in silence, and soon they return to the sect grounds.
Zhurong Lian, upon catching sight of him, hurries over in a flurry. "This lowly one apologizes for leaving the sect master unattended," he says, bowing with his head lowered in deference.
Just as Yan Wushi is turning around to ask if they could maybe have their dinner together, Shen Qiao speaks up.
"I hope your stay in the sect will be comfortable. If you have any inquiries or requests, feel free to relay them to any member of the sect. I shall ensure that, to the best of my abilities, your comfort is provided." Shen Qiao bestows soft smiles upon passing members who glance their way, yet no such warmth is directed at him. "Sect Master Yan should get rest now; the journey must have been tiring. Besides, I must leave your presence to attend to my duties."
Shen Qiao bows gracefully, exemplifying the demeanor befitting a sect leader.
Yan Wushi, left with no response other than a simple "sure," reciprocates with a bow of his own.
The atmosphere carries a sense of formality, as if they are two figures playing their roles on a stage. Maybe they are... because when they lift their heads and their eyes meet each other, the air around them feels tinged with unease, burdened by unspoken sentiments that hover just beneath the surface.
Shen Qiao takes his leave with a graceful step, and this time Yan Wushi watches him go.
Shen Qiao is gone from the periphery of his eyes. The pain returns to his chest.
Shen Qiao does not turn back. The pain does not leave him either.
In that moment, Yan Wushi couldn’t be sure, but he had a feeling so peculiar that this pain would be for evermore...
Notes:
Shen Qiao loves Yan Wushi, okay! He just thinks Yan Wushi does not love him back so he is just being cautious. If you have read my other QianQiu fics, you should know about this already.
Thank you for reading... Also, any thoughts...??
Chapter Text
"Is the food not to Sect Master Yan’s liking?"
"It has been quite some time since my venerable self sat here to eat. I took one bite and then took none after that," Yan Wushi sneers, his eyes narrowing at the attendant who has the nerve to ask such a question. "What does that tell you about me and my liking for the food?"
"That sect master thinks the appearance of the food so intriguing he is unwilling to ruin it by eating it?"
Yan Wushi does not know if this attendant is being serious or if he is just testing his limits. If it is first, then Yan Wushi feels pity for Shen Qiao; how can he be patient with such buffoons? But if it is the latter, then Yan Wushi is oh-so-close to strangling the attendant—he is not going to learn his name till he does a decent job first. The only thing stopping him is Shen Qiao's warning of not to cause trouble while he is at Mount Xuandu.
"Mmm, intriguing yes, I must say the texture is taking all my attention. Is it intended to be this chewy, or am I experiencing a new form of mouth exercise, unique to the people of Mount Xuandu?" Yan Wushi nudges the offending dish aside and directs his attention to a plate bearing what appears to be chicken. "And this masterpiece over here—what do you call it?" He takes a bite only to spit it back on the plate. "The ‘Exquisite Delicacy of Drudgery,’ perhaps?"
The attendant smiles at him as if Yan Wushi just told a joke before responding, "This attendant did not know Sect Master Yan also has a passion for naming food. Although Sect Master Yan has named it in a quite sophisticated way, this attendant actually likes to call it 'Chicken Surprise.’ The name is perfect for the food because of the surprising blend of flavor."
"Chicken Surprise?" Yan Wushi scoffs in annoyance. Who let this idiot serve him? And why is Zhurong Lian taking so long to come back? "A fitting name for the masterpiece though I suppose the surprise is that it's still on my plate."
"Masterpiece indeed," the attendant says while nodding his head, completely disregarding what the latter half of the sentence was. "It's a work of art, meant to evoke strong emotions."
"Hm. Then the job is done splendidly, my venerable self must admit. My emotions are quite strong right now, and they all seem to revolve around regretting taking that bite," Yan Wushi remarks, leaning back in his chair. Does killing an attendant out of annoyance also fall under causing a disturbance in the peace of Mount Xuandu? "Tell me, did the chef take inspiration from the compost heap?"
"Sect Master Yan does not like it then?" The attendant looks mystified in the face of Yan Wushi's mockery, like something jabbed at his heart, then he bravely asserts, "We shall continue to improve, Sect Master Yan."
Ugh. Finally! Yan Wushi managed to put a crack in that thick skull, and light entered his head. "Yes, improvement is a trait that's sorely needed around here. But I doubt such goals are within your grasp."
"We will strive to prove you wrong." The attendant stammers for the first time, beads of sweat forming on his forehead.
Amused and irritated, Yan Wushi nods. "Yes, you do that. Strive, aim high, and maybe, just maybe, you'll reach the level of adequacy."
"This attendant thanks Sect Master Yan for the encouragement," the attendant says, bowing respectfully. "Is there anything else I can assist you with?"
"No, you may leave. I shall suffer through this meal while enjoying my solitude."
"As Sect Master wishes. May your solitude be as enjoyable as the finest delicacy," the attendant chirps happily, like some kind of inside joke between them that Yan Wushi has yet to understand, and steps back slowly.
"Oh, I have no doubt it will be. Now, make haste and be gone." Yan Wushi dismisses him with a wave of his hand. Glad to finally have peace of mind.
The smoke coming out of the incense burner is calmingly pleasant, but Yan Wushi feels even more restless. Twirling his chopsticks in the soup that looks more like a medicinal potion, Yan Wushi raises his head again, wanting to glare at the attendant, but he is already gone.
The food is not bad, if he is being honest. It is just that he had hoped Shen Qiao would drop by out of courtesy so they could have dinner together. Alas, he did not.
Also, the heaviness has settled in his chest, and some wretched obstruction is jamming in his food pipe, making it an arduous task to swallow anything, even this soup, down to his stomach. He grimaces, pushing the bowl away from him momentarily.
Yan Wushi can only hope that the healer, Xuan Jing—a name he learned from Shen Qiao—will at least perform some semblance of his duty and find a solution for his discomfort.
But deep within, Yan Wushi does not think it is possible.
Ever since he watched Shen Qiao walk away from him, this heavy burden in his chest seemed to have grown in intensity. Now he has some doubts shimmering in his mind.
Surviving in this world for so long has taught him the harsh realities of life. One does not survive until they have white hair on their heads solely through their wit and intelligence; it requires resilience and a keen understanding of when to expect benevolence and when to brace for malevolence.
Yan Wushi knows whatever awaits him today will, no doubt, not be to his liking. This pain might be with him for a longer time than he actually wants it to be.
✿ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ❤︎ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ✿
The walk towards the chamber of the healer feels like walking towards his own doom. He has the option, of course, of turning around and walking back, of never knowing what this curse is and living his life in ignorance with false pride and the hope that he will find out what the cure is on his own.
But deep down, he knows that such a decision would be nothing short of foolish. He can barge a river for a while, but when the flood comes, it is going to destroy everything in the vicinity, causing more damage than he can spare to deal with.
Entering the chamber, the first sight he sees is the healer, Xuan Jing, engrossed in his work, stirring herbs in a pot over a crackling fire. Sensing Yan Wushi's presence, Xuan Jing looks up, offering a respectful nod and a welcoming smile.
"Ah, Sect Master Yan, you have arrived just in time." Xuan Jing says, carefully pouring the medicinal blend into a bowl and extending it towards him. "Please drink this concoction."
The bowl feels warm against Yan Wushi's hand as he takes it and the steam rising from the concoction carries the herbal essence. There is no turning back now. Yan Wushi sips the mixture, its bitterness only matched by his disdain for the situation he finds himself in. Holding the bowl of soup, he opts to drink it all in one go, preferring to rid himself of its presence rather than prolonging the discomfort.
"Now let me examine you once again, just to be sure." Xuan Jing says as his old hands take hold of Yan Wushi's own. He checks his pulse and delves deep into his meridians. "Are you sure you have no inkling of how this came about? You must have some doubt. Anything will be more valuable than nothing for me."
Gazing at the pristine, sterilized floor that still carries the lingering fragrance of medicinal herbs, Yan Wushi feels faint. "I do have a guess now," he admits.
He has been collecting his memories to find anything suspicious or strange that he might have overlooked as a minor detail. That is when he remembered... A few months ago, he had helped Bai Rong eradicate her enemies who opposed her being a leader. The request had been clandestine, a cunning ploy that would bind the leader of the Hehuan sect to a substantial debt to the Huanyue sect. While Yan Wushi had no obligation to accept, he was far from a fool who would pass up such an opportunity.
During the fight, there were curses flung left, right, and all around, and yet Yan Wushi had deftly evaded each one, his instincts and reflexes sharp as honed blades. Among the chaos, he remembers encountering a fading spirit hovering at the brink of dissipation. Upon seeing Yan Wushi, the spirit had burned, sending a warm wave of ghostly energy in his direction as if in warning, which was so weak that he had not even bothered to dodge.
Yan Wushi had attributed the spirit's actions to its final, desperate attempt at self-defense against him. Yet, there had been no discernible malevolence or intent to harm behind the fleeting attack. Instead, the ghostly energy had merged with his own, effortlessly getting absorbed into the depths of his core.
Looking back, it was the only thing odd and suspicious. Could it be that? The reason for this pain?
"I was attacked by a ghost. A weak one." He offers. "Can this be from it?"
"It is possible," Xuan Jing responds like a sage contemplating the mysteries of the universe. "Sect Master, can you recall any specific details about the ghost?"
Can he? In the softly lit chamber, Yan Wushi recounts the unsettling encounter with the ghost to the healer, Xuan Jing. He struggles to recall the details, forcing his memory to cooperate.
"The ghost... she appeared sorrowful," Yan Wushi begins, trying to grasp the elusive strands of the memory. "There was something about her sadness that drew me in, as though I knew her in some inexplicable way. She didn't seem malevolent, only lonely. Then, just before fading away, instead of protecting what energy she had left, she instead emitted warm energy towards me. I didn't dodge it, assuming it wouldn't have any lasting impact on me. After all, my venerable self is not one to be easily affected by such trivialities."
"I see," Xuan Jing murmurs, his expression contemplative as if engaging in an internal debate. "This makes sense. Sometimes, the smallest encounters can have the most significant influence, even if we don't realize it at the time."
"What is this curse?" Yan Wushi tries to remain calm, but the way Xuan Jing looks at him does not help. "Am I going to die?" He asks.
"No, I believe you will not die. However, it will inflict considerable pain on your life."
"That I already know of. What I am here for is a cure!" Yan Wushi bristles but restrains himself from snapping at Xuan Jing, reminding himself that the healer is doing what he can, even if it's not as swift as desired.
The room falls into a hushed silence, broken only by the soft crackling of the fireplace. The healer's fingers drum against the aged scroll in his hands, tracing the faded characters etched upon it.
"You have been circulating your Qi in your dantian and meridians, yes?"
Yan Wushi nods in affirmation.
"And you often have searing pain in your chest and especially have trouble breathing sometimes, yes?" Xuan Jing inquires again, his voice even, almost soothing.
Yan Wushi nods once more, but his impatience gets the better of him, and he can't resist a quip. "I already told you all this. Why are you asking again?"
"I was merely double-checking," Xuan Jing explains calmly, undeterred by Yan Wushi's frustration. He then walks over to his table and picks up a scroll that looks old. Ancient even. Yan Wushi wants answers, but the healer, instead of talking, remains focused, his hands holding the ancient scroll that seems to hold some answers.
"Well, what is this curse?" he asks in annoyance.
"The curse is most unusual, so unique that it is almost unheard of," Xuan Jing begins, his voice hushed as if speaking of forbidden knowledge. "It thrives on unrequited love, causing flowers to grow... inside your lungs."
The words send a chill down Yan Wushi's spine. Despite living almost fifty years in this world and having seen and heard things that should be impossible, he still doesn't understand what he is hearing. The concept seems almost unreal, yet he can't deny the growing pain in his chest.
"Remove it then." Yan Wushi demands. Because that is the only thing he knows how to do.
"I can’t." Xuan Jing sounds almost apologetic.
He didn't hear that right. He can't have. "You can’t?"
"No," the healer confirms, shaking his head with a heavy sigh to empathize. Then he hesitates and quietly adds, "In fact, I fear there may be no way to remove such a curse."
The room feels stifling, and Yan Wushi struggles to find his breath. He gazes around as if searching for an escape, but the four walls of the chamber enclose him like a cage.
"What do you mean there is no cure?" Yan Wushi is snarling now as he gets up from his seat because if he does not, he has to deal with the meaning of it. The pain has eroded most of his patience, and now he is exhausted. He wants the pain to end. "There must be something, anything, to stop this!"
"…there is." The healer presses his lips into a tight line. "The curse is a manifestation of unrequited love, a sorrowful essence that lingers. There is no cure, but there are possible ways to break the curse. Three possibilities, to be exact."
"Tell me about it." His hands clench into fists, seeking some semblance of control over the situation.
"The flowers grow because of unrequited love. The first possibility is obviously falling out of love. The second possibility is that if the object of your affection reciprocates your feelings, then the flowers cease to grow," Xuan Jing explains and his words sound measured and cautious. "The third possibility is that if the loved one passes away, the flowers die with them, as long as they do not return as spirits."
The room falls silent then, and the faint sound of wind whistling through the cracks in the walls echoes in the stillness.
Three potential paths for breaking the curse: falling out of love, reciprocation of love, or the death of the loved one, and Yan Wushi grapples with the choices before him. Does he want to choose though? Can he even choose?
"You said the curse... it is not lethal, right?" Yan Wushi finds himself asking. A storm of conflicting emotions churns within him.
"No, it is not lethal. However, it is far from pleasant. The growth rate of the flowers within you depends on the depth and intensity of your love. I would have offered you solace by saying that your love is not all-consuming, but I do not believe that is the case. You see, this curse works very slowly, yet within a few months, it has affected you so much. I believe if you had not had such a big spiritual reserve, you would have succumbed to it already. With the pace at which this is going on from here on, actual flowers are going to grow, and you might cough petals time and again. It will hurt you even more than it is hurting you now."
The healer's response brings little comfort. Yan Wushi will live, but the price will be paid in pain.
"Why did the spirit choose me?" Although Yan Wushi has committed heinous crimes over his lifetime, he never thought that he would ever have to face such consequences.
Xuan Jing hums. "I suppose this curse was her legacy. Everyone protects their legacy, whether it is good or bad. The ghost in her last moments probably saw that you had the potential to continue hers."
"It is such a stupid curse. What is the need for it to be continued on?"
"Since you are asking me... I think it is a little sad. After all, the curse is a manifestation of the spirit's desire to have love reciprocated—such a simple wish. To be in love someone who loves you in return. Either that or death is the only mercy from the pain—"
"There is the choice of falling out of love, is there not?" Yan Wushi interrupts the healer because he doesn’t like where his trail of words is going.
"Yes, such a choice exists," Xuan Jing affirms softly, and then his hand taps on Yan Wushi's chest. "But do you truly believe you will fall out of love with him?"
Yan Wushi does not answer because he does not want to.
Yan Wushi does not answer because he does not have to.
Looking at the old healer, Yan Wushi feels there is not much need for words to convey who his unrequited love is either.
"How Sect Master Yan would like to proceed is up to him... Though there seems no option between living with every breath tearing out of your lungs and eventually dying or actually dying."
"You are the healer. You tell me."
"Healer...that I am." A sad smile tugs at the corners of his lips. "But what I am not is cruel, and all options except one are cruel."
Cruel. Yes. The word is so familiar to him. The world was cruel to him. It turned Yan Wushi cruel towards the world. Like a spinning wheel, now the world is being cruel to him again. Yan Wushi doubts he will get his chance at cruelty.
"Is it so hard to think that he might return my love?…" Is he that unlovable?
For a breath, the question hangs suspended. The silence in itself is an answer.
"Do not ask questions, Sect Master Yan, when you fear the answers they hold."
Anger surges within Yan Wushi’s whole body. "Do you always speak riddles?"
"Do you always seek simple answers?" The healer sighs. "If you do, then I will spell it out loud for you: no amount of love can make two mismatched pieces fit together, not unless you mutilate them into something they never were. Is that what you want, Sect Master Yan?" He says this, sinking into his chair with what seems like weariness. "Besides, even you yourself cannot bear the intensity of your love. Do you expect someone else to endure it? Let our Sect Leader have a wave of peace for once. You have already hurt him enough."
The room seems to grow colder, and Yan Wushi shivers.
His love is Shen Qiao. His unrequited love, he corrects, is Shen Qiao.
And would Shen Qiao ever fall in love with him?
No, he would not. Why would he?
All the time in the past when Shen Qiao was weak and vulnerable and in need of help and love and care, Yan Wushi had spent that time toying with his feelings, testing how deep that patience ran. Sneering at him the moment he said something that made him angry.
Yan Wushi had left betrayal and bruises where there should have been kisses. Now, the anger is gone, and Yan Wushi is filled with love.
He wants—no, he needs—Shen Qiao to love him back, but now Shen Qiao flinches whenever Yan Wushi is in his vicinity. He is a villain in his own love story because of his past choices. What he sowed, he is now destined to reap. Now he is going to reap flowers from his chest.
