He trudged after Xie Lian's servants, trailing only a couple steps behind and entirely silent. The walk back to the capital from here was long, and His Highness hadn't stirred once. Nothing dared bother with Feng Xin or Mu Qing, and whatever trap this had been had seemingly been accepted as a failure.

He took pride in the fact he had made sure it was a failure. The memory of the weight of Xie Lian bearing down on him, his body excruciatingly hot and his breath laborious, still lingered in his senses. He had been told to go back, that his help wasn't needed- but he knew in his heart only a fool would sit idly while their god worked. If Xie Lian would put himself in danger, he would, too. They may have been soaked heavy in the scent of blood, but this blood was not Xie Lian's alone. Even if his forearm stung, it was only proof that he'd saved the Crown Prince.

From where he trailed, he continued to steal glances at Xie Lian. Every time he'd had a chance to see His Highness since his descent, his brow had been twisted with stress. And yet in sleep, his expression was as gentle as it'd been the first time he'd seen him. His cheeks and lips were still flush, and sweat still caked so heavy to his pale skin that his hair clung to the sides of his face like black ink swirling against paper. He found it hard to tear his gaze away, but a vague disrest persisted in his heart as Feng Xin, the larger servant, occasionally readjusted Xie Lian on his back. His own back, as small as it was, felt empty.

"You." His shoulders stiffened at the word. He snapped his head at attention. Mu Qing, the smaller servant, was looking over his shoulder and staring hard at him. Not quite so malicious as many stares he'd seen over his life, but with the same wariness he'd seen many times from when he lingered places he shouldn't a bit too long. "Do you expect to walk back to the palace with us? Go home. Scram. Tell no one what happened today."

It was only then did he realize they'd passed the capital's walls. He stopped in his tracks, and briefly, Feng Xin stopped as well. He turned one foot to get a look at him, and after a quick pass of glances with Mu Qing, his eyes, too, were filled with wariness. It set him on edge, but rather than issue a single 'yes, sir,' just as they began to walk again, he spoke.

"What about His Highness? Is he okay?"

"Huh?" Mu Qing's brows furrowed. The servants had stopped in their tracks again. "He's sleeping. You'll bother him if you stick around. Scram."

"He stabbed himself through the–"

"He's a god, what does that matter?" Mu Qing's voice was laced with irritation, and was halfway through another step forward when Feng Xin turned around toward the devotee a little more, readjusting Xie Lian and sighing.

"Look, kid. He's not mortal. He's just asleep. He just needs rest. Go home. Worry about yourself. We saw you run in front of His Highness in the battlefield. There's a fine line between bravery and recklessness. Don't worry about His Highness. Between the both of you, only one of you can die from a wound like this. Go home."

They left him there. He had no intention of going home; he had no home. Not really. And especially not when his god had given him the edict he had, back in the run-down temple he used to sleep in. He had one person to care about. To dedicate himself to. What did it matter if he wasn't mortal? So what if he couldn't die. He still bled, just the same as he did. Even if he had not mortally wounded himself, this sword that weighed heavy on his belt had still caused unimaginable pain. He could hear it in his voice, and what little he could see in the darkness of the cave.

Who cared about if he could die or not? Dying was nothing to be scared of. It was the lonely trip toward death that was terrifying.

The devotee wandered back to the barracks after dressing the wound on his forearm. It was late into the night now, and those that had been partying had had their fill of alcohol and laughter. He stepped over the bodies of grown, drunken men, all too reminiscent of the bodies he'd been stepping over since the attack today. It had been so easily forgotten with all that had happened today, but this had been the first day he'd taken a life. More than one, actually.

He had thought in the two months of training, that it would be hard. That he wouldn't be able to do it. But there hadn't been an ounce of hesitation the moment he saw His Highness on the battlefield, glorious and untouchable. The moment he saw people lunge for him, dare try to maim him, all the hatred that had swirled in his heart from every single time he'd been kicked, punched, insulted, mocked, and it had been all too easy.

He didn't even think of all that, even now. He couldn't care less about any of them. Once he'd gotten to his bunk, he tucked his sword away and lifted his cot. That's where he'd stashed the red umbrella His Highness had gifted him, right beside a tiny, half-broken jewelry box. The umbrella was set off to the side so it wouldn't break when he rested on the cot, and the jewelry box was fished out and cradled in his arms as he crawled under the lone blanket.

