Author's Note:
Sheesh, I realised it has been indeed a long 6 months since I've updated…and my apologies for that. My promise was that I would eventually finish this story – a promise I fully intend to keep, no matter how slow the updates seem in coming. Real life has a nasty way of interfering. I am alive, and have been working on other stories to keep the brain juices going, but I did need the break away from this for a while.
Another reason for being so tardy was the headache of ending this story of course, but I think I've more or less got it figured out.
Thank you for your patience and I hope you guys are still willing to come back to this and pick it up where I've also picked it up. Do drop me a review and let me know what you think.
Chapter 10: Pilgrimage of Hope
"They died. A raid by the Huns on our temporary camp killed many…women, children, animals…I had nothing…no one…"
Mulan spoke the words aloud tonelessly, flinging the returning grief into the first fingers of sunlight, the song of the nightingale interrupted by harsh memory. Sour in taste, wakefulness clawed at her skin.
A sudden cough made her clutch her sides in agony.
"Who?" Shang perked awake as soon as her cracked voice wafted over him, but he already knew the answer as soon as the monosyllable tore loose; she was referring to the Flying Swallow and the Prayer of Midnight – anonymous vigilante gypsies with names steeped in legend – with whom Mulan had spent precious years with. And he ached – and trembled! – to peel back the layers that steeped her in deep, luscious mystery the same way one carved the delicate skin off a peach…in a parallel, mute universe where fire mated with water, his lips could touch hers.
Her eyes fluttered weakly, closing in exhaustion, her hand moving automatically to cover her side again, coming off stained a crimson red.
"Mulan…no…Mulan…look at me," he commanded sternly, failing to keep moisture out of his blurring vision, yet refusing to blink lest he missed any breath from her that might have been her last.
"Physicians abound in the city!" Shang urgently prodded, his hands large and warm over her shoulders, slightly shaking. He stirred into action; a single swing of the arm mounted himself and her on the horse. "If you will but hold…"
Without hesitation, he kicked the horse into a gallop, heading southeast with the same unrelenting determination of a messenger sent to bear news that signalled the birth or demise of a kingdom.
"I am sorry, Mulan," he whispered as she flinched at every slight undulation of the earth, his hands alternatively holding her sides and grasping the reins. High above them, Shang spied a swallow spread its wings over the tall sky, infinity stretched in its oval eyes, bound in its long tail, veering left as soon as his eye caught it.
The rhythmic clod of the hooves plunged Mulan back into the depths of unconsciousness, and from its murkiness a kaleidoscopic, faceted beauty wrestled free with the sprightly energy of a fireworks burst – jumbled, coalescing images of broad avenues that linked narrow, winding lanes, black oxen and white horses, coaches carved painstakingly out of fragrant woods, palanquins that swept past mansions of the rich, fire-breathing dragons that gorged on redness, and a phoenix draped in sunset clouds under canopies that caught the glint of the moonrise – an unimaginable feast dished out for the mind's eye as they skirted the plains and the large plateau.
Through a bird's eye, the filaments of the Silk Route fused; Mulan remembered how the bazaars bloomed madly and bountifully, wares separated by type and distinctly divided by rows, with no room for people to even move their bodies a fraction, or for horses and carts to wander. All spilled onto the dirt roads, breathing the mingling, unusual scents of the North and the West, piling bushes of rice and other grains as they saw fit…loud, joyous singing that reverberated as noise, where strange, holy men proclaimed the pure spirit of the Triune speaking of an ancient dispensation and prophecy, a virgin birth and falsehoods of an Evil Being, together with peddlers and onlookers who tossed coins towards the Bodhisattvas and the heavenly kings.
In it she lived all that had been the world to her, lived it to completion where reality had discontinued it. Then, it had been a pilgrimage of hope, as they crossed Chang'an to the West, and back again.
Nondescript faces flipped past her…bearded wise men who hailed the Middle Kingdom as the great land of Sinim…cackling jesters who danced precariously with irreverence on tomes of philosophical writings…slowly that gallery stopped its whirl; she faced her Grandmother and parents…they melted away, taking the shape of the monstrous figure of a Hun…yet screams were muted and silent…until a hand jostled her awake, pulling her from the mesh of time's constriction.
"Mulan. Open your eyes and look."
In his gaze there was relief tempered with joy as she looked up slowly at him. So the Marshal had indeed not gone off course as she had initially feared.
The city of Luoyang where soldiers were conscripted and regrouping appeared in front of her; they rode slowly through its angular, choked streets, until a quieter back lane that spliced the main street gave him the opportunity to dismount. Despite his panic-quickened footsteps, the gentleness in the way he carried her to the physician's shop was the cool refreshing breeze of the dawn, before the afternoon heat gobbled it up.
Quick work was done of disrobing her; helmet, armour, cloth and undergarments cut away with no second thought; Shang turned his eyes away as her bandages were unrolled, glimpsing exposed white flesh that made him shudder with a sentiment he did not yet want to name.
A basin of hot water, fresh white linen, the pungent aroma of healing herbs, a panicked Marshal and a wounded soldier – a mind-boggling metaphysical bond that seared itself onto the tablets of memory.
Assessing eyes studied the unmoving female form, before turning over to the anxious Marshal.
"Your work is commendable, Marshal Li; you are a worthy leader of your soldiers," the Physician stated calmly, without room for argument. "But for now, it is done. No further harm will come to her as long as she remains here."
Shang's brow furrowed and with great reluctance he nodded abruptly, stepping outside to behold a gathering crowd of soldiers milling about the imperial city.
"Marshal Li!"
He turned with interest, seeing Captain Wang Xun in the throng of approaching soldiers. They clapped shoulders briefly, a rich greeting of dismayed happiness.
"This is no news for any greeting, Li Shang." Wang said seriously. Shang nodded once more, a dull acknowledgement.
"Word came fast that you had returned to the city. The northern troops stationed past Tung Shao have reported an army of barbarians fleeing west, merging again with another troop at the confluence of the Wei tributary," Wang Xun announced grimly.
"Military commanders from the East and the South are called to Luoyang? No army of such a scale has ever been assembled," Shang exclaimed in wonder, his eyes widening.
"No," Wang interrupted. "Yang Di is trapped in his own political envisionings to harness Qin's military might. Only Marshals loyal to Sui gather who they can, what they can."
"How much time?"
"Maybe two weeks, maybe less. Their numbers grow as they sweep the trail down the rivers. Villages will burn, fields will be destroyed. They head towards Chang'an. My guess, however, is that Tung Shao will again be their route."
"Who leads the army?" His shoulders suddenly tensed, nursing a growing pressure in his neck that threatened a pounding headache.
Wang eyed Shang speculatively before answering.
"Li Yuan, and maybe Shan-Yu."
Chang'an – Ancient capital of more than 10 Dynasties in China, which flourished the greatest, I believe, in the Tang Dynasty. It means city of perpetual peace in Classical Chinese.