Yan Wushi chuckles to himself, but it is bitter, and the sound scrapes at his throat.
Besides, Xuan Jing is right. Yan Wushi is incapable of tolerating his own love; how can he expect someone else to do that?
This feeling is familiar to him… like a moment before stepping off a cliff when turning back is still possible, before the free fall and the crash at the bottom. He could tell Shen Qiao about this curse and his love. But love cannot be forced. Even he knows that much. There is no love for him in this world to tether him to the precipice of the cliff.
He isn’t a pessimist—he’s a realist.
So, like every other time, Yan Wushi chooses the crash. Because he is familiar with the toppling feeling of crashing back into the abyss.
"Can you keep this a secret?" In a last attempt at control, Yan Wushi asks, looking at the weary face of the healer. He looks like he is going to deny it, so Yan Wushi hastily adds, "Please." The word tastes unknown on his tongue, almost foreign, but at this moment, words seem inconsequential. "Please... keep this curse a secret."
Xuan Jing looks at him for a very long time. Eventually, he nods once in agreement. "Fine. I will keep this a secret," he concedes, then, as if he has something more to add, he says: "If it makes Sect Master Yan feel any better, I also do believe that it is a fucked-up curse, for making people feel unloved."
Yan Wushi nods once. He should say something to express gratitude, but his voice is refusing to escape from him anymore.
Having nothing more to say or hear, Yan Wushi turns around and hurries out of the chamber. He hates the fact that he is running away, but it's better than any other option. What he wants right now is to be alone more than anything else. He rushes towards the chamber made for him during his stay on Mount Xuandu and closes the door before Zhurong Lian can come inside.
He is not weak. But the emotions are seeping into his bones, eroding him from within.
Alone in his chamber, he sinks to the floor, his body trembling with emotions too overwhelming to contain.
Voices start to blend within his mind—some childish, some mature, and others hoarse. Each iteration carries the same message. Unlovable. Unlovable. UNLOVEABLE. It's a mournful chant that he can't escape; the voices haunt him from every direction.
He's gasping before he knows it—frantic, rapid intakes of breath that don't seem to be enough. If he's crying, he doesn't admit it to himself, but he sits there heaving in agony for a long time.
His chest is constricting with pain. He cannot breathe with grief lodged in his throat. And in the midst of this throbbing pain that clouds his mind, a moment of weakness takes hold of Yan Wushi, his yearning for Shen Qiao overpowering all reason. He finds himself walking out of his chamber, his steps drawn towards where he knows Shen Qiao resides as the sect leader of Mount Xuandu.
Above, the moon hangs suspended in the night sky, casting its ethereal glow upon the world below. Yan Wushi glides silently through the shadows, evading the watchful eyes of the sect members guarding the premises. Guided by the moon's soft illumination, he makes his way toward the Purple Mansion.
From a distance, he can see the dim light from the chamber of Shen Qiao but no movement, indicating Shen Qiao has retired for the night. With practiced ease, Yan Wushi leaps, employing his martial techniques, and slips through the window.
To his relief, Shen Qiao is fast asleep, hugging half of the quilt while the other half covers his lower body. He lies on his stomach, almost in a fetal position, with his shining raven hair spreading around him like a silky cloud. The sleeping posture lifts the hem of his white robe, revealing a portion of his smooth waist. A slender leg peeks out from under the quilt, hovering close to the edge of the bed, and the bottom hem of the robe curls slightly, exposing the delicate ankle and a small part of his leg that is dusted in healthy pink because of the cold air.
Shen Qiao, softly asleep, is a sight to behold. Even the most talented of all sculptors would never be able to capture his bewitching beauty in one carving, or even in a million.
The pain that was burning Yan Wushi's chest just a moment ago now eases, as if merely being in the presence of Shen Qiao can soothe the ache. He finds himself holding his breath, afraid to disturb the sleeping man, though this time he can breathe in comfort.
Perhaps this is love: holding one's breath when you can finally breathe so as not to disturb the other.
The word ringing in his head is still the same: unlovable.
Yes, Yan Wushi is unlovable. So what if he is unlovable? He is not weak. He will survive this, no matter the pain. He has endured much in his life, and this will be no different.
Yan Wushi looks at the sleeping man whom he loves, and he is terrified... terrified of what he would do for Shen Qiao.
The scent of flowers, sweet and sickly, fills the room, though no blooms are in sight. Yan Wushi clutches his chest, feeling the imaginary flowers within him start to take root at this very moment with every beat of his heart. Being in Shen Qiao’s vicinity, the pain is bearable now; it will be unbearable soon. And when the time comes, he will grit his teeth and bear it. He will not let Shen Qiao shoulder his pain. Or even know about it.
Because he is Yan Wushi, and that is what he has always done. He fights his battles alone. He will fight this curse alone as well.
Let the petal clog his throat; let the flowers bloom in his chest; it does not matter. Yan Wushi will tear those flowers every time from his chest and make a garden out of them.
Yes. He will make...
...a garden of his love, a graveyard for his love...
Notes:
Time for some backstory that I was not able to include in the fic. Bear with me, okay?
The ghost was someone who was in love with Yan Wushi (I refuse to believe no one fell in love with Yan Wushi except for Shen Qiao; look at the man), but obviously Yan Wushi did not like her back. In a series of events that I have yet to write about, she fell into the hands of Sang JingXing and sadly died, but her love was so strong that it made her linger on earth as a spirit.When Bai Rong asked for help with Yan Wushi, it coincidentally happened in the place where the girl died. When she saw Yan Wushi, she sent her energy as her last remaining shred of love towards Yan Wushi, but she also had grown resentment towards Yan Wushi, so it kind of turned into a curse.
I made this to show the parallel between Shen Qiao and the ghost. Make sense?
Also I remember now that the QianQiu is martial art related and no stuffs like ghost and spirit happen. So just *waves hand dramatically* deal with it, okay?
Next chapter: Yan Wushi goes into seclusion. (At this point, I should just accept that I love to write about seclusion and suffering combined with time jumps.)
Chapter Text
"Have you caught wind of the news? Yan Wushi is retreating into seclusion once more."
Less than a day has passed since the news that Yan Wushi stepped down from the role of Sect Master of the Huanyue Sect and entered seclusion was disclosed, and the word began to spread like wildfire throughout the Jianghu, outpacing even the speed of warfare. For a period, everyone, from the leaders of the most influential sects to rogue beggars, was talking about it with their close ones.
"So suddenly. Did something happen that I am yet to catch track of? After all, had not Yan Wushi stayed in seclusion for 10 years once before?"
"Who can say? Perhaps the battle against those five martial artists left him genuinealy wounded? Even the mightiest of beings must one day face a tumble, and Yan Wushi, formidable though he is, remains a mere mortal. No soul emerges unscathed from a clash against five foes. Moreover, time's touch has its way."
"It's a shame Yan Wushi is going into seclusion; I was planning on challenging him to a duel. Regardless, now that Yan Wushi has gone into seclusion, what becomes of Huanhyue Sect?"
"It appears Bian Yanmei is set to step into the role of sect leader. A significant responsibility, undoubtedly. But what intrigues me more is the story of Yan Wushi and Shen Qiao. Were they not as close as kin in times gone by?"
"Indeed, they were. I once had a companion… he was traveling with those two, and he witnessed a rather scandalous spectacle of Yan Wushi and Shen Qiao, lips locked in a most intimate embrace."
"He saw what?"
"Oh yes. He swore to have seen it with his own eyes. Imagine my surprise when I heard that because Shen Qiao was someone with a reputation for always being on the right path, and following every rule. But then again, it makes sense—why else would Yan Wushi take care of the disabled man if he was getting nothing out of it? "
"How come there is no new news about them now? It would seem their shared chapter has reached its final page."
"Mmm. In recent years, Shen Qiao has chosen to reside on Mount Xuandu, while Yan Wushi has remained within Huanhyue."
"Human appetites prove fleeting; their endeavors are brief. Such actions are often shrouded in impermanence. Perhaps they both indulged in one night of ignoble passions filled with shameful desire and then parted ways as the sun rose."
"That seems to be the case. Who are we to judge anyway?"
Chapter 4
Notes:
Guess what? I finally finished my written exams. YAY!! Though I do have practical exams, which sucks.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
"Sometimes the happiest ending is not the one you keep longing for, but something you absolutely cannot see from where you are."
That is what his Xie Ling's grandmother used to say, and he would listen to her words, fascinated by how much sense those simple words made.
But the present is far from those days of innocence.
After surviving the aftermath of everything the world threw at him, Yan Wushi cannot see happy and ending in the same sentence...
Besides, what use is the happy ending that you have not thought of? What use is the happy ending if it is not what you long for? If it's not the craving that gnaws at your guts day in and day out? If it is not what you desire from the deepest depths of your heart?
If you have not imagined it in the safest haven of your mind, then it is not a happy ending.
Then again what use is this speculation? He is not even getting an ending to his story, happy or otherwise. He is just surviving like a corpse. Days blur together like a dream slipping through his mind, filled with the reluctant ritual of hauling his weary body from the frigid embrace of his bed to an equally icy chair and, on occasion, to the unforgiving floor, a surface no kinder than the bed it replaces.
There is no difference anyway when he is struggling to gasp for breath, a feat even the most basic organisms manage with more grace.
The medics check him, of course, but they can do nothing but shake their heads and disappoint Yan Wushi, despite there being nothing to be disappointed about in the first place. He has known enough to understand the futility of it all, yet a stubborn ember of discovering some cure continues to flicker within him.
He knows it is a fool’s tool to hope. A cure, a miracle—he knows better than to cling to such feeble straws, yet his heart persists in its irrational yearning. He hopes anyway.
Yan Wushi, who had just exited seclusion few years back, would spit at him for his lenience, but love made him a fool. Love made him crazy. Love made him lonely.
He is not alone, though. Bian Yanmei, in a remarkably short span, had managed to renovate and breathe new life into a modest cottage at the north of Huanhyue Sect. It is colder here, but it is also peaceful.
Five attendants, handpicked for their service, share this cottage with him. Their role primarily involves attending to his basic needs of food and cleanliness every day. At other times, they're phantoms in the background, not obtrusive but perpetually present, ready to intervene should he stumble even slightly. Their vigilance is unwavering, ensuring he's tended to, ushered to his bed, and administered medicine at the slightest hint of necessity.
Today, though, he sought them out and asked them to flatten and plow a chunk of land ready to plant. He feels like he is going to need it soon given the scratching feeling in his chest.
The attendants, their expressions ranging from curiosity to respect, carried out his wishes without a word. Yan Wushi, once a master of deciphering intentions, pays little mind to the myriad emotions that flicker across their faces.
Now, kneeling on the prepared land, Yan Wushi takes a handful of loose mud and sighs. With his sect-affairs handed over to the capable hands of Bian Yanmei, Yan Wushi made a decisive announcement to the world: his seclusion. He has reached the milestone of fifty, an age that by conventional standards should not herald retirement for a martial artist, but given Yan Wushi’s condition, it felt like the most likely thing to do.
Though Yan Wushi regrets not seeing Shen Qiao’s face one last time, who's to say when or if he'll ever again have the privilege to see that face? Those beautiful eyes.
Looking back, he realizes his past confusion and the emotions that held him captive when looking at the sound asleep Shen Qiao. It was a dread of succumbing to the very treatment he had once dealt out so ruthlessly. He does not remember much of what he did after that, but when he came to be, he was already out of Mount Xuwandu.
There had been no farewell to Shen Qiao, no explanations proffered, no confessions or apologies extended. He had departed like a coward, an act that now registers as a lamentable misstep. Insight, as ever, arrives belatedly.
Now he knows better. Regrets linger like shadows in his mind. Love unfurls its roots deeper within his chest.
On cold nights, lying on a cold bed, he closes his eyes and lets his cold heart remember that warm voice. A smile, ever gentle, dances at the edge of his memory. On those silent nights when the moon hangs like a specter in the sky, Yan Wushi misses Shen Qiao a little louder. He loves him a little deeper.
Those are his moments of peace.
Then there are the moments when he wonders why he is even alive. With pain flaring like a white-hot dagger to his chest, he wheezes, trying to breathe. But nothing feels harder than breathing. Hours of agony seize him, his breath escaping in choked gasps. Each inhalation becomes a battle until he chokes out petals coated in blood.
The pain is no longer limited to the physical; it has seeped into the very core of his consciousness, intertwining with his thoughts like a malevolent vine. Those moments manifest as a cacophony within his mind—seething hisses, curses whispered by his own psyche.
In those moments when his head is the loudest, Zhurong Lian finds him always knowing what he is going through. Like he finds him now kneeling in the mud.
"This one has brewed tea for the sect master," Zhurong Lian announces, his hands steady as he carries the tea-laden tray.
Yan Wushi strides towards the veranda's table and eases into a chair. His tone is firm as he corrects, "I am no longer the sect master. How many times must I reiterate this?"
A small smile curls on Zhurong Lian's lips. "This one can be forgetful." Handing over a cup of tea to Yan Wushi, he continues, "Is the prepared land sufficient, or should we prepare more?"
"I believe it's enough," Yan Wushi replies, his gaze distant... "for now, at least."
"Do I visit the market and bring seeds to plant on the land? What does sect master want to plant? I will prepare the list, or I might forget that too."
"There's no need for that." Yan Wushi dismisses the help with a wave of his hand.
"Will you be venturing to the market yourself then?"
Yan Wushi sips his tea, glaring at the stupid question and declining to respond.
"Is the sect master planning to visit today, then?" Zhurong Lian probes, not easily deterred by Yan Wushi's reticence.
"No."
Unperturbed by the lack of elaboration, Zhurong Lian continues his stream of thought, seeking to engage in conversation. "Speaking of the sect, do you know Pei Huang?"
Not one to allow silence to reign for long, Zhurong Lian speaks with no interruption from Yan Wushi.
"We were dusting together, and then he told me about how he was thinking about how, in the future, he would like to open a tea shop and make it the most famous tea shop in Jianghu. That made me think—I have never thought of my future like that. Without replying, I went on sweeping and sweeping and sweeping some more. As the dust wafted into the air and into my lungs with every breath, I remembered my grandfather once saying: 'From dust we emerged, and to dust we shall return.' One day, I will never be more than dust. And somehow, that brought me comfort—"
"Nonsense." Yan Wushi, habitually inclined to scoff at such sentimentality, chimes in, his sneer evident in his words. "So, what now? You are foregoing future plans, content with the thought of turning to dust?"
"This one did not say he would do nothing. That's akin to declaring, I won't eat because I'll eventually feel hungry again."
Yan Wushi sets the now-empty teacup down on the table and rises from his seat. "So you are nurturing hope for the days to come; is that your grand philosophy?"
"One does not have to feel hopeful for the future; it is enough to be just curious about what is coming."
"Riddiculous."
Placing the cup onto the tray, Zhurong Lian stands as well. "If it is helping me look forward to tomorrow, is it really ridiculous?
Yan Wushi does not reply. Not because he has no answer. He has answers. But he can feel an itch in the back of his throat. And in no time, it's going to turn into agony. Quickly, he walks in the direction of his room, paying no heed to Zhurong Lian.
Barely moments after Yan Wushi enters the familiar cold cocoon of his room, the itch gives way to a torrent of uncontrollable coughs. He clamps his elbow firmly over his mouth until he reaches the designated place he has grown used to in recent times.
Tears well up in his eyes, blurring his vision as he gasps for air, desperate for relief from the suffocating sensation.
They say it's better to push through pain quickly and feel it all at once than let it fester and rot. But Yan Wushi wants to ignore the ache in his chest, to evade the sensation that, like spiderweb cracks, radiates across every rib.
He ignores the tears gathering in the corners of his eyes, as if, by sheer force of will, he might be able to make the suffocating pain vanish.
But the pain does not vanish just like that. After all, it is just the beginning of a very long and painful night.
The itchiness deep within his throat compels him to claw at it, his nails digging into raw flesh until blood stains his fingers. It is a gruesome ritual for him now, repeated time and again. He should be habituated to it by now. He is not. It hurts him the same way it hurt him the first night he clawed his throat.
With each attempt, his throat constricts further, leaving him choking on his own misery.
Again and again, he forces himself to cough, pushing his finger deep into his larynx, only to have wet petals damp with mucus and blood coat his trembling hands and scatter on the floor. His chest tightens, burning with every tortured breath, while his head feels light from the lack of oxygen. Gasping for breath, he coughs until he senses something coming out of his chest, and he wheezes as his larynx stretches uncomfortably around it. All the while, tears stream ceaselessly down his face, but they go unnoticed, overshadowed by the overpowering desperation to inhale enough air and dislodge this thing in his throat.
A guttural cry escapes his lips, reverberating through the room as he grips onto a tangled mess of stem and roots, feeling the prickly texture against his skin, and throws it in the ground with a sickening slap.
The world seems to tilt as he stares at the haunting thing with his blurry vision; it is red with blood. With great focus, Yan Wushi can make out the shape: it is double-petaled... a flower covered in ugly red but with white and purple underneath the blood; still, it looks rotten, like the color of something that has never seen the light of day.