The box creaked when he opened it. But just as soon as he'd laid his good eye on the red coral bead that rolled around within, one of the soldiers closest to him rolled over and squinted. The devotee slapped the box closed and smuggled it back underneath the covers, close to his chest.

"Eh? Oh, you're still alive, huh? The fuck have you been? You're gonna be sorry if the Yong'an bastards attack in the morning."

"I was helping His Highness," he grumbled quietly.

"That's a laugh. Why would His Highness need a kid's help? You saw him today. If you're homesick, go home for real, kid. Don't come crawling back when you feel like it."

"I didn't leave!" His frustrated snap was a mistake. A host of grumbles came from the surrounding soldiers.

"Who the hell is shouting?"

"Kid snuck in finally and said he was gone so long 'cuz he was helping His Highness. Stupid, yeah?"

A few of the soldiers snickered, others grumbled and complained that they should shut up. The boy's face burned red hot at their ridicule. But as he clung tighter to that box, one hand over the other, his palm brushed against the new gift from His Highness.

Without thinking, he shot his hand out from the blanket, fingers spread, to show them all.

"Proof! This is His Highness's hair. I helped him!"

His entire hand still tingled with the ghost of His Highness's touch, gentle enough to cradle a flower but firm enough to grasp a sword. His heart felt like it may just burst from his chest at the memory, but the other soldiers either scoffed or rolled back over to sleep. The one who had first awoken simply snorted at him.

"It's hair. Who's to say it's not your own? Prove it's his. If it can't be cut–"

"No!" He slapped his other hand's fingers around the one that held the hair-ring and pulled it in closer the moment the man reached his hand out. "You can't cut it!"

"Then you're a liar."

The man laughed lowly and sunk back down into his cot. The devotee's face burned harder, and he grasped his finger like a lifeline. The thought of doing to him what he'd done in the battlefield today occurred to him, but hurting His Highness' army would be hurting His Highness. The night was better spent thinking over what he'd experienced. He burrowed down under the blanket and went back to hugging the little box to his chest.

That hair would protect him. Just like His Highness said it would. He believed. He closed his eyes, remembering Xie Lian's gentle, trembling, quiet voice. His mind wandered as he replayed the memory over and over. Exactly how heavy he had felt as he leaned against his ugly little frame for support. How hot he had been. But how soft. The dried sweat that had still clung to his palms wasn't simply his own. These hands had been clumsy in the dark, but he'd incidentally touched His Highness' bare, shivering skin at least ten times over. And that final time, when he'd forced himself to have more willpower than to sheepishly jerk his hand back each time, when he'd so clearly brushed over a particularly hard little thing on his chest…

The agonized, weeping moan that had left His Highness' lips still rang in his ears, burning his skin inside and out. It hadn't been the only time he'd made that noise, either. He hadn't been able to see him in the darkness of the cave, but his voice, the touch of his bare skin… He wondered if–

The moment he found himself thinking about the form that yao took, he curled tighter in on himself and chastised himself. The agitation that crawled under his skin at the memory wasn't right. He was just an ugly little thing, and His Highness was a god. The god. And if god, even when forced into that state, could reject his feelings at all costs, he should follow in his footsteps.

He hugged the box tight and silently prayed instead. Every time his mind would start to wander to memories of bare hips and whimpers and dewy skin, he focused himself back on prayer. One simple prayer, that His Highness be alright. That he heal well and stay safe.

The thoughts faded, as did the prayers, and his grip on the box slackened slightly as he faded off to sleep.

Flowers. He dreamt of flowers. Red as blood, dripping with crimson dew and inescapable in their overwhelming stench. Fields of them, waving and clashing together in the cruel night wind. He tore at them viciously, pulling from the root and crushing them under his grip. They were suffocating something. Suffocating something he knew was important to him.

He could hear that important thing sighing. Crying. It was hard to hear over the symphony of yells from the red weeds that he continued to destroy, but he could still tell the direction. He followed the voice, gentle and sweet, like bells. The flowers withered under his uncaring feet as he hurried toward it, and in the distance, amongst all the red, he saw white.

His heart throbbed.