With the flower now out of his lungs, he can finally breathe again. Weakly, he gulps a mouthful of air. But it hurts... now, not because of the flower but because of the bloody mess that must be his lungs.
Finally, his arms give out, and he collapses to the ground with exhaustion. Blood continues to sip from his mouth; he cannot bring his hands up to wipe it.
It could have been minutes or hours that he lay there, gasping for and clutching the double-petaled thing in his trembling hand. He grips the flower as hard as he can in his state, which is not much, and tries to crush the flower in his palm.
It is an abomination, an emblem of his cursed life.
It is ruination—an ugly thing that inflicted torment on him.
Yan Wushi hates this flower. He wants it gone. He never wants to see it again. The flower, ugly and red with blood, stays in his hand, staring at him with its peculiar form.
With fury, he stares back at the mocking flower.
Amid the gore and pain, and blood, Yan Wushi can also perceive hints of beauty, flashes of white and purple in the otherwise rotten red color.
It is also the symbol of his love.
Yan Wushi loves this flower. Such a contradiction should not be possible, yet it is.
He cannot bring himself to crush this delicate blossom. Though it has brought him immense suffering, the flower itself is an innocent thing. It is not the fault of the Flower for whatever Yan Wushi is going through. It is not to be blamed; after all, it is a mere vessel of his suffering, not the architect of it.
This very object that causes him anguish also embodies the tender emblem of his desires.
His vision blurs after that, and his surroundings become a hazy tapestry of distorted shapes. Then the world plunges into darkness as Yan Wushi succumbs to unconsciousness.
✿ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ❤︎ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ✿
When Yan Wushi regains consciousness, the first thing he sees is Bian Yanmei sitting at the end of his bed. Sensations tingle across his body, and he becomes aware of probing hands and the presence of needles piercing his acupuncture points.
He listens as a healer provides an explanation, detailing his condition to Bian Yanmei. The words are distant, the healer's voice a backdrop against the intense ringing in his ears. They speak of his fainting, of severe blood loss, and of the prospect of a concoction to restore his waning strength.
An urge to chastise Bian Yanmei for his absence and abandonment of the sect's responsibilities wells within him, but the moment he parts his lips, his entire body quivers with agony—as if he has a deep wound in his chest. In the recesses of his consciousness, fragments of recollection drift like ghostly whispers. Then his memory comes back to him. And he probably really has a deep wound in his chest.
"Shizun, you are awake." Bian Yanmei is the first to notice, and his presence is near him in an instant, assisting Yan Wushi into a sitting position. "You frightened me greatly. You've been unconscious for two days. I was nearly about to send for Yu Shengyan."
Noticing his silence, Bian Yanmei looks at him with a scrutizing gaze and inquires, "Is Shizun having trouble speaking?"
With great effort and weakened resolve, Yan Wushi manages a reluctant nod.
"I suspected as much." Bian Yanmei turns his attention to the healer. "Fetch the concoction I instructed you to prepare earlier. Make haste."
Yan Wushi's mind swirls with questions, and his lips part in an attempt to voice them out of habit, but the slightest movement taunts his throat and is met with excruciating pain.
"Xuan Jing, Shizun must remember him; he sent me the way to make this medicine when he heard you went into seclusion, specifying its use only in dire circumstances."
Yan Wushi nods in understanding. The healer must have anticipated this day and delivered the set of instructions to Bian Yanmei, who is actually trustworthy enough to give Yan Wushi medicine and not someone who would let him rot and die.
In a blink, the potion is brought before him, its hue a darker shade of red like blood. A sickening wave of repulsion courses through him as memories of the flower's bloody petals flood his mind. Still, he pushes aside the aversion and musters the resolve to swallow the liquid in one determined gulp.
The concoction goes down his throat, creating a fiery trail along the way. Yan Wushi clenches his toes and endures the burn. Then, almost as if by miracle, the agony gradually recedes, fading as if a distant memory, and he is left with an unfamiliar sense of relief.
He can breathe with ease.
"I will leave the medicine to work its magic for now and go arrange something for you to eat. Shizun must be hungry," Bian Yanmei declares, rising from his seat and departing from the room.
With Bian Yanmei's departure, a temporary solitude envelops the room, and Yan Wushi allows himself a moment of respite, his gaze resting on the remnants of his torment—the empty cup and the lingering memory of that haunting flower.
Familiarity, one might think, would breed a degree of tolerance, but reality often contradicts such assumptions. This experience, however, is far from familiar.
It is the first time Yan Wushi has hacked up an entire flower plant from his body. True, there had been occasions where petals—varying in size—had been the unwelcome interlopers within his body, but the actual presence of an entire flower is something altogether different. He had been expecting it, of course, and had made up his mind to face it head-on, but actually hacking a flower was so much more agonizing that it eclipsed even his most harrowing encounters. And he has had a fair share of injuries in his life to choose from.
The anguish he feels is not merely physical; it is the psychological strain of grappling with a pain he had not anticipated. It is the understanding that, even for a man who has traversed countless trials, there are depths of torment that remain uncharted, terrors that lurk beneath the surface, awaiting their chance to manifest.
The memory of that moment, of clawing at his own throat in desperation, remains starkly etched. His throat still feels raw and sore despite the medication. That flower was a humbling reminder that, even for a man as formidable as Yan Wushi, vulnerability is an ever-present specter.
As quickly as he had gone, Bian Yanmei returns carrying a tea tray in his hands. He should not do that as he is a sect master now and such jobs are below his status, but since he cannot voice them out, he just glares at his disciples. All while Bian Yanmei, knowledgeable of how Yan Wushi likes his tea, prepares it and puts a teacup in front of Yan Wushi.
"Can Shizun hold this?" he asks, a question accompanied by an silent offer of assistance.
The urge to sneer surfaces within Yan Wushi, even if he can't articulate it. He is not so weakened that he can't manage to hold a mere teacup. Though when he catches the cup, his hands are shaky. It is a good thing that Bian Yanmei poured it only half way, so nothing gets spilled and makes him embarrassed.
The tea has a medicinal smell to it and tastes extra good, probably because his disciple made it for him, Yan Wushi thinks. He looks at Bian Yanmei, silently asking what this is.
"After I got that message from the healer of Xuandu sect about the way to prepare the medicine, I went on researching about it on my own. I have access to plenty of sources, as Shizun already knows." Bian Yanmei explains and his voice bears traces of exhaustion. He pauses for a few moments, as if gathering his thoughts, before he continues. "After weeks of inquiry, I have come to understand the reason behind your decision to seclude yourself."
Oh. Yan Wushi had not shared the truth of his curse with Bian Yanmei.
It was not a matter of trust, but rather a consequence of his own internal struggle. To admit his frailty—to confess that he, who had always projected strength, was now to be reduced to weakness—Bian Yanmei would be disgusted to call him Shizun, as Yan Wushi had taught him to loathe the weak.
The irony of it all now looms over him. The cycle is spinning, and his teachings are going to bite him now.
Yan Wushi prepares for whatever Bian Yanmei is going to say.
"...so, as you might suspect, I have questions for you," Bian Yanmei says, his voice a gentle ripple in the room's serene atmosphere. "Questions that weigh upon me, please understand that there is no obligation for you to answer. And definitely not now... Yet I wish to voice them. Just that—"
The medicine has worked enough by now to croak a sentence or two out. "Do not chew your words." Yan Wushi says and is glad his voice is not shaky, though his throat hurts from his forced speaking. Lifting the cup to his mouth, he takes a sip of the tea to hide the hurt. "Ask what you want to know."
Bian Yanmei looks surprised that Yan Wushi is speaking but adds no comment; instead, he does not speak for quite some time, as if planning on how to breach the subject. Yan Wushi, for his part, is content with the silence, as he has no hurry to leave and cannot talk much. So he enjoys this moment of reprieve before Bian Yanmei dispels it with whatever is going through his mind. His brilliant, strategic, calculative mind.
Then Bian Yanmei exhales a sigh. "Shizun," he eventually begins, setting down the tea cup with a gentle clink, "I have learned about the curse that afflicts you—the nature of it, its impact on you, the pain it inflicts. And here is what intrigues me: the cure for this curse is remarkably straightforward and astonishingly simple—you need only talk to Shen Daozhang. He'd undoubtedly help if you asked. Yet you choose to endure this suffering rather than reach out. You would rather live in misery than go talk to him. So I want to ask, How have you managed to survive this long when you are so violently self-destructive?"
The teacup hovers mid-air, suspended between Bian Yanmei's contemplative gaze and the poignant inquiry. Yan Wushi has no answer to that. He had not even expected this line of questioning. He fully lifts the cup to his lips to acknowledge the question, but the tea that tasted good just a month ago tastes like ash in his mouth now.
A stifling stillness envelops the room as Bian Yanmei presses on... his words are tender and earnest, like the first rays of dawn caressing a slumbering world and Yan Wushi burns at the gentleness of it all.
"I do not know the full extent of your past or the reasons behind your choices. All I possess are fragments and conjectures, with which I can only speculate. But it is evident that you are averse to relying on others, likely because you have been let down in the past. By avoiding dependence, you shield yourself from the disappointment that accompanies others' failures... but I —Shizun, I want you to know that you don't have to be alone in this. You do not have to go through this pain in isolation. Let us share your burden—me or Shidi… or even Shen-daozhang."
Yan Wushi listens very carefully, hanging on to each word. Not moving. Barely breathing. The room embraces this silence as it expands, enveloping the two figures in its cocoon. The tea in Yan Wushi's hand is cold, but his eyes are oh-so-hot. He blinks away the moisture that gathers because he is not that weak to shed tears in front of his disciple.
As if thinking about what he said was not enough, Bian Yanmei's soft yet insistent voice continues to weave its way through the atmosphere. "I know you more than anyone, better than anyone. I have been with you the longest and possess an insight into your strength that few others can claim. For me, Shizun, you stand as a monolith of endurance, shaped by trials and tribulations. No one knows better than me how strong you can be." He drags his hands over his face and exudes an overwhelming sense of fatigue. "But the thing is, you don’t always have to be strong. I mean, it is okay if you want to be strong with outsiders, but you don’t always have to hold your head high around me or Shidi. We are here for you... and strength need not equate to solitude. You can rest your head on our shoulders. You deserve peace too. You deserve support; just give us a chance... give— yourself a chance."
Yan Wushi opens his mouth to say something, anything, but words betray him.
Because this—no one has ever said this to him before. No one has told him that he does not have to be strong.
Since childhood, he has had to be strong to command respect, to ensure others take him seriously. Strength came with solitude, as he couldn't afford to bear others' burdens and still be at the forefront. As his own burdens grew heavier, he found himself bereft of allies to share them with, as he had already left them behind. So he made himself even stronger and hardened his resolve.
But now—he is not strong anymore. The teacup in his hand trembles, and he puts it on the table, making a clanking sound.
Looking at him, Bian Yanmei heaves a deep sigh again. "As I already said, Shizun does not have to answer. My words were simply a weight on my chest, and I needed you to listen."
Pushing himself to his feet, Bian Yanmei gathers the empty tea cups and arranges them neatly on the tray. "Since you are well now, I should return to attending to the sect's affairs, which likely have piled up over these past two days. I request your permission to leave. And please, do remember to call for me if you find yourself feeling unwell, and do not let me find you lying unconcious, teetering on the brink of death." His voice, usually steady and composed, trembles with an emotion rarely unveiled.
Yan Wushi's gaze lifts to meet the eyes of his eldest disciple, and there he spies the glint of a tear poised at the corner of Bian Yanmei's eye. "Shizun, you are so much older and wiser, and I— when it comes to you, I am still the little kid you took under your wings. I might be strong on other matters, but I do not have the strength to carry your cold, lifeless body on my shoulder. Please spare me from that misery. I beg you."
With that, Bian Yanmei bows respectfully and walks out of the room, leaving Yan Wushi with a myriad of emotions he cannot name but has to face all at once.
Yan Wushi stares at the space where Bian Yanmei was standing a moment ago with tears in his eyes and recalls the last time he witnessed Bian Yanmei crying—it was when Yan Wushi was imparting both guidance and weapons to the child for the first time. He remembers wiping those tears with his own hands and sternly stating that he wouldn't accept Bian Yanmei as a disciple if he ever cried again. From then on, Bian Yanmei refrained from shedding tears before Yan Wushi, regardless of the circumstances.
The unshed tears that Bian Yanmei had held back for years now drown him, mingling with the sea of emotions that surround him. In solitude, Yan Wushi finally grants himself permission to let his own tears fall...
The evening light filtering through the window casts eerie patterns that dance across the room, conjuring ghostly silhouettes that sway in sync with the cadence of his thoughts. As tears trace their course down his cheeks, they leave a searing trail, each drop an emblem of emotions he does not know how to acknowledge.
It is a peculiar sting—the sting of kind words. An ache that runs deeper than the cuts inflicted by harsh ones. Bian Yanmei's compassionate words cut through the layers of his defenses. Those sorrowful words hurt him. Those sorrowful words haunt him.
Yan Wushi always ruins things. Maybe he is cursed. No, not maybe... He is cursed. He is a harbinger of ruin, the personification of wretched. Every single thing, every single person he touches, becomes sick with sadness. Even those he loves are not spared.
Everyone has their own way of showing love, and it is different from one person to another and often shaped by the way they witnessed love in their younger years. Perhaps the entire problem stems from it. Because Yan Wushi tasted love in glaring eyes, searing words, and withheld praises.
A heart tossed by bitter waves can only mirror broken forms. A child who grew up in a violent home can only dig bodies from a ground so unhallowed that it would be shameful to call it memory. The scars of such experiences often leave an indelible mark, reshaping one's perspective in ways that are both profound and poignant.
One thing Yan Wushi has figured out from his experiences is that "if it bleeds, he can kill it."
He cannot kill the grief that is bleeding out of the corners of his eyes though. There is no way to kill it. There is no weapon to kill it with.
Nothing can kill his grief, as it is born from love. He cannot kill what can never die. He cannot extinguish what's eternally alive.
Having gone through everything, his bleeding heart still loves. His bleeding lungs still grow flowers.
Yan Wushi envisions taking a dagger and severing every thread that ties him to this unending cycle of suffering.
After all, no greater desire exists in the whole wide world than a wounded person's need for another wound...
Notes:
I don't know how this chapter was for you guys since it is a jumbled mess that I wrote through my sleepless nights of studying and then edited together to make a coherent chapter. I hope it was a decent read.
P.S. The flowers Yan Wushi hacked up are Blue Star Columbine.
Chapter Text
Aftermath of his very pitiful night, where all he could do was lay motionless on the bed and let his mind wander all the way back to things he had never considered, Yan Wushi walks towards the piece of land he had asked his attendants to prepare for him, with the flower still coated in red blood in his hands. Then, with a staggering gait, he gently lowers himself to the ground.
The flower has roots that are very peculiar, and Yan Wushi, despite seeing the mysterious wonders of the whole Jianghu, still shudders when he envisions those roots, like insatiable leeches, draining his very life. Nevertheless, he digs a hole deep enough to cradle the flower's lower stem and gently places it on the earth.
Why is he doing this? He wonders, for the flower is undeniable evidence that he is not loved back. He should let the flower wither, decay, and die, much like he anticipates his own future. Yet here he is, planting it in the soil, uncertain if it will ever thrive outside of the confines of his own body.
As he tends to the plant with water, it washes away the vestiges of rotten red, revealing the flower's true colors. Its inner petals are a pristine white, contrasted by the bluish-purple outer layers, where the white gracefully seeps with the purple. The color scheme appears almost symbolic, mirroring how Shen Qiao has infiltrated every nook and cranny of Yan Wushi’s existence.
Shen Qiao.
Shen Qiao..
Shen Qiao...
His days are now all spent yearning for Shen Qiao, which is no surprise. Surprise would be the day when he would not yearn for him because it would mean that there would be no more Yan Wushi in this world.
His love, he acknowledges, is all-consuming. The healer from Xuandu had aptly coined the phrase for him, and Yan Wushi now reflects upon those words as he gazes at the flower he has just planted in the ground.
All-consuming...
Yes, the healer had chosen the perfect epithet. His love is indeed all-consuming. It devours. It devastates. It drowns. It destroys. He has never been one to stop when he could continue forging ahead toward even more ambitious goals. This love of his will not stop either... like an axle pin of a chariot that goes sound and around and around, non-stop, until it, too, achieves a higher purpose of ruining him completely.
The apathy is painful at this point, and his whole body hurts. He wants calm. He wants peace. So absentmindedly, Yan Wushi walks toward the river flowing just a moment's walk from his residence. His pace is slower than he would like, but he is in no hurry to give his already troubled body more strain.
The meandering river is flowing swiftly, crashing against jagged stones along the bank, and as he watches the crystal-clear water, he draws a deep breath. It's easier now—breathing the cool, crisp air—but he knows that soon he will have to confront another one of those cursed flowers.
Yan Wushi cups a handful of the cold river water and splashes it on his face.
The liquid refreshes him, and he finds himself contemplating how much he resembles this very river, then marveling at the strangeness of it all.
Like the river, he too had gone through life at varying paces—sometimes he moved at a deliberate, steady pace in calm contemplation, and at other times he rushed through the tumultuous rapids of life. Occasionally, he drifted along while at others he barely exhibited visible motion. He, too, experienced moments of joy, mystery, and gravity. He has been smooth or abrupt, and on moments like this, he simply pauses to sigh...
The river, though, marches onward relentlessly, showing no hesitation or restraint, unknown to the emotion it is invoking in Yan Wushi.
Once, Yan Wushi was like this, perusing the tumultuous tempest of this whole world towards some grand, unknown achievement.
Now Yan Wushi is still. But the river is continuously flowing.
It is the cycle of life, perhaps, and there is a lesson to be learned.
A river is always there, yet the water it carries is never the same, never still. It undergoes constant change and is forever in motion. And with the passage of time, even the river itself transforms, widening and deepening as it relentlessly sculpts the land.
And just like the river, he senses that he, too, is changing, at times growing broader and deeper.
The question lingers: will the person he evolves into become more profound and enriched, or will he stagnate, transforming into a mundane reflection of himself? Will he permit the curse to govern and constrict him, erecting walls that dictate his course? Or will he forge his own path and chart his own course through the currents of life like he always did?
To simply give up because of this curse will be to accept defeat, and it would be a fruitless surrender considering the hardships he endured to forge the reputation he holds in the Jianghu.
Suddenly, a disquieting thought pierces his contemplative reverie: what would his younger self think if he saw him in this state? What would Xie Ling think of him?
He wonders if little Xie Ling is still hiding in the shadows of the recesses of his consciousness and watching Yan Wushi fall apart, and he wonders some more what he would say looking at the mess that he has become? Or is the little Xie Ling scared and shivering?
These questions gnaw at him, and though he longs for answers, guess he will never know.
Emotions surge within him once more, and before he comprehends it, warm tears stream down his cheeks and fall in the water. The river continues on its course, though... refusing to pause and accompany him even for a moment.
Standing at the riverbank, Yan Wushi feels an overwhelming sense of desolation, like he is all alone against the inexorable march of time. His tears alongside the river, journey onwards, and he contemplates a day when they might merge with the vastness of the sea, for his tears and the sea are kindred spirits—salty, with something disgustingly tragic in their depths.
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The single flower Yan Wushi planted just a month ago is joined by ten more. Despite the burden of his weakened body, he walks towards what will soon be turned into a garden, considering the rate at which the flowers are coming out of him, and falls to his knees each time to plant the blossom.
If anyone besides his attendants were to witness him in this state, Yan Wushi knows that he would lose half of the respect and reputation he has fought so hard to build over the years. But it is not enough to keep him from falling to his knees and continuing to plant the flowers.
Yan Wushi's love, it turns out, is stronger than his pride, and he presses on despite the physical and emotional toll it takes on him.
The flowers are now coming out every three days, and other times when he coughs, there are wet petals...
Yan Wushi discerns a pattern in their growth, and it aids in concealing his deteriorating condition. Every time he feels his throat begin to itch, he goes to his room and shoves a mouthful of cloth down his throat to prevent himself from coughing and alerting his attendant. At times it works, while at others, the cloth becomes stained with red blood, and his attendant found him on the verge of unconsciousness with tears of agony streaming down his cheeks.
With no known cure for the curse, Yan Wushi, in moments when he is not coughing his lungs out, dedicates himself to finding ways to impede the relentless growth of these flowers, if not to eradicate them entirely.
Recently, he has resorted to self-imposed starvation, a desperate bid to deprive the flowers of sustenance. After all, what nourishment can they derive when there is barely enough to sustain his own frail body?
However, very soon, it becomes evident that, regardless of how hungry he may be or how weakened his body is, the only nourishment these flowers require is his love for Shen Qiao. Each recollection of Shen Qiao triggers an irritating itch in his throat, signaling that the flowers are mere seconds away from intensifying his agony.
Yan Wushi loathes how effortlessly these flowers take root within his chest and how his own body betrays him in this wretched manner.
Yet he cannot resent the steadfast persistence of his love, for it is his very devotion that grants life to these flowers, even as they encroach further upon his existence with each passing day.
As their numbers of flowers multiply, reaching fifty and beyond, for the nth time, Yan Wushi comes to terms with the fact that his enduring love for Shen Qiao will continue to breathe life into these flowers, and he will carry the pain with him on his journey of his life.
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Time truly is meaningless yet so powerful, and Yan Wushi feels like he is on both sides yet neither...
In the past, when he was striding in youth, decades felt like days and weeks felt like minutes. But these past few months have been centuries; every minute and every second lived and breathed an eternity of their own might.
One day, Yan Wushi runs his hand through his hair, only to be greeted with a tangled, knotted mess. He sighes. It has been quite some time since he took care of himself in ways that extend beyond the medicinal remedies he employs to numb the pain. Standing before the mirror, a heavy whip of guilt lashes at his heart as he gazes at his appearance.
It is peculiar how nothing seems to change on a day-to-day basis, yet when you cast your eyes back over the passage of time, you can scarcely recognize the face staring back at you.
His face has now grown a pale color of sickness instead of the sunkissed glory from fighting his battle in Jianghu. He looks sick in the way he feels from within. His clothing, while not in shambles, is a far cry from the ostentatious attire he once favored.
Picking up a wooden comb, he goes on to untangle the knot in his hair and hopes one day to untangle the knots in his life as well.
White strands, once confined to his temples, have multiplied, now coursing through nearly half of his head. The contrast between black and white, though evocative in its own way, serves as a reminder of the inexorable passage of time.
How long has it been since he secluded? Numbers are elusive to him though.
In the quiet of solitude, when the outside world fades and the shadows lengthen, Yan Wushi thinks of Shen Qiao again. and again.. and again...
How must he be doing? Surely, Shen Qiao is caring for himself with the same diligence he employs to move forward. Shen Qiao, unlike Yan Wushi who is still ensared in memories, does not linger in the past and must have already left their shared history behind.
Yan Wushi envisions Shen Qiao's smile, now free from the torment Yan Wushi once inflicted.
As he runs his hand through his freshly combed hair, he contemplates how, had he not treated Shen Qiao so callously, he might have had the privilege of running his fingers through Shen Qiao's hair instead. The memory of the first time he marveled at Shen Qiao's long, pretty hair resurfaces... it is a memory etched with longing.
It was when Shen Qiao was on that fortune-telling stall and...
...he dares not attempt to tally how many times, since that moment, he had silently made the same observation, how many instances the memory stirred a lump in his throat.
To watch the wind's gentle caress ripple through those flowing strands while his fingers remain unable to touch them.
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One chilly evening, as the tea steams before them, Bian Yanmei broaches the subject of the outside world—the rumors that have taken flight about Yan Wushi.
"There is a rumor going around about how you are now weak after the battle and are currently nursing the wound in seclusion. Would you like me to take care against these slanderous words?"
Yan Wushi does not reply outright. Instead, he watches leaves cascade down from nearby trees, each one a unique form, texture, or shape, yet all unified in their descent, carpeting the ground beneath the tree. They flutter and fall, dancing in the brisk autumn breeze, painting the earth with their decaying beauty.
"...Shizun?"
Yan Wushi lifts the tea to his lips, savoring its content, and then looks at the concern etched on Bian Yanmei's face only to remember that one conversation both the master and the disciple are acting like it did not happen.
"Leave them be," Yan Wushi utters calmly. "A thundering cloud has never rained. The rumors spreading through Jianghu are much like these falling leaves. They come in a wide variety, each one unique, but they are weightless, destined to eventually find their way to the ground, where they will decay and wither, forgotten by all."
With that, he gestures toward the falling leaves outside, where nature's cycle continues unabated, to which Bian Yanmei nods in acknowledgment and goes back on silently drinking tea in silence because he knows Yan Wushi has never cared about what people say behind his back. He knows those words are nothing but pitiful attempts, like arrows with poisonous tips hoping to strike at his Shizun—a target they could never reach.
Addressing such baseless rumors would only invite those feeble arrows to pierce where they would never have been able to reach on their own. One invites wounds that serve no purpose. Such folly is beneath a man of his Shizun's stature, for Yan Wushi exists on a plane above the sordid filth of baseless whispers.
Although, what must A-Qiao be thinking of these rumors? Yan Wushi wonders. After all, Shen Qiao is the only other person who knows the truth of the aftermath of his fight more intimately than Yan Wushi himself. Is Shen Qiao even thinking of him? In the quiet of his solitude, Yan Wushi hopes that Shen Qiao thinks of him with the same intensity that he wishes for Shen Qiao's happiness, even if that happiness no longer includes him.
But that is futile...
After just one week in his seclusion, a message had arrived bearing the news that Shen Qiao was in Huanyue, inquiring about Yan Wushi. Bian Yanmei had asked if Shen Qiao should be allowed to greet him, and Yan Wushi did indeed want that reunion. However, the relentless coughing fits that had seized him at the time left him incapable of receiving anyone, lest of all Shen Qiao. He had no choice but to decline.
That day, as Yan Wushi writhed in the grip of the agony, a part of him had hoped that Shen Qiao would burst through his door, concerned for his well-being. If not for him, then perhaps to inquire about Xie Ling, whom Shen Qiao held dear, or even for A-Yan. Regardless of the reason, Yan Wushi would have found solace in the knowledge that his presence still held a place in Shen Qiao's heart and mind enough to break rules for once.
But Shen Qiao, ever the honorable and considerate soul, had respected Yan Wushi's boundary and departed...
Since that day, Yan Wushi has not heard from Shen Qiao, and his own physical state has prevented him from venturing outside.
Willingly, Shen Qiao is not coming back into his life, and Yan Wushi has no claims of being sad or mad about it, as it is Yan Wushi who had burned the bridge that led them to each other. He has no right to ask why Shen Qiao did not visit.
Still, like a patient saint, Yan Wushi's heart yearns for the day when Shen Qiao will step through that door. He dreams of the day when he will walk Shen Qiao over the garden of flowers he has plucked out of his chest and sown in the soil. He wants Shen Qiao to see the vastness of the garden. He wants Shen Qiao to count those flowers and give a number to his love.
But Shen Qiao doesn’t walk through that door, and Yan Wushi withers like a forgotten orchard apple, stripped of its hope as the days fall like wilted petals from the flowers.
Yan Wushi keeps yearning for the touch of a hand that would never reach for his, and he keeps hungering for a heart that would never beat for him.
This is also love, he supposes, and it is in its nature to get blemished with the tide of time.
Every day, Yan Wushi is burning himself for love so profound—it can eclipse the brightest stars in the night sky—that Shen Qiao could not bear. But still, he imagines what if.
What if Shen Qiao was here?
What if Shen Qiao loved him back?
Of course, love cannot save him; he knows that very well. After all, the overflowing presence of it in his chest and the harrowing absence of it in his arms are the very reasons he is suffering...
Chapter 6
Notes:
Hello guys? How are you all doing?
I am sorry this chapter is a little mess, as this month has been hectic for me between my semester project, becoming very ill, and moving to our new house, and I didn't have much time to write. So please read this with a pinch of salt.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Yan Wushi tries to heal. It does not matter, though. Nothing is working, which is not that strange. He had known nothing would work. But still, seeing everything go down the drain makes him feel things he has not felt since his childhood.
His health continues to decline daily; more and more blood pouring with each coughing fit, almost to the point of gargling. It is disgusting, truly. It's a vile and repulsive experience, one he's grown accustomed to, yet it remains a source of disgust and despair.
The familiar clump of flowers continues to persist in his throat, and clearing his throat repeatedly does not dislodge the petals, nor can he hide away. He endeavors to swallow herb after herb, hoping to loosen the petals, but nothing proves effective.
His body continues to contort, betraying him in another episode of relentless pain. In those moments, he remembers Shen Qiao, and as oil poured over a fire— his agony multiplies tenfold.
First comes the splatters of blood, speckling the floor below them a deep red, a drop dribbling down Yan Wushi’s chin in a small trickle. Even after all this time, he is not habitual to the pain and discomfort that follows as he retches up the flower. Tears gather in his eyes, enough to drown the world, and he's shed them in futile attempts to claw his own throat. But at least he knows enough now to follow a pattern that ensures the least damage is done to his lungs.
The overwhelming pain blurs his senses, rendering everything else indistinct. The only thing he feels is agony. All that exists is misery. And as the flower dislodges itself, it feels as if spider-like cracks form within his lungs. With tremendous effort, he claws at the flower, desperately wrenching it from his constricted throat.
The pain should lessen then. After the flower is dislodged. It does not. It has not been lessening recently. As if each time he wrenches a flower free from himself, he is creating a big void in himself, and it is not getting filled anytime soon.
With the blood-coated flower in his hands, Yan Wushi lies on the cold, unforgiving floor. Exhausted and defeated. The room is silent, save for the echoes of his labored breathing.
The world grows distant as his consciousness begins to slip away. Still, in the blurry haze of pain, Yan Wushi knows that he will awaken once more, haunted by this same curse and the same torment. The flowers will return, and the battle will recommence.
After all, he will remember Shen Qiao. Again. Yan Wushi's love will crash within him. Again.
Yet, Yan Wushi is not the vibrant tapestry of fall foliage; he doesn't shed brilliant hues of love to paint the ground for poets to celebrate. There's neither a vast forest to envelop him in a comforting embrace nor the promise of renewal in the changing seasons.
He can only weather the storm for so long.
One day, he knows his spirit will fade. Given that there is no endless horizon to welcome him back and no gentle rustling of leaves to comfort his weary soul. He can only endure the descent into distress, like leaves that fall for a season.
One day, he will wither, like the trees that shed their foliage in the fading days of autumn. His life force will dry up, and there will be no more leaves to gently brush against the unforgiving cliffs of his destiny.
One day, he will not exist anymore and his bed will become a casket. The world will be left barren. The deluge of a thousand emotions will dry up.
Till then, it's a cycle he can't escape.
However, recently, his pain has been a little too much to bear, and his body is a little weaker. And he feels that one of these days he might not wake up at all.
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Yan Wushi does not wake up for a week.
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Bian Yanmei paces around the room as the healers try to treat his shizun to wake up again, but the regular and continuous loss of blood has weakened his shizun greatly, as the healers say. His shizun has not been taking care of himself, and now he is frail like a child. Bian Yanmei clenches and unclenches his fingers, a picture of helplessness. He has not left Yan Wushi's side during the entire treatment, ensuring the healers are doing their best. But still, Yan Wushi remains unresponsive.
The healers work diligently, doing everything in their power to coax Yan Wushi from his slumber. Yet, the results are painfully nonexistent, and the room is filled with a disheartening hush of uncertainty.
With each moment passing by and Yan Wushi’s eyes remaining closed, the dread in Bian Yanmei’s gut seeps into his heart.
"He'll wake up, won't he?" Bian Yanmei whisper-talks to the main healer, "He has to wake up. He's strong. He's survived so much worse."
"We are doing all we can. But as the sect master already knows, it's not just his body that needs healing. His mind is in turmoil, and that is taking a reciprocal toll on his physical state as well."
Bian Yanmei glances at Yan Wushi's still form, his heart aching. Why had his shizun not been taking care of himself, bearing the weight of his past and inner demons alone? Now the burden had finally caught up to him, and he lay in bed, vulnerable and frail.
Days turn into nights, and still, there is no sign of Yan Wushi awakening.
Two whole weeks have passed, and Bian Yanmei wrestles with a growing sense of urgency. He realizes that more must be done, and a surge of realization hits him. He rushes to the corner of the room where a study table resides, grabbing parchment and a quill to compose a letter addressing Xuan Jing, the healer from Xuandu who initially diagnosed Yan Wushi's curse, to attend to his shizun's side.
In the tense silence of the chamber, Bian Yanmei pens the urgent letter to Xuan Jing, desperately detailing Yan Wushi's condition and pleading for his immediate assistance. Sealing the letter, Bian Yanmei dispatches a trusted messenger, urging them to deliver the missive to Mount Xuandu with the utmost haste.
Then, with nothing more to do, he waits. Half a day passes, then a whole day. Time stretches on, a relentless march that holds no mercy for the worried heart of Bian Yanmei. Until a sudden commotion outside snaps the stagnant air.
With the evening sun, Bian Yanmei sees Xuan Jing in the courtyard, and relief floods within him; he exhales a sigh. Hurrying to greet Xuan Jing, he expresses gratitude: "Thank the heavens; you arrived swiftly. Shizun is very ill, as I inscribed in the letter—"
But then Bian Yanmei freezes. His words halt abruptly as another figure becomes apparent behind Xuan Jing. Bian Yanmei had not noticed before, as his attention was completely on the healer, so the sudden appearance of the unexpected person caught him off guard, leaving him uncertain of how to react.