A single white flower, dancing among the rest. Its center shined gold, and even as it struggled against the rest, even through its tears, it dazzled. Even as the other flowers suffocated it in red, he was left breathless at the sight of it. And when he took a step closer, he found he was nothing more than a bug in front of it; barely any more than a worm with legs. Each step toward the flower was as good as a teardrop in an ocean. Even if he tried to run, he could only watch as its white petals were sullied and pulled, one by one, until the golden center was left bare.

But the bare skin that remained only made his heart tremble more. Pale and glowing with dew, so soft and supple by sight alone that it made his palms buzz. Black, cascading silk hair and burning red cheeks and lips left a contrast against the white unlike anything he'd seen before. The dance in the wind became more of an agonized writhe, and the gentle weeping became heavier, hotter, burning in his ears as they became moans.

'Your Highness' was on the tip of his lips, but he couldn't say a word. But he knew. He knew suffering. He knew that he was needed, if he could only get a little bigger, only get a little stronger, if only the flower would wait for him to catch up with these useless little feet.

Dew rolled down white cheeks like tears, and gentle, firm hands rolled over bare, burning flesh for relief that couldn't be found alone. And those moans, half agony, half ecstasy, called for a name he hadn't heard in so long. A name only two gentle voices had ever called. A name that felt as sweet as an embrace. But the name of someone too young to be of any use. The name of one to be held, rather than hold.

Those gentle hands reached through the bloody flowers and pulled free a sword. His sword, that he only just realized was no longer at his belt. He felt an unusual queasiness as the flat end of the blade rubbed against his god's dewy bare thighs, and a pit developed in his stomach when the blade was raised and turned around.

'Wait for me,' he thought. He tried to say it, to yell it, but the words were dead in his burning throat. He'd get bigger. He'd get stronger. Someone who could help him, who could stop his suffering. Who was so useful that it didn't matter if His Highness broke all his vows, if His Highness lost all his devotees - as long as he was there, it'd be fine. If he'd just… Wait a little longer. Just wait.

But his attempt at a yell fell on deaf ears. His Highness' unblemished, slender, sweating stomach was touched with the end of the blade. Of his blade.

Wait for me.

Wait for me.

Wait for me!

Blood red petals spilled from his Highness' skewered stomach, and the devotee's eyes shot open.

He all but jumped up from his cot, drenched in sweat and with a heart beating so fast it hurt. Most of the surrounding cots were now empty, though a handful of soldiers were now huddling nearby, throwing dice. They had stopped the moment he'd sat up so abruptly.

"Nightmare, eh?"

He didn't answer, and as his heart steadied, he stayed frozen. He wasn't just sticky from sweat. His face went from pale as a ghost to deep crimson. And as if the dread wasn't enough, after just a beat or two longer, the gambling soldiers burst out laughing.

"Look at that, you join the military, you become a man!"

This had surely been the most miserable morning since he had run away from his supposed 'family.' He hadn't even fully understood what happened. He wasn't such a child that he wasn't familiar with what manhood entailed; he'd gotten acquainted with that for the past year or two. But… But having idle thoughts and feelings was not…

That.

He spent a large chunk of the rest of the morning scrubbing his laundry until his fingers were raw. After that, with still no horn signaling an attack from the Yong'an, he'd gone to train. The sword he'd used the day before, gleaming with an air of divinity brighter than the other swords, was left behind in the armory. His Highness had told him what he ought to wield. And while the memory of his endlessly gentle smile was pervaded by things he knew he shouldn't be thinking of, the saber did indeed feel good in his hand. With each vicious strike during training, the embarrassment and agitation faded, and the dream that surely had to have been some kind of sin pushed to the depths of his mind. Any time he started thinking of the day before, he'd think instead of what he could have done better and how he needed to get stronger, the worried words he overheard before he'd been caught spying, and the glint in His Highness' eyes when he'd lost himself in a discussion about swords, even in the middle of an empty battlefield.

He didn't really understand a lot of what was going on, if he was being honest. He knew the facts, and while he had the sense that there was something he wasn't getting that all these peppy soldiers that surrounded him were ignoring, but he didn't quite understand why His Highness was so anxious that night.

'Something wasn't right,' they said, while discussing the Yong'an soldiers. He could get what they meant by that. These people were fighting because they had been starving. But the people he killed today were not starving. If they were truly dying of hunger, thirst, and exhaustion, they would have been massacred a long time ago. Even a useless thing like him could see that. But the reason for their supplies was lost on him. He just knew that it was a bad sign, and that there was nothing to celebrate. And it must have been bad, if it made even god tremble. He remembered the Crown Prince of only a few years ago, who held him in his arms and fought with a sword so steady it seemed an extension of his arm. It was nothing like the wobble in his sword that sent his ugly little body flying off the wall.

Even if he knew there was something he wasn't grasping, he knew what he did grasp. That this was still His Highness, the same as it ever was. He was creating rain in Yong'an; he was helping these people that were now fighting against Xianle. Seemingly at the expense of his own energy, from what that conversation had suggested. He wanted to get as strong as possible, to make himself from someone so useless to someone who could be a tool for the Flower Crown Martial God. So His Highness never had to worry like he did the night before, so he didn't have to suffer like in that cave. So all that was left was energy to give, like the rain he brought to Yong'an, and time to talk so freely like he did when he'd rambled about sabers with gleaming eyes.

And he would never be able to get that strong, that useful, if he wasted his time over idle thoughts and strange dreams and embarrassing interactions with people who didn't matter.

The day came and went, and there were no Yong'an attacks, but there was also no sign of His Highness, nor his two servants. This made the soldiers he'd snapped at further insist he was a little liar, but he didn't pay them any mind. His time was better spent praying that His Highness take care of himself and get better. The hair had proven itself to be truly divine, even if they were too stupid to notice.

The wound on his forearm had closed up within a day, as did the wounds on his head. They were scabbed over and itchy, but they were healing much faster than the wounds of the people around him. And there was no Yong'an attack the next day. Nor the day after that. Or the day after that. What else could that have been, other than the hair wrapped around his finger continuing to protect him?

"That kid is still going? Next time there's an attack, he's going to be too exhausted to fight."

"Captain told him to stop, but he doesn't listen. If he dies, he dies."

The idle chatter of soldiers who wasted their time blissfully dreaming of victory they thought was assured just because His Highness was here was tuned out. He had no time to waste. His wounds had almost healed, though the cut on his arm was looking to leave a scar. The extra energy he had from His Highness' grace was best spent on hoping to protect His Highness one day just like His Highness protected him. He sparred when there were soldiers to spar with, he went full force during their training, and when the others were wasting time at night gambling and talking, he focused on assaulting the fighting dummies until he was too tired to do anything but finish his rations and fall asleep.

That's how he'd spent those last days. This day he was at it again, fighting a dummy early in the morning to practice some tricks he'd remembered Xie Lian demonstrating after first suggesting he take up a saber. He had been too ruthless the last times he'd sparred, so soldiers were no longer so eager to try and fight him. It was annoying to not have that training, but not too bad; it meant that his body really only ached from muscle strain, now that the past days had left him with nothing more than minor bruises and cuts. If he hadn't been so worried about the reaction to his eye, he would have been able to stop wearing bandages around his head.

He raised up his hand to slice the dummy again, but before he could start the slice, his wrist was seized.

Deeply ingrained terror seized him before he even processed more than the feeling of the grip. He acted purely on impulse and stomped down on whoever had grabbed him.

"AGH!" The yell was familiar, but not the sort of familiar that would rightfully set his heart aflame with fear. Just as quickly as his wrist was dropped, he spun around, put his saber away, and bowed.

"I didn't mean to," he quickly sputtered, cursing himself internally. He was lucky it wasn't His Highness. But it might as well have been, honestly; it was one of his servants. The one who'd first told him to scram.

"If you didn't mean to, why'd you do it? Tch, this is why they shouldn't be hiring kids," Mu Qing sighed. "You're the kid from the other night, right? You're the one that went with His Highness."

"Yes, sir." His heart was fighting with itself. On one end, he had some sort of hope that he'd be proving he wasn't a liar today. That they had come to reward him. Perhaps His Highness wanted to see him. It'd be a blessing to talk to him again. But on the other hand, when was anything ever that easy for him? Especially when he'd already been so stupid. He always ended up making things worse for himself.

"Good, I was looking for you."