"Sect Master Shen. I—uh… You—"
Shen Qiao interrupts. "I must ask forgiveness from Sect Leader Bian for not waiting for your permission. But even if I had asked, I believe you would have denied it. I can apologize later, but first, I need to see him. Will you please let me?"
His voice holds a tone of desperation, and mindlessly, Bian Yanmei nods, still trying to process Shen Qiao's unexpected presence and plea. "Go ahead, but don’t disturb the healer's work. And please do not be in Shizun’s vicinity when he wakes up."
"Of course. I understand… I won't interfere. I only desire to see him once."
Without waiting anymore, Shen Qiao beelines towards where the attendants had taken Xuan Jing, and Bian Yanmei follows behind him in haste to make sure he is on the right path, all while thinking: "If Shizun wakes up, how will he react to Shen Daozhang's presence? Will it be a source of comfort or distress?"
Bian Yanmei considers the options. On one hand, the presence of Shen Qiao might assist in the resolution of Shizun's condition. Yet, the uncertainty of Shizun's response upon awakening troubles him. Regardless of that, Bian Yanmei leads the way to Shen Qiao and enters the room. Inside, he sees Xuan Jing examining Yan Wushi’s pulse.
Behind him, Shen Qiao takes a gasp, looking at his bedridden shizun.
"He looks so pale." Bian Yanmei hears the shake in Shen Qiao’s voice and shifts his gaze to Shen Qiao by the window, his distance neither too close nor too far from his ailing shizun, and he appears consumed by his silent turmoil. The concern etched on his face is a canvas of worry.
Xuan Jing unpacks his medicinal equipments and arranges them in an intricate array on the table, each one glinting in the ambient light. With calculated precision, he picks up acupuncture needles and begins to insert them at the pulse point of Yan Wushi. All while his voice cuts through the organized chaos, his orders ringing out like a general rallying his troops. The healers of the Huanyue sect move with the urgency of a well-coordinated team, preparing the medicinal concoctions. Herbs and potions are measured and mixed, their aromas filling the room with a heady perfume.
Along with the smell of medicine and incense, the room is permeated with tension and anticipation as Xuan Jing continues his assessment, Shen Qiao remains a silent sentinel, and Bian Yanmei holds onto the fragile hope, pondering the implications of Shen Qiao's presence near his Shizun and the potential benefits for his recovery.
"What has afflicted him so?" All of a sudden, Shen Qiao directs his question at Bian Yanmei in a forced whisper, though his eyes still linger on the pale face of Yan Wushi. "What is he suffering from?"
"It's a curse." Bian Yanmei takes a deep breath, his gaze shifting to Shen Qiao, who seems ready to unleash a deluge of inquiries, and asks, "Did Xuan Jing not disclose any details?"
"No, he did not. He always danced around my questions, but I sensed his ailment in our cryptic exchanges. I figured something was wrong, but I had no inkling it was this bad."
"I see. Shizun wished to keep this secret." Bian Yanmei pauses, taking a moment to gather his thoughts. Better to get over with it now that the cat is out of the bag. "The curse is called Hanahaki. Is Shen Daozhang familiar with the name?"
"I've heard tales of it. But in those stories... love was the cause." Shen Qiao looks at Bian Yanmei in surprise. "He loves someone?" As if wanting confirmation from the man himself, Shen Qiao turns his gaze to Yan Wushi. "He loves someone..." In a span of a few seconds, Shen Qiao appears to have aged five years. "...have you any idea who the object of his affections might be?" Shen Qiao inquires again after a brief pause, leaving Bian Yanmei surprised by the question. Does Shen Qiao really not know? Looking at the grief-striken it seems to be the case. Well, it's not entirely Shen Qiao's fault for not knowing his shizun’s feelings; he hadn't been exactly forthcoming.
"I have my suspicions, but it is not my place to reveal them," Bian Yanmei responds cautiously. "Besides, Shizun has always guarded his emotions and never explicitly disclosed the identity of the person. My speculations may be unfounded."
"Of course," Shen Qiao replies as if he is a diplomat maintaining a delicate balance. Taking a deep, shaky breath, Shen Qiao steadies himself against the wall behind, as if the weight of his own body were too much for him to bear. Then mutters absentmindedly, "His secrecy now makes sense."
"Shen Daozhang can go and sit by the bedside if you wish to."
"I should not—"
"It is alright. The journey from Mount Xuandu must have taken its toll. Shizun would want me to ensure your comfort."
Shen Qiao does not reject the offer; instead, he looks at Yan Wushi lying in bed. Slowly, he walks toward Yan Wushi, each step feeling like dragging a mile underneath. He sits on an empty stool, keeping a hand's distance from Yan Wushi, and quietly watches as Xuan Jing continues with the treatment.
After a while, Xuan Jing asks Shen Qiao for his help, as Yan Wushi's spiritual energy is nearly depleted and they need more to aid in the healing process. Practically, it would have made sense for Bian Yanmei to offer his spiritual energy, given their similar core foundations, but the nature of the curse complicates matters.
Gently, Shen Qiao takes Yan Wushi’s hand in his own. "He is so cold." He looks toward the healer with pained eyes. "Why is he so cold? Is this normal?"
"He has lost too much blood, resulting in the coldness. It is quite typical in such cases."
A moment passes. "How long has he been like this?" Softly Shen Qiao inquires, and the healer, unsure if he can say anything about it, looks in Bian Yanmei's direction, asking silently if the information is to be divulged or not. Bian Yanmei does not have it in himself to look at that grief-stricken face and deny it, so he nods his head once.
"This time or in general?" With a sigh, the healer asks.
"Both." Despite being one word, Shen Qiao's voice cracks.
"Excluding today, he has been unconscious for two weeks. And this curse, well, it has been plaguing him for more than eight years now."
A soft gasp escapes Shen Qiao’s lips. "Eight Years?… He has been suffering for eight years."
Despite looking like a angelic jade-statue rooted in his place, a single trail of tear flows down Shen Qiao’s cheek. If any of the healers see it, they do not say anything. Bian Yanmei does not say anything either. After all, he has no way of understanding what is going through Shen Qiao's heart and head. He can only give him the peace to process the pain at his own pace.
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"I thought you'd revel in strength after discarding me." The voice penetrated Yan Wushi’s consciousness and to his credit he recognized the voice. "Why are you not happy and instead lying on the floor like this?"
Yan Wushi flinched, the sound reverberating through the chamber of his mind. He did not need to lift his gaze to envision the scornful face that mirrored his own. It was his past, a haunting manifestation that refused to be buried.
"You told me I was weak. What does that make you now?" The voice, quivering and almost childlike, pressed on with spectral persistence, drawing closer with each echoing footstep.
Xie Ling materialized at the edge of his vision, his eyes piercing through his being with contempt. "Pathetic, lying there like a failure," he accused, "you vowed strength. What became of that promise?"
This is a dream. Yan Wushi tells himself. Or maybe it was happening really inside his head. The line had been blurry for quite some time now. Whatever the case, this haunting interaction was not new. Every time Yan Wushi lay on the cold, hard ground, he had been seeing Xie Ling.
A projection of his own self-loathing, manifested in the form of his former self.
Often, Xie Ling mocked him. Goads him with his words. Sometimes he cried and lamented to Yan Wushi for betraying him. For being so weak. Only a few times was he angry. Not the raging fury of a river but like an ocean. Calm on the outside but capable of great destruction.
Today seemed like one of those days.
Xie Ling's eyes, unforgiving and unrelenting, bore into Yan Wushi’s. "I gave you my loneliness, my darkness, and the hunger of my heart... This is how you repay me. Do not embarrass me. Get up."
Yan Wushi could not get up. So he did not even try to. He just stared at the hardened face of a child whose eyes looked like a black hole sucking everything in them.
"The world is not kind; either you are a predator or prey. No savior exists. You said it yourself. Have you forgotten?" Xie Ling's tone was edged with relentless reproach. "Where is the man who vowed vengeance for the world's sins against me?"
"The man lies at your feet." Yan Wushi's voice comes out feeble and worn. "He yearns for peace. You should seek it too."
"Peace? I crave infernos, not peace. Where is that blaze that consumed you?" Xie Ling's words resonated with unquenchable fury. "You can't drag me down while drowning yourself. Stand up!"
Yan Wushi's eyes met the endless void of Xie Ling. "It is pointless to keep a fire lit if it is already gone out," he murmured, the words like a death knell. "There is no point in rekindling it; the spark is gone, the energy dead. Let things die... Let me die."
"Die? Pathetic! You speak of the fire going out, but I am still burning within you. You were the one who molded me and promised to protect me. You cannot abandon me now. Do not let me fade away into this abyss of desolation. I refuse to be silenced by your fear." Xie Ling's voice cracked, the semblance of a wounded child seeping through the fury. "You were supposed to be my strength! But now you are weaker than I ever was. You promised to stand against the world, to fight for me… for us."
Unyielding and uncompromising, Xie Ling's eyes glared dagger at Yan Wushi. "You must get up. You owe it to me and to yourself. We can not be this weak. Not after everything we have been through."
Tears welled up in Yan Wushi's eyes. "I am trying to find that strength. I am trying to become who I once was—"
"Then try harder. I won't stop pushing you until I see the fire burning within you again. The old you is still inside you, just sleeping. You need to wake up. You owe it to me."
"Wake up."
"Wake up."
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“Wake up.”
“Wake up.”
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Yan Wushi wakes up, choking on the taste of his own blood rising in his throat. With a disdainful grunt, he flings himself over the edge of the bed, retching violently, allowing the blood gathered in his mouth and throat to splatter onto the bucket placed by the bedside. He continues to heave out a mixture of petals and blood—an excessive amount of blood—until he collapses back onto his bed, resenting his condition.
His brow, drenched in sweat from the whole ordeal, receives an absent wipe. However, his hands, much like the rest of him, are repulsive—clammy, sweat-soaked, and of no comfort when dragged across his face, worsening the situation.
Then someone extends a glass of water in front of his face, and Yan Wushi only then notices that he is not alone in the room. However, his eyes are blurry, and his mouth tastes metallic. So he rinses his mouth first and then washes his eyes with the remaining water.
Yan Wushi looks at the person in front of him, who has another glass extended. "Please drink this first. It will moisten your throat before taking your medicine."
To his surprise, it is Xuan Jing, who offers a soft smile befitting a healer as he brings the glass of water to Yan Wushi’s lips and watches him swallow some of it before he goes on speaking calmly, as if this is a perfectly ordinary morning. But Yan Wushi hears nothing except the intense ringing in his ears. Every inch of his body hurt. Even his bones ache.
Yan Wushi wants to ask what Xuan Jing is doing here, but his voice does not comply with his wish, and uttering a single syllable seems impossible, so he takes some more mouthful of water and swallows it with great difficulty, which is promptly followed by a bowl of potion.
Yan Wushi looks at it. The potion is red. Like blood. Memories flood his mind and Yan Wushi dry-heaves involuntarily again, just by looking at the color. Why are the potions always red?
"You have lost a significant amount of blood. This potion, made from beetroot and pomegranate, will aid in restoring some of it," Xuan Jing explains, and despite wanting nothing more than to toss the potion outside the window, Yan Wushi drinks as instructed.
"Please drink this one too. It will aid in healing your throat. Until then, please rest."
He does not want to rest, though. He wants to know why Xuan Jing is all of a sudden here. Has his condition been worse? Has he been unconscious again? If so, then how long? And where is Bian Yanmei?
Probably sensing his distress, Xuan Jing says, "It is natural to have questions. I will answer some for you. You have been unconscious for about two weeks. Sect Master Bian then wrote a letter to ask me to come to check you up. Hence, I am here. You've borne a profound lung injury, one that continued to fester as it never got to fully heal and thus culminated in alarming inflammation. You had a huge loss of blood too."
Ah. Seems fair. Yan Wushi would have shrugged nonchalantly, but his body hurts.
Xuan Jing checks his pulse. "It appears you have not been taking care of yourself. I thought you loved yourself enough to fight this curse, not succumb to it."
Yan Wushi does not like the scrutinizing tone of the voice the healer has used. However, his primary concern lies elsewhere. "How…i-is he?" he croaks out.
Xuan Jing takes a deep breath, meeting his gaze. "I expected that question. However I am surprised it is the first thing you asked… Our sect master is in good health."
Yan Wushi nods. His throat feels significantly relaxed now. The healing potion has reduced his pain quite a bit compared to when he woke up.
"You must be hungry. I brought some spiritually enriched berries from Mount Xuandu," Xuan Jing offers, passing a satchel to Yan Wushi. He accepts it with shaky hands.
"Please eat them. After that, you have to drink another potion. I will leave you to rest for now."
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How long is he supposed to rest? He has been doing nothing but resting all these years. He itches to go outside, but Bian Yanmei has instructed every attendant to make sure Yan Wushi does not leave the bed. And it becomes clear that Xuan Jing takes his role very seriously. He prescribes Yan Wushi to drink god-knows-what potions. Then he forces Yan Wushi into different meditative postures, urging him to replenish his spiritual reserves for faster healing. It seems to be working to some extent. So reluctantly, Yan Wushi complies, aware that challenging Xuan Jing's guidance may mean a return to the torment of coughing up flowers.
As his throat recovers, he yearns for conversation, the urge to speak itching within him. though Bian Yanmei is nowhere to be seen. Probably went back to handle the sect work that had been piling up during the two weeks. Zhurong Lian, too, seems occupied. Left with no alternative, Yan Wushi finds himself turning to the one figure who remains within his reach for conversation.
One quiet afternoon, bathed in the soft golden hues of the setting sun, he looks at the flying birds in the sky, and absentmindedly Yan Wushi's voice breaks the tranquility: "What do you think of change?"
Xuan Jing has been grinding some of the roots of a tree, probably to make another smelly blood-red medical concoction. Hearing his question, his thoughtful gaze meets the horizon, and he replies with humility, "Forgive this healer for his lack of understanding, but a change of what exactly? There are many things this word could implicate. I request that you add a bit more for my sake."
"Change in oneself. Is it possible?"
"Anyone listening to this question would pinch themselves and rub their eyes at the sight of the almighty Yan Wushi asking the opinion of a healer. This is a change. Is it not?"
A wry smile touches Yan Wushi's lips as he retorts, "You do have a unique way of replying to anything I ask. Just answer what you think of change. How about you undergoing a change?"
"Change... well, I've been this way my entire life," Xuan Jing says with a nostalgic undertone in his voice. "I was born into a humble yet content family. Everything I dreamed of, I received, if it was within the capacity of my parents. There was no need for me to change. Besides, what my parents taught me lives inside me. The teachings of my ancestors, the wisdom of my lineage—these are the threads that compose the tapestry of my being. And to change, I would need to unravel this tapestry, thread by thread, from my own existence. Honestly, I am not sure if I can change, even if I wanted to."
"So you cannot change. Is that what you are saying?"
"No… uh… How do I say this?" Xuan Jing's soft mutter causes Yan Wushi to look in his direction. Meeting his gaze, Xuan Jing exhales a sigh and comes to sit in the chair in front of him. "For example, the moon's phases— we say the moon changes but in every phase, there is always the same celestial body. The same moon. Only the appearance shifts with time. Similarly, one's core essence remains unshakeable, like the roots of an ancient tree, while the foliage changes with the seasons."
"The moon's phases," Yan Wushi repeats. "So, you believe change is possible or not?"
"It is a complicated matter to reply with just a single yes or no," Xuan Jing clarifies. "I do believe you can fundamentally never change as a person, but what you can do is shed. Just as the serpent discards its weathered skin to reveal renewed vitality beneath. You can start to peel back the layers that have accumulated over your true self—the self you were born with. This can seem like changing, but that is only because you are revealing things about yourself that you have never seen before, uncovering aspects of yourself that have long lain dormant. The thing is, those things were there the entire time; they were hidden under the layers and layers of coping responses that have calloused over the top of you since your childhood. I will not call it a change. For what is change when the essence remains."
Xuan Jing clears his throat, doing his best to keep things concise. "It is as if you are dismantling the fortress that, through time, safeguarded you. In this act of deconstruction, you are no longer concealed but revealed." He pauses mid sentence. "Do what I am saying make any sense?" Xuan Jing asks tentatively.
"Weirdly, yes," Yan Wushi responds, pondering the new perspective that has taken shape in his mind. In this terminology, Yan Wushi is not changing. Rather, he is shedding the layers that he does not need anymore. He is letting down his guard, which has kept him away from everyone around him.
As Yan Wushi reflects on the words, he attempts to recall his past self, a time when he might have been different. He tries to remember: Was he always like this, or was he also a child once? He does not remember much of his past, if he is being honest. The memories of his childhood are hazy, shrouded in a fog of time. The haunting figure of Xie Ling from his nightmares is a construct of his own consciousness, not the real him. Surely he was not that cruel in childhood. The real him must have once been soft, tender, and unguarded before the layers of life experiences accumulated over time, hardening the child into the man he is today.
"Can I ask how your childhood was?" Xuan Jing inquires gently. "Though, of course, you do not have to tell me anything if you do not want. It is just that… probably talking and letting things out of your chest would help you."