He went from his bow to standing at attention, a glimmer in the eye that wasn't hidden behind bandages. His wrist was seized again, and his body jerked as Mu Qing began to lead him away. There was some hope at first that His Highness had asked to see him, but there was too much sarcasm in the way he'd said that. There was too much tightness in his grip. The glimmer faded, and he dug his heels into the ground and began to try and pull his wrist free.

"Let me go!" He'd paid no attention to the nearby soldiers' reactions before, but he could hear them loud and clear now, snickering.

The grip on his wrist was starting to tighten hard enough to trickle pain up his forearm. The move he'd made before had been purely on instinct, but this time, it was entirely on purpose when he slammed his foot into the back of Mu Qing's knee.

"Fu–" Mu Qing caught himself before snapping, and in a single jerk forced the devotee in front of him, holding his wrist high enough that only his toes were truly touching the ground. "Stop it. You're too young to be in the military. You're getting kicked out."

"No," he huffed, cold enough that Mu Qing's face flashed into something deadly for a moment before trying again to calm himself.

"Why are you being difficult? I am telling you that you're being kicked out. There is no 'no,' I've given you the decree. You're kicked out."

The devotee's brows furrowed, and he shook his head. "I can't leave. I have to fight."

"You're a kid. You got lucky the last time. But you are going to die." Mu Qing's voice was losing what tiny shred of patience it had before, and the dragging started again. He tried to pull back, but Mu Qing wasn't showing any signs of letting go. The devotee's face burned from the stares and gossip of the remaining soldiers, but struggling was coming up useless.

"To die for His Highness is the greatest honor!" He yelled, struggling like a trapped cat. It was the slogan of the army, but he couldn't care less about it being a slogan; it was the truth. Mu Qing stopped, as did the suffocating giggling. But that hand on his wrist only tightened past the point of bruising, and when he looked up at Mu Qing, two cold eyes stared back.

"...His Highness said to kick you out."

All struggling ceased, and all at once, the devotee felt as if he'd been force-fed a ball of iron, dense enough to weigh his feet frozen to the ground and rip a hole in his stomach, cold enough to send him into chills.

"...Why?"

Mu Qing's staring was burrowing holes in him. That same cautious stare from the other night was back, as if he was sizing him up. It may have only been a half a second before he answered, but it felt more like an eternity. "...Do you think I'm stupid? Feng Xin and I both came and saw the aftermath of what happened."

His face turned as white as a ghost's in an instant.

Mu Qing's brow raised as panic set in. That yao. That yao that'd been taunting him. That he'd been trying so hard not to think about. That had invaded his dreams. His face fought between a chilled white or a burning red as he began to struggle again.

"That wasn't me! It was that thing! I didn't make it do that! I didn't! It's not my fault!"

"His Highness thinks otherwise."

"You're a liar! A liar! His Highness knows what happened! His Highness protected me! And I protected him, too! I helped him! I have to fight for him! He told me– He told me–"

To use the saber. He had to use it! He had to show His Highness!

"He said you're weird."

"Liar! Liar, liar, liar! He wouldn't say that, His Highness is nice! He's kind! He wouldn't, he wouldn't, he–"

His wrist was squeezed hard enough to shut him up, and Mu Qing leaned in close enough to steal his breath from his lungs. Dread crawled across his dirty, grimy skin, and all the eyes on him may as well have been chains, locking him in place once more.

This time, Mu Qing spoke quieter.

"He knows you're that same boy that fell from the wall a few years ago. He decided he should have followed the advice of–"

"LIAR!" He pushed as hard as he could. Mu Qing didn't simply let go of his hand; he stumbled.

The gasps and staring crawled over the devotee's skin like bugs. But before Mu Qing could lunge for him again, he ran. His stomach felt like lead and his entire body begged him to collapse and die, but his legs acted on their own, taking him past the barracks, past the wall. He didn't even register that he'd left his stuff, and that he still had his uniform, his saber. He only ran, rewinding the words in his mind over and over.

He was lying. He had to be. His Highness was never anything but kind to him. He was the only one that ever spoke warmly to him. He seemed so excited about his fighting technique. His Highness had never done a single mean thing to him. That servant was lying. Lying.

He ran and ran and ran, nowhere in particular, but with an aim of getting as far away from people as possible. He avoided where the markets began, running through trees and over a large hill. It was overgrown with weeds and uneven under his feet, but it was only when he'd begun to descend on the other end that his foot caught a root and he tumbled.

His face burned when it smacked the cold ground, followed by his back, his shoulder, his leg, his elbow, his other leg, the back of his head - he rolled and rolled, each smack against the ground no better or worse than the million or so times he'd been pummeled in the past. Nothing ever changed for him, ever. Did it matter if he was a little stronger now? What use it was now, when he couldn't stop himself from rolling, and now the saber was cutting up his leg each time it was crunched between his useless body and the unforgiving ground.

He was strewn out like a piece of trash once he'd reached the bottom and stopped rolling. He didn't bother getting up, or even trying to move. His body ached all over and his bandages had come half-undone, but the pit in his stomach had only gotten heavier, and his head spun too madly to get his garbled, furious thoughts in order. His nose burned horribly as he laid there, face pressed into the dirt. He'd known this feeling before; it was broken. His eyes stung wet, and the blood clogged his nose when he tried to sniffle. But the moment he opened his mouth to breathe instead, he let out a sob.

It was loud and unceasing, and his tears came down like crashing waves, heavy and unyielding, soaking his cheeks and muddying the dirt he sobbed into. He was sick of this. Truly sick of it. Over and over, day after day, never yielding outside his dreams. The moment he thought he had a streak of luck, a glimmer at happiness he could cling onto, it was crushed like a toad that was stupid enough to wander into a busy street.

There were other boys as young as him that had enlisted. They were all too stupid to notice the situation they were in, and many had died in the battle the other day. But he remained. He protected His Highness, and he'd gone a step further. His Highness had complimented him, given him pointers, mixed their blood to create a barrier to keep him safe after he'd been poisoned, and then granted him a blessing. And yet he was being kicked out.

He refused to believe the attendant's words. He was bullshitting. His Highness wouldn't say those things about anybody. Especially not behind their back. His Highness was kind. Gentle. He squeezed his eyes closed, remembering the way it felt to cling onto his warm body and sob into his silk robes. The way his hands felt so gentle on his back. His sweet, caring voice.

'Don't cry, now.'

'It's not you, it's not your fault.'

Anger started to burn in the pit sorrow left behind, and finally, as the sobs slowed, he turned his head and pressed his cheek into the wet, bloody grass.

Right in front of his eyes grew a flower. Pure as snow, gently swaying in the breeze, its petals open as if ready to embrace.

Once night fell, he came back to the barracks. He couldn't simply decide he wasn't getting kicked out, he knew that. Everyone saw it. There was no sneaking back in. But he had a uniform and a saber to give back, and his own few belongings to retrieve. He stole extra bandages while he was at it, wrapping his face up anew now that the old bandages had been dirtied with mud and grass and blood. When he snuck into the place where he used to sleep, his cot was thankfully still where he left it. He opened the jewelry box, and the one lone earring was still there, too.

He was careful with his steps as he headed to it, passed all the snoring soldiers. He crouched at his cot, and when he lifted the patched up blanket, his belongings were still there. He gathered the umbrella and the little jewelry box up in the blanket and stood with it gathered up under his left arm. He was quiet enough that he hadn't bothered a soul beyond that man who called him a liar a few nights ago, who simply rolled over in his sleep.

His nose still stung terribly from the fall, and his leg ached from where the saber had cut him up. His body was bound to develop bruises by morning, but all he could think about as he scanned those oblivious faces was the way they stared and snickered.

His hand itched for his saber. It would be embarrassingly easy. There were guards posted around the walls outside, but no one here. And it had felt at least a little nice, back a few days ago. He'd gotten nearly beaten to death in the charge, but getting all the pent up anger from all the years of bullshit had set his heart on fire.

He pulled the bundled blanket to his chest and gripped it tightly with both arms. And then snuck out to go return his equipment to the armory.

Months passed. The thought never crossed his mind to go back to his family. He began sleeping at that one quiet little temple that he used to, and without fear that it would get lost in battle, he started keeping the earring on his person again.