"It was normal. Well, as normal, a childhood can be filled with searing words and glaring eyes. I—" Yan Wushi's voice and his pride refuses to cooperate. To open up about his past. And his memories… they feel so distant and haunted. "I was naive once. But then that naivete was shattered. I remember being so mad, thinking, why was I so weak? ... and vowing to be strong enough to burn the world," Yan Wushi finally says, his voice filled with such raw honesty that it surprises himself. "And then, as I grew up, I began to think I was not that weak of a child anymore. The weak, pathetic self I was at fifteen. Angry and nasty. Hungry for love..."
His words trail off, and there is a heavy silence in the atmosphere. Xuan Jing listens intently, his eyes fixed on Yan Wushi as if trying to decipher the complex layers of his soul, then murmurs:
"I guess we all were like that once."
"Yes, maybe we were." Yan Wushi acknowledges this with a weary nod, and closes his eyes with a sense of melancholic resignation. "But the thing is, deep down beneath all the facade you have built to protect yourself, you are always that child." He clenches his fists, willing the memories to stay buried, but they resurface with vengeance.
The curse that has haunted him begins to whisper in his ears, and he can hear Xie Ling's words once more.
Weak. Pathetic. Unloveable.
"That child never goes away," Yan Wushi confesses, his mind haunted by the memory of the specter of his nightmare. "He is inside you all the time. That child is forever. Always watching the awful things you do to keep the voices in your head silent." He does not say anything more. He does not know what more he can say without sounding like a lunatic.
As if wanting to pace, Xuan Jing sits up from his seat and goes to stand by the window. Yan Wushi watches the play of shadows on his face caused by the golden rays of the almost-setting sun along with his expression, which looks like a combination of empathy and concern.
After what seems like an eternity, Xuan Jing sighs.
"Who is the real you, then?" Xuan Jing inquires softly, with a hint of trepidation in his voice. He seems almost afraid of Yan Wushi's response. A response that Yan Wushi himself struggles to articulate. "Is the real you—the person who did something awful, or the one who is horrified by the awful thing you did?"
Yan Wushi cannot find an immediate answer, and the question lingers in the air like a ghost. It is a question he has asked himself a thousand times, but he has never been able to find a satisfactory answer. He looks down at his hands, his knuckles white from the tension coursing through him. "I do not know," he admits, his voice barely a whisper. "I do not know anymore who I am."
Xuan Jing's gaze remains unwavering. "Are they different, then? Those voices on your head and you?" he asks, his words gentle enough to be treading on fragile eggshells. "… and if they are different, is one part of you not allowed to forgive the other?"
The room is silent, save for the distant echoes of the words. Yan Wushi no longer wears his anger like armor and just drowns it in himself. The early rays of silver moonlight outside the window casts long, haunting shadows, mirroring the turmoil within his soul.
Xuan Jing continues on, his tone still soft and soothing. "Yan-zongzhu , the past can be a cruel and unforgiving companion. It can haunt us and shape us. But it doesn't have to be our only truth. We are all made up of layers. The person you were in your youth, the one who was angry and hurt, and the one who did things you now regret—they are all a part of you. But they do not define the whole of you."
"Yes, they do. Do you even know me?" Yan Wushi fights for words, gripped by an overpowering need to make Xuan Jing understand. "Everything that I have done in my past defines me in a crowd of people and haunts me in my loneliness."
"I understand that you carry the weight of your past actions. And I won't pretend to know the depths of your pain. What I do know, though, is that the path to redemption is not always straightforward. It is a journey fraught with challenges, but it is a journey worth undertaking."
Yan Wushi outright scoffs at hearing the word redemption. "Redemption? There is no redemption for me. There is no way to make amends for what I have done. Just because I have my own turmoil," he finally says, his voice cracking at the end, "does not justify what I did." He closes his eyes to find the courage to speak the truth he has long come to terms with. "I am a villain in my story because I chose to be one."
The expression on the healer's face mirrors the hurt of someone who has just heard that his beloved puppy has passed away. "I beg to differ with you here. You are not a villain, Yan Wushi. You are a complex and flawed human being, just like the rest of us. Forgiveness, both from others and from yourself, is a journey, not a destination. It may be challenging, and it may take time, but it is attainable. If you give up before even starting the journey, then—"
Yan Wushi does not have the strength to argue. So he just asks bluntly: "How do I forgive myself when I cannot forget the pain I've caused and the lives I have shattered?" Yan Wushi's fists clench, his nails digging into his palms, as if physical pain could somehow dull the ache in his heart. He longs for answers, for a way to reconcile the person he once was with the person he has become. Although he knows deep down that no such thing is possible, he still voices it out, "What do I do?"
"You begin by acknowledging your past and recognizing the hurt you have inflicted. You carry the weight of your actions as a reminder of the person you once were. And then, step by step, you strive to be better. You endeavor to make amends, to ensure that the person you become is distinct from the one who committed those deeds."
"Things cannot be different now because they were not different when they were actually required."
"I feel like there is something more to this—" Comes Xuan Jing’s voice after a beat or so of silence, "—because why have you not told our Sect Master about this curse by now? Why the secrecy? Surely it would have eased your pain—"
"...and cause him pain instead?" Yan Wushi finally sneers. He does not know how he was still capable of that, but it felt good knowing he still had it in him. "You might think me as a callous selfish man all you want, but even someone like me knows that when you love someone, you protect them from the pain; you do not become the cause of it."
Xuan Jing's gaze softens as he attempts to reason with Yan Wushi. "Do not make up problems if there are none."
"Oh, but there are always problems. One after another. There is no end to it. After all, it is a cruel world."
"Yes, I have heard that, but it is not the world that is cruel. It is the people in it."
"Hm. maybe. But whether an axe accidentally falls on your leg or your leg accidentally hits the axe; it is the same thing." Yan Wushi concedes. "Does not matter in the end."
A small smile appears on Xuan Jing’s face hearing Yan Wushi’s euphemism. "I understand your desire to protect those you love. But sometimes, keeping secrets can be its own kind of cruelty."
"I know," Yan Wushi exhales, "though it is not just about protecting him from the truth. It is about protecting him from me, from the darkness inside." Yan Wushi's shoulders slump, and he gazes out into the night as if searching for answers among the stars.
"You carry a heavy burden," Xuan Jing observes softly, his voice devoid of judgment. "But remember, burdens shared are lighter to bear. Our Sect Master cares for you deeply. He would not want to see you suffer alone."
"Suffer is a small word. I am bathed in cold red blood. I am going through hell."
"See, that is the thing. If you are going through hell, then the best thing is to keep going. After all, why would you stop in hell?"
Despite his reluctance, an abrupt chuckle escapes Yan Wushi’s lips upon hearing those words. "Makes sense. But when you are in hell, only the devil can point the way out."
"Or maybe an angel. Who lives on a mountain… is kind, soft, and caring. Has soft spot in his heart for you. If I were you, I would try my chances."
Yan Wushi is having heart palpitations, and something in his chest squeezes tightly. "People like me do not deserve angels."
"Well, you do not get to make that decision, do you? The decision is for our sect master to make." Xuan Jing smiles gently, the moonlight casting a soft glow on his features. "Say your love to him; proffer your devotion in front of him. He may surprise you."
Notes:
Me: Xuan Jing is right...maybe its time to go and talk to Shen Qiao.
Yan Wushi: No!
Me (who has already written the scene): Okay. Cool.
This chapter went so differently than I had originally outlined. I had to edit out the part where Yan Wushi gets sick at the beginning of the chapter because it was too gruesome and would definitely need to update the rating. So it might have come up all of a sudden to read that Yan Wushi was unconscious. Except that I guess it turned out okayish.
How was it for you though? Please do tell me what you think of this fic so far—the pace, the story, the characterization—anything and everything is absolutely welcome.
Next Chapter:- Shen Qiao and Yan Wushi will have THE talk.
Chapter 7
Notes:
Wow, I wrote this chapter so quickly; I can hardly believe it myself.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
|| The seasons changed, as they always do,
But my love for him, it never withdrew. ||
|| In the tapestry of memories, he's woven deep,
This phantom love is a secret I still keep. ||
|| His voice, a melody that lingers in my ear,
An echoing tune of warmth that I hold dear. ||
|| But he, like a leaf in the autumn's breeze,
Drifted away, leaving my heart to freeze. ||
|| The gloomy skies now mirror my despair,
As I wander these paths of love, so unfair. ||
|| Each day, a reminder of fate's cruel jest,
A solitary sting that won't find rest. ||
|| Yet, I treasure the memories, shared and rare,
The fleeting glances, our unspoken affair. ||
|| Though my devotion remained hidden, a silent prayer,
In the depths of my heart, he'll always be there. ||
|| To trace each contour, each sigh, each smile,
In my dream, I linger, if only for a while. ||
|| As the years have passed, the ache remains,
A love unfulfilled, a heart in chains. ||
|| But beneath the moon's soft, silvery gleam,
I still cherish the memory of my one-sided dream. ||
Yan Wushi re-reads the poem—not a polished piece of art that could crumble the world with its words, but something that emerged from the depths of his heart. Gently setting the quill down, he allows the ink to dry on the parchment, observing the characters that have captured his sentiments.
Once the ink has settled, he gently places the poem atop the parchment stack he's been diligently working on as a means to pass the time. It's a form of respite, a solace in these quiet moments.
His throat is somewhat healed now, but Xuan Jing advised him not to speak until it was absolutely necessary before departing for Mount Xuandu. So, in these days of restrained vocalization, Yan Wushi lets the written word become his voice, conveying what his healing throat cannot.
But it is not that easy to go days without uttering words. And the medical potions Xuan Jing has prescribed this time seem to be very potent.
Every time Yan Wushi drinks it, the room blurs and distorts around him as the strong medication begins to take effect and the walls breathe in and out, pulsating like a living, breathing entity.
Whispers echo in his ears, as do murmurs of voices from the past, snippets of conversation, and fragments of memories that intermingle with the present. He sees figures that aren't there—familiar faces and loved ones—appearing and disappearing in the blink of an eye. They smile. They speak. And then they dissolve into the shimmering air.
It was as though he were made of light and air, barely tethered to the physical world. In danger of coming apart. Burning up. Floating away.
When the effect of the medication is over, Yan Wushi lies in bed, and his thoughts, usually coherent and logical, spiral into a chaotic whirlwind. With no one to talk to externally, he has been focusing internally. He willingly creates scenario after scenario in his head, replaying things from his hallucinations. Seeing people he wants to see. Hearing things he wants to hear. Mostly, he just imagines Shen Qiao. Sitting beside him. Talking to him. Listening to him.
After all, even if a hungry person cannot eat, he can at least dream.
It helps in ways he cannot express. He is still not a good person, but he knows his wrongdoings now. He knows where the fault lies. Often, he finds himself confessing and apologizing to people he has wronged. But they are not there to listen to his apologies.
Still, it makes the lonely days easier.
However, within this mental conjuring, Shen Qiao often remains silent. Words, after all, were never his forte, an aspect in which Yan Wushi excelled. Thus, Yan Wushi takes the lead in conversation, painting the canvas of their imaginary dialogue with his own spoken words.
Often, he notices his attendants, and more frequently, Zhurong Lian giving him peculiar looks. They probably believe that Yan Wushi has lost his sanity, but it matters little what others may think. In this ephemeral dreamlike state, he is granted the privilege of being near Shen Qiao, and that, to him, is all that truly matters.
For the first time ever, Yan Wushi’s heart and his brain are working together. His soul and mind, however, still have a few values they are negotiating. And he just stands, holding the scales, waiting for them to balance. Impatiently, he may add.
Fearfully, sometimes.
Repeating the cherished name like an incantation, he calls out, "Shen Qiao," willing the presence of his beloved, despite the confines of his imagined space. Then Yan Wushi talks. No particular matter or specifics. He talks for the sake of talking, and Shen Qiao listens as he gazes back at Yan Wushi with eyes that rival the beauty of the moon and all the stars combined.
The world seems less lonely in those moments. But it doesn’t last forever.
When Yan Wushi returns to his senses, Shen Qiao is not there. Yan Wushi picks up his quill to write about the buzzing sensation in his heart, but nothing comes out.
The ink gets soaked in the parchment. So do his tears.
Yan Wushi believes it is the most exquisite piece he can ever create. After all, what could be more poetic than an empty, tear-soaked page with stains of ink?
✿ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ❤︎ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ✿
Bian Yanmei comes on his regular visit, which has been scarce because of handling the sect, and finds Yan Wushi dazed in potion.
The disciple scrutinizes his shizun. His gaze is searing. Uncertain… like he is seeing Yan Wushi for the first time. Like he is meeting Yan Wushi for the first time. He tells Yan Wushi that he is overdosing himself. That he is damaging himself. That what he sees in the haze of his hallucinations is not real. That the world is out there. That Shen Qiao is out there.
He asserts that Yan Wushi should not push himself so far that he might be unable to come back.
Yan Wushi dismisses Bian Yanmei with a flick of his hand.
Yan Wushi is not stupid. He knows this delirious intimacy is damaging him from his core. He is not oblivious to the detrimental effects of taking the medication more than it is required, but what alternative does he have? Under the influence of the potion, he does not have to endure the excruciating pain of the flowers being clawed out. He does not have to lie on the floor, begging for the time to pass on quickly. He can just go through pain. In fact, upon awakening, he retains little except the remnants of that agonizing pain.
And who cares if Shen Qiao appearing in front of him is not real? He is real enough to get Yan Wushi through. In the cracks of light, every time Yan Wushi sees Shen Qiao, his breath catches in his throat. He is real. And so beautiful. He is all that matters, nothing more.
When desire grows, it brings about weaknesses and allows vulnerabilities to be more noticeable. But, so what?
Yan Wushi does not want to think of all the costs and the things that will be lost. Oh, can he not just get a pause from his misery? Ghost voices trail behind him like silk scarves, telling him that he indeed deserves a pause. In fact, he deserves everything he dreams of and more. His hand can hold the world, and still, it will never be enough.
✿ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ❤︎ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ✿
Bian Yanmei restricts the potions to the quantity advised by Xuan Jing, which makes it hard to spend his days given that Yan Wushi has become habituated to having medicine course through his veins. He has become habituated to having Shen Qiao around him every time he desires. The scarcity is awful.
In a moment of exasperation, Yan Wushi barges into the attendant's quarter and asks for more medicine. His voice comes out harsher, almost cruel, reverting back to his authoritative tone. It is almost like he is back to being the Yan Wushi. It does not matter to him. He wants medicine. He wants Shen Qiao. So when he takes a step ahead and extends his hand toward Zhurong Lian for the satchel, Zhurong Lian flinches.
The haunted look in Zhurong Lian tells him that he probably is still the Yan Wushi. He looks around the room for his trusted attendants and sees they cower to meet his eyes. He sees the fear in their expression—the fear of the Yan Wushi, capable of great destruction—the formidable sect leader of the Huanyue sect.
That realization hits him like a cold wave, sobering him abruptly. He turns around and darts back to his room, repeating everything he said there that must have scared them. He tries to find where he went wrong. But deep down, he knew the answer. You can fundamentally never change as a person. The word echoes in his mind.
Yan Wushi swears he will prove Xuan Jing wrong.
Till now, Yan Wushi was just going with the flow. But now, after having peace for so long, he does not want the violence of the dog days. He yearns to remain in this peaceful autumn.
He retraces his footsteps on each stepping stone that leads him there.
He tries to control himself. But it appears not to be as easy as he thought it would be. The drought of potion in his blood turns out to be almost worse than having flowers clawed out of him.
In his withdrawal, he still sees Shen Qiao. But Shen Qiao is cruel now... Almost bitter. He wants to hear nothing that Yan Wushi wants to say and instead urges him to barge the door and drink down his medicine to end his suffering. It is tempting — coming out of Shen Qiao.
Yet Yan Wushi persists and resists the temptation. Instead of talking to Shen Qiao, Yan Wushi resorts to writing letters addressed to the fire to make up for his presence.
✿ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ❤︎ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ✿
A-Qiao, I tried to paint today. Watching the leaves flutter in the wind gave me a sudden burst of inspiration, and I picked up the canvas to paint the scenery.
The winter is coming, bearing its cold fangs and icy claws. You live on a mountain, so you are already aware of the harshness it brings. Like every living being, the trees will wage a war against the wind to survive. But I know exactly what the trees plan—when the leaves will turn, how they will set themselves all over the ground to stave off the terror of the winter's cold. I know how they must feel, with their bodies dying all around them in such a tragically beautiful fashion. It feels like watching self-destruction; witnessing the trees fend off all the leaves they have grown all year.
I can place no blame on them for their choices. After all, there is a graveyard in my mouth filled with words that died on my lips. There is a garden filled with flowers blooming out of love I can never express.
Maybe it was my feelings overwhelming me, or I am just a bad painter in general; it turns out hideous. It happens every time. Whenever I try to paint, I use so many colors that I end up with black. You see, A-Qiao, the mixing of too many things always leads to black. Be it colors or feelings.
I had looked down at my hands then, grotesque with paint, and remembered the time when my hands were red with blood. Of others. Of my own. The hands that have done so much harm, that have taken so much from others, now hold a brush. I almost choked on the irony. Along with my flower.
⊱❀⊰
A-Qiao... I fear I am drowning everything around me. I fear I am drowning as well. Beyond the known and seen lies the ocean of my love and I am deep in its clutches. And what’s worse... everyone I know is pushing me deeper. I won't say I do not deserve it. I do deserve it if it was done out of malice, but it is not. They worry about me. They tell me to go and talk to you, my dear A-Qiao. But I do not need to. I do not want anything from you.
⊱❀⊰
A-Qiao, I lied last time. There are things I want from you: your smile, your laugh, your warm breath on my neck, your voice calling my name, your body moving beneath me in the dark. Every moan and every sigh you exhale, I want them all. But I want them only when you want me to have them. And not in a pitiful offering. I still have to fall to that level. I want you to have me just because you do. A sinking feeling lingers in the shadows of my hope, and it is your choices, not wishes or words, that will define our fate.
⊱❀⊰
A-Qiao, I always knew I was putting myself up for a heartbreak by loving you. But, my darling A-Qiao, heartbreak with you is worth a thousand shared smiles with someone else. I just wish you would have met me when I was softer to love. Easier to swallow, without the jagged edges that made me the man I am today. Maybe you would have loved me then.
⊱❀⊰
A-Qiao, my memories of you are fading away. It is hard for me to recall the color of your eyes. You are turning into a language I am no longer fluent in… but somewhere in the periphery of my consciousness, I still remember glimpses of how to read. This is worse than having those flowers wrenched out of me.
⊱❀⊰
A-Qiao. Talk to me. Can't you see me sitting in front of you? Like an idle emperor on a rotting throne. People say that one needs love to live, but A-Qiao, loving you is killing me. If only you knew what I have gone through by just loving you. What would you do then?
⊱❀⊰
A-Qiao, recently, I have been thinking about jumping over a very tall something just to see you come running and say the one thing I have been wanting to hear. But no… I will not put you through it. I will not guilt you into coming near me. I just wish things did not have to be this way.
⊱❀⊰
A-Qiao, when no one is around, will you say my name?
⊱❀⊰
A-Qiao, I cannot regret ever falling in love with you. You are the best gift that was never given to me. But I do regret never being able to hold you. One. Last. Time.
⊱❀⊰
A-Qiao, please say my name...
✿ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ❤︎ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ✿
Hunger is a very enigmatic thing. For those without the means to indulge in a satisfying meal, it torments them, driving them to commit desperate and terrible deeds. Yet, for those with the resources to satiate their every craving, grapple with a different hunger—the hunger to create desire in the absence of need. Their tables groan under the weight of plenty, yet their appetites, if existent, whisper faintly compared to the clamor of those who know real hunger. It would be a blessing if those who are less fortunate could inherit a fraction of the wealthy's modest appetite.
“This one thinks you should at least drink the soup.” Pei Huang, his cook, tells him breaking Yan Wushi’s trail of thought.
Yan Wushi gazes at the bowl. It had been piping hot and brimming with steam when he first sat down, but now it sits, cold. He can not find it in himself to eat anything but maybe he can force the soup down his throat. In one swift motion, he downs the soup and signals for the plates to be taken away with a wave of his hand.
Sitting in the same posture has left his legs numb, so he stands up and stretches, allowing the blood to flow through his body. The day outside is beautiful, and staring out the open window, Yan Wushi's attention is drawn to the spot where he has planted his flowers. They sway in the autumn wind as if beckoning him to come closer.
Yan Wushi steps outside, the atmosphere filled with the cheerful chirping of birds and the buzzing of bees. Although there is furniture—a small veranda with table and chairs at the garden's center constructed by Bian Yanmei for his comfort—Yan Wushi seldom uses it. He prefers to sit on the ground amidst the flowers.
At the edge of his garden stands an array of Blue Mimosa trees. He walks over and settles at the base of one. The wind has a crisp edge to it, but the dappled sunlight filtering through the branches cancels out the chill. He closes his eyes and breathes in the scent of the flowers, a fragrance that speaks of his love. His heart feels heavy yet calm in this place, as if he is enveloped in Shen Qiao’s arms.
Yan Wushi can't help but think that Shen Qiao would appreciate this serene setting, perfect for meditation. He envisions Shen Qiao seated at the tree's base, while he watches with devotion. The mere thought of Shen Qiao brings mist to his eyes.
Stars above, he is breaking beneath the love he is carrying around.
The withdrawal is not that bad now, but it is not that good either. Sometimes things are calm inside his head, and sometimes they are chaotic, like his life is spinning out of control and all he can do is sit helplessly and watch.
With a deep sigh, Yan Wushi opens his eyes. And there is Shen Qiao, as always. Ever-present in his mind, effortlessly conjured even in the faintest of dreams.
Yan Wushi doesn't complain. Even if it is a dream, he is grateful to have Shen Qiao with him. Although Shen Qiao looks exceptionally beautiful today. Real too. Shen Qiao's features, the delicate curve of his lips, the acute bridge of his nose, the gravity in his eyes—are much more pronounced. As if imagining him thousands of times finally has perfected his image.
"Ah, A-Qiao, you look pretty today." Yan Wushi says out loud, his voice a soft murmur carried by the breeze. He shifts his position to adjust his numb back against the tree trunk. "My flowers are getting jealous just looking at you."
No reply comes. It rarely does. Shen Qiao just stares. His robes billowing in the wind.
"I've never seen you so beautiful, so radiant." Yan Wushi goes on. "Like you have eaten the whole sun and are glowing with it."
"Hardly. I am old now, Yan-zongzhu. Do not speak of me like that."
"You consider yourself old?" Yan Wushi retorts with a touch of amusement. "Then what does that make me? A relic with one foot in the grave, perhaps?" Although it is not that far from the truth.
"I would not have worded it like that although Yan-zongzhu does look like a ghost of your former self."
A faint, wry smile flickers across Yan Wushi's lips. "Well, I have been preoccupied, you see. I have not been paying attention to dressing up and looking pretty. And why would I if you are not here to appreciate my handsomeness?"
"I would have if you had asked for my presence."
"Yes, you would have. That's why I have not sent for you. You are too kind, A-Qiao. You shouldn't be. I do not deserve it."
Shen Qiao's serene expression remains unchanged. "I remember you as someone who believed they owned the world regardless of whether you deserved it or not. What happened to that person?"
"Oh, A-Qiao…ah…A-Qiao, that man looked into your eyes and got lost in them, forever. Who would have thought that could happen? I always kept my heart hidden, making sure not to fall blindly in love with anything or anyone. I safeguarded it so much that, ironically, I placed it where it could never belong."
"What are you talking about?" Finally there is a ripple in that composed demeanor. "Me?"
"Look around what is surrounding us and tell me what do you think?"
As if waking up from a dream, Shen Qiao looks around, scanning the vicinity. "These all flowers...are these your flowers?"
Along with Shen Qiao, Yan Wushi's gaze traverses the expanse of flowers that spread out and around them, and sighs deeply, his gaze returning back to Shen Qiao. "Hm… Yes. These flowers—my love, my agony, my suffering. They are all one and the same. And all for you. "
"All this suffering because of me ?" Shen Qiao's eyes appear calm, like clear moonlight, yet underneath, he seems to suppress a thousand sorrows. "Yan-zongzhu, I... I never knew."
Even though the Shen Qiao in front of him is but a dream, a mirage created by his mind, Yan Wushi finds himself comforting the man, "Don't be sad A-Qiao. Sometimes Cupid runs out of arrows, and ends up shooting one person instead of two. It is not your fault I had this curse. It is not your fault you do not love me back."
"How could you—" Shen Qiao swallows back his words and closes his eyes as if gathering his words or courage or something. Yan Wushi does not know. "What makes Yan-zongzhu think I do not love him back?"
A dry chuckle escapes Yan Wushi’s lips. "I don't know, maybe because I lied to you, manipulated you, implanted a demonic core in your Daoist self while you trusted me as a friend. Left the defenseless you with Sang JingXing. You almost died because of me. Seems pretty logical to assume you would want to stay away from me, don't you think?"
Even if Shen Qiao did love him it would not be fair. Just because you love someone who holds a knife should not mean you keep on accepting the scars — whether physical or emotional. Love should enhance life, not diminish it.
"Did you ever regret doing that?" Shen Qiao inquires. His voice is soft yet searching.
"No," Yan Wushi answers and Shen Qiao's face falls. He could have lied; he did not. He didn’t regret those actions. Not then. He does now. That's a different story. "If given a chance, I would probably do it all over again. I mean, if there was some way to reduce the pain you went through, it would be nice, but only after you went through all that and still retained the goodness within you made me curiously drawn towards you—if I change it, I might never fall in love with you."
It had been precisely during day after day of getting to know Shen Qiao, seeing through his unchanging gentleness and kindness no matter where or under what circumstances life put him through—circumstances he himself put Shen Qiao through—that Yan Wushi had gradually been moved by Shen Qiao’s genuine gentle nature.
"…and despite the pain I had to endure just for loving, I want to fall in love with you. Again and again and again. I love you. And I would not change a thing in my life just to ensure that I would continue to love you."
"Why not tell me then? Why keep it all bottled up inside you like this?"
"Where do I let it out? My words aim to kill. My love is as ruthless as I am. Don’t you see? My love did not even spare me. It would have killed you just the same. How can I ask you to share the burden?"
"Maybe I could have listened to your reasoning, your sadness, and lent you a hand. Maybe something—"
Shen Qiao tries to offer solace but looks like he is coming empty with words. Yan Wushi does not understand why this mirage is trying so hard.
"With all the maybes that exist, I only hope that maybe—just maybe—we can be together in some other life. I hope the other yous and mes from another life are spared the tragedy of being star-crossed lovers."
"Why in another life? Why not in this one?"
For a while, Shen Qiao's question lingers in the air, like a fragile hope seeking confirmation.
"I do not deserve you—"
"Then make yourself deserving of me. You love me enough to suffer. You love me enough that you are ready to die but not enough to live for me?"
"It is not that simple. You're a beautiful sunrise over a mountain, and I am a dying sunset on the brink of disappearing behind the hill. We are chasing different skies."
"Oh, but it is that simple. If you love me, then please do not give up."
But Yan Wushi is not giving up. Else he would not have spent nine years in seclusion tending to his love. However, how can he ever say that without tearing his own wounds?
The sun continues to slowly hide behind the hill and the wind continues to rustle the leaves and playfully tousles Shen Qiao's hair, creating a mesmerizing dance of tendrils that catch the waning sunlight. Yan Wushi exhales a breath. Shen Qiao really does look pretty today.
Yan Wushi wants to run his fingers through those dancing locks and play with Shen Qiao’s hair the way the wind is. But if he touches the mirage of Shen Qiao, he will vanish. After all, he is just a dream just out of touch. A shiver courses through Yan Wushi—a coldness from within that is not born of the gentle evening breeze, but of the inner turmoil that wrenches his soul. How can one love so fiercely and be yet so achingly distant?
"It's getting cold here. I should head in and warm up," Yan Wushi murmurs to himself. His body, weakened and fatigued, protests the simple act of standing. The strain of sitting for an extended period has left his legs feeling cramped, making it a challenge to rise, and a wave of dizziness washes over him. Feeling unsteady, he decides to sit back down, allowing himself a moment to gather strength before attempting to stand once more.
The mirage of Shen Qiao walks two steps forward and extends his one hand toward Yan Wushi. "Take my hand."
Yan Wushi looks at the pristine jadelike hand with slender fingers half-concealed in long, billowing white sleeves and extends his hand. But he has been dizzy and fatigued for so long that another wave of nausea hits him. Sensing the momentary weakness, his mind plays tricks on him... Just as Yan Wushi is about to clasp Shen Qiao’s hand, Yan Wushi sees blood trickling down his knuckles. Caught in the haze of his delirium, Shen Qiao’s hands appear white and pure, while his own seem rotten and disgusting.
The disorienting sight freezes Yan Wushi causing him to halt his hand midway.
"Whatever you are thinking— it is okay. You can take my arm." Shen Qiao says, his voice as gentle as ever.
Yan Wushi wants to take the offered hand. At the same time, he does not want to sully Shen Qiao with his blood-stained hands. "I cannot," he murmurs.
"Give me your hand, then," Shen Qiao persists, his tone urging yet still warm.
"I will stain you A-Qiao. Too heavy with filth and sin and blood."
"Does not matter. I will take it. I will take care of you too."
"It is a futile work."
"Not to me. Not if… it is you."
"I have done so many terrible things that cannot even begin to be counted for. How can you still offer me your hand, despite all the pain I have caused? I fear that my darkness will tarnish your light, A-Qiao. I do not want to drag you down with me."
Shen Qiao's compassionate eyes mirror the pain in Yan Wushi's gaze. "I know and I choose to stand by your side, regardless of the darkness you carry. We can find a way to deal with it later," he insists, his voice sounding filled with hope, "together."
A bitter laugh escapes Yan Wushi's lips. "Did you not witness the depths of my darkness, A-Qiao? Or have you forgotten it already? There is a darkness within me that cannot be erased, no matter how hard I try. Don’t you understand there is no way out of it? And definitely not one together."
Shen Qiao's hand, still extended, trembles. "Please, don't say that," he pleads, his voice now has a tinge of anguish. "I still believe in you, even when you don't."
"I am a lost cause, a broken soul beyond repair. Don’t be blind."
"I refuse to believe that," Shen Qiao states firmly, "No soul is irredeemable. We all carry burdens, and together we can find solace."
"Oh my sweet naive A- Qiao." Yan Wushi’s eyes linger on Shen Qiao, the embodiment of virtue and forgiveness. He is a beacon of light in the gloomy world but even the ethereal radiance of Shen Qiao fails to dispel the suffocating darkness within. His gaze falters, unable to meet Shen Qiao's unwavering stare. "You deserve better," he whispers, his voice laden with a sense of defeat and self-loathing. "I will only taint your purity and drag you down into the abyss with me. Please do not overestimate my capacity for change… Leave me alone."
"I will not abandon you, Yan Wushi." Shen Qiao's voice quivers with emotion. "Love does not come with conditions or prerequisites. No matter how deep the abyss within you is, we can face it together, for better or worse."
"You belong in heaven A-Qiao, and I in hell. There is nothing we can do…" Yan Wushi murmurs helplessly. "...there is nothing anyone can do. No one can bridge the gap between us, not even love."
"Alright then. If you will not come out of hell for me then I will come to hell for you and drag you out of it." Shen Qiao says, and with a decisive motion, he leans down gently, taking Yan Wushi's hand in his own.
Unlike his cold hand, Shen Qiao’s hands are warm, calloused from years of wielding a sword, with strength coursing through them. However, as Shen Qiao clasps his hand over Yan Wushi's, the touch is gentle and comforting, belying the ruggedness Yan Wushi anticipated. It is only then that Yan Wushi comprehends it's not a figment of his heart's manifestation, but the actual presence of Shen Qiao standing before him.
The world seems to pause for a moment. Yan Wushi half-expects Shen Qiao to turn into mist. Like he always does. Leaving Yan Wushi achingly cold and alone. But Shen Qiao does not.
"You are not a figment of my imagination?" Yan Wushi stiffens with disbelief and astonishment. "You are really here?" He tightens his grip on the held hands, seeking the confirmation of reality, and indeed, it was Shen Qiao standing before him. "Why are you here? You should not be here."
Yan Wushi's surprise upon seeing Shen Qiao in the flesh pierces through the dreamlike haze that has enveloped their conversation. Another realization dawns upon him: he has been speaking with Shen Qiao all along, not just in an illusion or dream. His breath catches in his throat as he struggles to comprehend all the things he has expressed in front of Shen Qiao.
His thoughts race around in his mind, jumbled and chaotic, like a race where each idea vies to be the first to make sense, yet nothing coalesces into a clear understanding. The following pause feels heavy as he grapples to understand the sudden and unexpected appearance of the person who has remained the focal point of his deepest desire.
Shen Qiao's voice, soft yet resolute, breaks the silence that lingers between them. "Yan Wushi, you claim to love me. But do you actually do?"
Yan Wushi does not even ponder the question. "I do." The response escapes easily out of him.
"When you love someone you should also be willing to show it."
"Why should I when it is a rotten case? I am a rotten case. You are better off without me."
"I believe in second chances." Shen Qiao presses on, probably hoping for a reassurance that goes beyond mere declarations.
"I do not. Not for anyone. And most certainly not for myself."
"Do not say things like that. People are bound to change. Did the Yan Wushi of the past, who saw me fall from Half-Stake Peak, envision falling in love with that sickly blind man on the brink of death?"
Shen Qiao looks at him, and with no words to express it, Yan Wushi shakes his head.
"Yet, the present you loves me, right?" Shen Qiao asks, his words faltering, the latter part whispered as though afraid of the response. Then he gulps down his emotion and asks once more. "Am I right?" His voice is stern this time.
The question tugs at his chest, prompting Yan Wushi to nod. "Yes, most ardently," he confesses, his heart laid bare.
"See people change all the time. You from now and you from five breaths ago can have a change of heart. After all, change is the most natural. Everything in this universe changes. It is the heartbeat of life, the very pulse that propels existence forward. This is the beauty… else what is the delight in having things static?"
"But, A-Qiao, I am a raging hurricane. I bring chaos, not peace. You will perhaps never see sunshine being with me."
"Who cares if I never see the sunshine ever again? I want you more than any blue sky; let the weather rage as it pleases. If that is the price I have to pay for being with you then so be it. The weather can go crazy. I am not afraid. I have faced storms before." Shen Qiao declares, squeezing Yan Wushi's palm. "Yan Wushi… you can be the storm all you want and I will be the calm after it. Don't you see? I love you too."
Never in his wildest dreams had Yan Wushi imagined hearing those words out of Shen Qiao. Yan Wushi looks at Shen Qiao with eyes full of disbelief, his fingertips trembling faintly as if wanting to hold the moment in the palm of his freezing hand before it disappears right before his eyes…
"A-Qiao… I —" He wants to say something… anything… to voice out what he is feeling right now but words elude him. Where does one even begin with? Involuntarily, tears trickle down Yan Wushi's cheeks, a release of the emotions he has held inside for so long.
Instead of wiping tears, Shen Qiao, without hesitation, embraces Yan Wushi. "It is okay. We can start over."
The embrace feels both warm and comforting, holding Yan Wushi as though shielding him from the bitter winds of his own doubts and self-recriminations.
"It is so unfair to you, A-Qiao. You deserve someone better than me." Yan Wushi repeats.
Shen Qiao holds him tighter, his voice a whisper against Yan Wushi's ear. "Let me make that choice for myself. Let me decide what is good for me."
Then he breaks the embrace and looks at Yan Wushi’s tear-filled eyes. wiping away the tears from Yan Wushi's cheeks, Shen Qiao offers a soft smile. "Besides, the heart sees beyond the sins we commit, beyond the remorse and pain. I have known you in your darkness and your light. There is beauty in both, and it is all a part of you. I choose you as you are."
The world feels a little less desolate at that moment. Yan Wushi's breath steadies, but his heart is still a tangled web of emotions— torn between the fear of hurting Shen Qiao and the hope that this might lead to something beautiful.
Yan Wushi's eyes meet Shen Qiao's, and he sees a depth of compassion and understanding that he's never encountered before. He buries his face in Shen Qiao's shoulder, finding solace in the embrace, allowing the possibility of a new beginning to warm the coldest parts of his heart.
"I will do my best, A-Qiao, to be worthy of your love. But I do not know if I can change enough to be the one you really deserve."
"You have changed enough to love me. That is more than enough for now. You can take small steps to make it to me. I will wait for you, no matter how long it takes." Shen Qiao’s fingers glide gently through the strands of Yan Wushi’s hair. "However, I can not promise an easy road."
"I do not ask for an easy road. I only ask for a shared one."
"It will also be a treacherous path."
"Let it be. I was cursed, not crippled. As long as we will walk it together I do not mind how the path is." Then Yan Wushi looks at Shen Qiao and with his voice strained with emotion, he speaks softly. "… but what if I disappoint you?"
Shen Qiao's hand tenderly cradles Yan Wushi's cheek. "The only disappointment would be if we never tried."
There are so many things Yan Wushi wants to say but everything he wants to say he swallows. The moment feels suspended, as if the world outside ceased to exist, leaving only the two of them in that intimate, vulnerable space. He does not want to ruin it.
Instead with a sigh, Yan Wushi concedes, "I am scared, A-Qiao."
"You are not alone; I am scared too," Shen Qiao replies and then he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to Yan Wushi's forehead. "We are in it together, remember?"
A faint smile graces Yan Wushi's lips, and with Shen Qiao's hand in his, he stands. He can hardly believe Shen Qiao is finally here. He had envisioned so many ways Shen Qiao would be there, how Yan Wushi would express his love and suffering. But now Shen Qiao is in front of him, and he cannot find it in himself to say any of it.
Yan Wushi looks around and truly saw what surrounded him — the flowers, the trees, the birds, the sky, the river flowing — all colorful and vibrant. Was the world always this beautiful? Or was it because Shen Qiao was here with him? He inhales deeply, taking in a lungful of crisp, fragrant air. Even the flowers emit a more intense aroma, as if their scents have amplified and become enriched by Shen Qiao's presence.
Lost in his thoughts, Yan Wushi instinctively crouches down to the ground and plucks a bloomed flower nearby. It was a split-second reaction, and now, with the flower in his hand, he fiddles with it. Could he just give it to Shen Qiao? But it was something that came from his tainted self. He retched this flower out of him with tears and blood. Shen Qiao deserves better than this. As he’s about to discard it, Shen Qiao steps forward, his eyes focused on the flower.
"This flower is so pretty. Would Yan-zongzhu wear it in my hair? It is hard to put it on myself." Shen Qiao turns around, and with cautious fingers, Yan Wushi delicately weaves the blossom into Shen Qiao's inky black hair. When Shen Qiao turns back to face him, Yan Wushi is met with the sight of glistening tears in those deep, heartfelt eyes.
A pang of fear floods Yan Wushi's chest. "A-Qiao… What happened? Did I pull your hair too painfully?"
"No," Shen Qiao, his eyes cast downward, shakes his head in a refusal. "No, it's not that. It's just... all my dreams… this moment here, it puts them to shame. To realize that we could have had this so much earlier if we had just talked to each other. If only we'd spoken, we could have spared ourselves from the longing and loneliness."
With tears streaming down his face, Shen Qiao looks up at him. "When I came to visit you on your first year of seclusion and you turned me away, I thought maybe I had overstepped. Maybe I had not carved my name in your heart as you did in mine. All I could feel was agony. My saving grace was knowing that you sleep under the same stars that I do, knowing the sun warms you just as it warms me, even if you were not there with me…"
"Oh, A-Qiao." Yan Wushi reaches out, touching Shen Qiao's cheek, his thumb brushing away tears that escaped from those beautiful eyes.
"…do not get me wrong. I knew loving you was a tragedy from the start. I knew I could not force the stars to align. But I never expected how heartbreaking it would be to let you go. To acknowledge that our story was doomed to end even before it was started…and yet, I always kept on wondering if you ever felt as empty without me as I felt without you. Little did I knew you were suffering all alone—"
Yan Wushi’s chest suddenly feels like it is weighed down by a mountain. Just imagining what inner demons Shen Qiao had to face is enough to make Yan Wushi nearly unable to breath.
It turns out that he had done such a cruel thing to his beloved. These nine years, Shen Qiao had spent them thinking his love was not returned.
"Sssh. It’s okay." Yan Wushi wraps his arms around Shen Qiao, drawing him close. There are no grand words he can offer, nor does he think Shen Qiao wants them right now. It's just the warm, silent gesture of comfort.
Burying his head in Yan Wushi’s shoulder, Shen Qiao tightens the hug. For a long time, Shen Qiao weeps silently holding Yan Wushi. Mist gather in his own eyes as well.
In an attempt to provide comfort, Yan Wushi trails his fingers over Shen Qiao’s hair and remains silent. Giving him time and peace to compose his words and his emotions. After a while, when Shen Qiao speaks again, his voice is choked with tears, "What if you had died? What would I have done, knowing I had a hand in your suffering?"
The words, uttered with profound sadness, tighten their grip on Yan Wushi's heart.
"No, A-Qiao…it was not your fault. It is essential you understand—it was never your fault." Yan Wushi breaks the hug to make sure Shen Qiao is looking at his face. "Never for a moment should you shoulder the blame for any of the hardships I have endured," he asserts and cups Shen Qiao’s face. "I did not stumble and fall into love with you by mistake; I willingly walked into it. How could I not? You are such a wonderful person that anyone would naturally gravitate towards. It is me, the obtuse one, taking an eternity to understand the depth of the love that had quietly rooted itself within me—to acknowledge what was so evidently clear to the world."
"The delay was mine, A-Qiao, not yours. You have always been the radiant moon I failed to notice in my night sky. But now that I have you here, I want to unearth everything I had buried inside me and tell you that— I love you ."
Yan Wushi cradles Shen Qiao’s face in his hands. With a tender touch, he wipes away the trail of tears that glisten on his cheek. "My love for you did not come rushing in like a sudden storm; it did not strike like a bolt of lightning. It was gradual and gentle. Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, and then suddenly, all at once, you became the center of my world. So here I stand, baring my soul before you, offering all that I am—my vulnerabilities, my affections, my unwavering devotion." He takes Shen Qiao's hand in his own, lifting it and directing it to rest directly over his heart. "And even if, by some cruel twist of fate, you were to tear my heart into a million pieces, know that every shard, every fragment, would forever and unequivocally belong to you. A-Qiao… know that my love is not fleeting; it's enduring. An unquenchable flame that fuels the deepest depth of my being. And I offer it to you eternally, without expectation or condition, because loving you has become an inherent part of my existence."
A gust of wind hits them, carrying the fragrant scent of flowers as autumn leaves gracefully flutter around, twirling to the ground. A stray tendril of hair falls across Shen Qiao’s face. Gently, Yan Wushi’s fingers reach up, tracing the path of that wayward strand of hair. With a tender touch, he delicately brushes it away, tucking it behind Shen Qiao's ear.
The moon shines above in the night sky, yet his night is radiant with Shen Qiao in front of him—so beautiful, so divine.
A sudden wish for the world to freeze at this moment emerges in Yan Wushi’s mind. His love overwhelms him like the powerful wave it is, and he leans forward touching his lips to Shen Qiao's forehead. He lingers for a brief moment, feeling the warmth of Shen Qiao's skin against his lips.
"…and A-Qiao maybe I will never find the words to truly describe the depth of my feelings but I will try for the rest of my life trying to continually strive and find new ways to show you just how much you mean to me, and how profound my love for you truly is."
Shen Qiao smiles, though his eyes are still glistening with tears. Yan Wushi hopes the tears are of joy and continues to trail his kisses down, feather-light, to Shen Qiao’s cheek, where the salty remnants of his tears mingle with his affection.
Their eyes meet again, and in that moment, he can almost taste the intimacy in the air. Shen Qiao wraps his hands around Yan Wushi’s neck.
“Say my name,” Shen Qiao whispers.
“A-Qiao.”
“Say it again.”
“A-Qiao.”
“Do not stop. Say my name until I am sick of it.”
“A-Qiao.” Yan Wushi plants a kiss on one of Shen Qiao's furrowed brows.
“A-Qiao.” Another kiss on the other brow.
“A-Qiao.” He places a tender kiss on the tip of Shen Qiao’s nose.
“A-Qiao.” As he moves down closer, his lips dance over Shen Qiao's lips and then kiss his jawline.
“A-Qiao.”
Yan Wushi draws back but still Shen Qiao is close enough that if Yan Wushi wants to, he may count the long, dark eyelashes that encircle Shen Qiao’s ocean-like eyes. If he leans in close enough, he may taste the delicacy of Shen Qiao’s lips with his own. He does not dare do that. Not without explicit consent. He has learned from his wrongdoings.
It is Shen Qiao who closes that feather-like distance between them. The world goes blur. All that remains is Shen Qiao’s lips on his own. The kiss is soft and unhurried, everything Yan Wushi has dreamed of and more. Shen Qiao entwines his fingers in Yan Wushi’s hair and deepens the kiss. Yan Wushi responds with fervency.
With each brush of their lips against each other, Yan Wushi gets breathless. His lungs begin to ache, but this ache feels different. There is no itch at the back of his throat forcing him to claw at it, no flower ready to unleash hell in him. No, this ache is sweet, welcomed even. While his lungs may still need some healing, he believes it is a small price to pay.
The pain is bearable.
In that moment, Yan Wushi couldn’t be sure, but he had a feeling so peculiar. This pain wouldn't be for evermore.
Notes:
Finally, the main story ends here, and, surprise, it is a happy one, but I think the comfort is very low in comparison to the hurt. So I do plan to write an extra chapter for them.
Please do tell me how this chapter and the overall fic went for you. Any specific part or quote that made you feel things? I would love to hear from you all.
Till then, ba-byee. See you (hopefully soon) in the extra chapter.
Chapter 8: Cover ✨
Chapter Text
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SHIQINGXUANMYBELOVED on Chapter 1 Thu 20 Jul 2023 07:25AM UTC
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Korol_Rezni on Chapter 1 Thu 20 Jul 2023 07:47AM UTC
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A_Qiao on Chapter 1 Thu 20 Jul 2023 03:29PM UTC
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Korol_Rezni on Chapter 1 Thu 20 Jul 2023 03:39PM UTC
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Korol_Rezni on Chapter 1 Thu 20 Jul 2023 03:42PM UTC
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A_Qiao on Chapter 1 Thu 20 Jul 2023 04:57PM UTC
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Korol_Rezni on Chapter 1 Thu 20 Jul 2023 05:16PM UTC
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A_Qiao on Chapter 1 Thu 20 Jul 2023 09:24PM UTC
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Korol_Rezni on Chapter 1 Fri 21 Jul 2023 07:54AM UTC
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A_Qiao on Chapter 1 Fri 21 Jul 2023 08:48AM UTC
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Korol_Rezni on Chapter 1 Fri 21 Jul 2023 08:58AM UTC
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Todesser on Chapter 1 Mon 31 Jul 2023 05:01PM UTC
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Korol_Rezni on Chapter 1 Tue 01 Aug 2023 10:52AM UTC
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So_Ru on Chapter 1 Fri 04 Aug 2023 03:37PM UTC
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Korol_Rezni on Chapter 1 Fri 04 Aug 2023 04:13PM UTC
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Suezel on Chapter 1 Wed 12 Jun 2024 09:24PM UTC
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Korol_Rezni on Chapter 1 Thu 13 Jun 2024 02:54AM UTC
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Suezel on Chapter 1 Thu 13 Jun 2024 02:23PM UTC
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Korol_Rezni on Chapter 1 Sun 16 Jun 2024 03:04PM UTC
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dee_boop on Chapter 1 Wed 02 Apr 2025 02:34AM UTC
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Korol_Rezni on Chapter 1 Sun 06 Apr 2025 06:21PM UTC
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SheccidDaughterOfHades on Chapter 1 Wed 10 Sep 2025 08:02PM UTC
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A_Qiao on Chapter 2 Sun 23 Jul 2023 06:25PM UTC
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Korol_Rezni on Chapter 2 Sun 23 Jul 2023 06:53PM UTC
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A_Qiao on Chapter 2 Mon 24 Jul 2023 08:27AM UTC
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Korol_Rezni on Chapter 2 Mon 24 Jul 2023 08:40AM UTC
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A_Qiao on Chapter 2 Mon 24 Jul 2023 06:50PM UTC
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Korol_Rezni on Chapter 2 Mon 24 Jul 2023 10:05PM UTC
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InadvertentlyRomantic on Chapter 2 Sun 30 Jul 2023 04:55PM UTC
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Korol_Rezni on Chapter 2 Sun 30 Jul 2023 05:19PM UTC
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MoonCake (Guest) on Chapter 2 Fri 04 Aug 2023 08:22PM UTC
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Korol_Rezni on Chapter 2 Sat 05 Aug 2023 03:16AM UTC
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Origami (Guest) on Chapter 2 Sat 05 Aug 2023 05:06PM UTC
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Korol_Rezni on Chapter 2 Mon 07 Aug 2023 11:57AM UTC
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thousandmoonlanterns on Chapter 2 Mon 07 Aug 2023 02:40PM UTC
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Korol_Rezni on Chapter 2 Mon 07 Aug 2023 04:47PM UTC
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kyra (Guest) on Chapter 2 Wed 09 Aug 2023 04:25PM UTC
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Korol_Rezni on Chapter 2 Sat 26 Aug 2023 07:07AM UTC
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Mani (Guest) on Chapter 2 Tue 29 Aug 2023 09:47AM UTC
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Korol_Rezni on Chapter 2 Tue 29 Aug 2023 05:27PM UTC
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Suezel on Chapter 2 Wed 12 Jun 2024 09:50PM UTC
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Korol_Rezni on Chapter 2 Thu 13 Jun 2024 03:16AM UTC
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dee_boop on Chapter 2 Wed 02 Apr 2025 02:51AM UTC
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Korol_Rezni on Chapter 2 Sun 06 Apr 2025 06:21PM UTC
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SheccidDaughterOfHades on Chapter 2 Thu 11 Sep 2025 01:19AM UTC
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A_Qiao on Chapter 3 Wed 30 Aug 2023 07:50PM UTC
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Korol_Rezni on Chapter 3 Sat 02 Sep 2023 05:26AM UTC
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SheccidDaughterOfHades on Chapter 3 Thu 11 Sep 2025 03:26AM UTC
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A_Qiao on Chapter 4 Wed 30 Aug 2023 07:56PM UTC
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Korol_Rezni on Chapter 4 Sat 02 Sep 2023 05:30AM UTC
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