The work he'd done in the military had offered him enough cash that he hadn't needed to steal for the time being. He laid on top of his patched up blanket and stared up at the Crown Prince's divine statue, quietly eating the steamed bun he'd bought. The statue honestly didn't look like him at all, but when the moon's light seeped in through the shrine's doors and lit it up with a white glow, it still made him feel like His Highness was there with him again. The statue smiled down at him joyfully and without worry, and His Highness' trepidation the night after the battle he'd participated in came to mind. A Crown Prince with seemingly nothing but worry, hands trembling, and yet still remembering to give the Yong'an water and thank his friends for assisting him.

Mu Qing's words still burned him. He knew His Highness was a good person, but maybe this was his fault. He was a curse. He was ugly and wrong, and held feelings he shouldn't. He was a jinx that brought only misfortune to His Highness. He had protected him that night, but what if he was the one that attracted those monsters, the same way he'd attracted those spirits when he was young? Even if His Highness hadn't said those things, even if His Highness didn't find him weird, didn't regret saving him, maybe he should.

And if he did say those things, maybe he was right to. Maybe he really ought to stay away.

Once he finished his food, he stood and prayed. There had been battles since the one he'd participated in, and he'd heard enough to know that His Highness was fighting them. He had rested up and gone on to fight again. He prayed that he continue to be safe, to not get hurt. And he prayed that His Highness forgive him for being so weird, so wrong.

And finally, he thanked him again. For saving his life all those times. For embracing him and showing him grace. For the blessing that was still wrapped around his finger, and held a power strong enough that he'd spent these past months in relative peace, at least for what he was used to. His wounds from his fall had long since healed, and even when he came across those kids that used to pick fights with him, just the look in his eye scared them off. And thankfully, even while sticking around this area, his family hadn't stumbled across him.

Maybe it'd been long enough that they wouldn't recognize him. That's all he could hope for. His mom was long since gone, his older half-brothers were too busy to care about him, and any grace that his father had shown to his shi son always shriveled up the moment his wife, that woman that was definitely not his mother, started kicking up a fit about his very existence the moment she had something to blame on him again.

'He's an ugly freak! He's not even mine, why should I have to look after him like a mother just because that whore died? He probably got her killed! He's a curse on us, he's a curse on our sons!'

He settled back down on the ground and wrapped himself up in the blanket. He wiped his hand off on his pant leg and reached into his robe where he had the little box tucked away. He opened it up and started rolling the pearl around between his fingers. He closed his eyes, and as he forced himself to rest, he replaced those terrible memories with the memory of His Highness with a gentle smile and eyes filled with stars.

He dreamt of a field of flowers again. White flowers. A field so full that every breeze carried their sweet smell to his nose and overwhelmed him so thoroughly it felt like every one of his senses were blinded by nothing but dancing petals. He sat amongst them, his worries blown with the wind that left the flowers waving at him like old friends.

Xie Lian sat beside him, knees drawn up to his chest and his hair blowing like ribbons in the sweet breeze. He was staring off at the clear blue sky. How long, the devotee couldn't be sure. He was lost staring at Xie Lian himself. His lashes were full and curled against his cheek with the same gentle slope of flower petals, his brows were straight and thick as stems, and when he finally turned his head to look at the devotee, his eyes, warm and brown and filled with life as if they were each a flower's center.

A warm, slender finger stretched out in offering beside the flower that the devotee rested on. He inched onto the finger, so slow he worried His Highness may have been growing annoyed. But once he'd gotten on and Xie Lian lifted him up to his face, his brown eyes were as gentle and patient as always.

"...Your Highness, do you find me weird?"

Xie Lian's laughter hit his ears like wind chimes, and his heart skipped a beat.

"What's wrong with weird?"

He was breathless for a moment. But once he collected himself, he raised up a little and insisted. "I'm not right, that's what's wrong. There's something deeply wrong with me. I think about things I shouldn't, I scare everyone off, I'm horribly unlucky to the point where I jinx anyone I come into contact with."

"There's nothing wrong with thoughts. You haven't scared me off, and yet I see no hint of a jinx. Didn't I tell you once? It's not your fault."

His concerns were struck down with such ease that it left him speechless. He struggled to find another complaint through the shock, but then the most obvious, inescapable truth slipped from his mouth.

"I'm an ugly freak."

"What a silly thing for a caterpillar to say."

He opened his eyes. His hand was stretched out past the blanket he's wrapped himself up in, couched in the morning's sun. The hair wrapped around his third finger seemed to shine gold in the light, paling the rest of his hand in comparison, except for that little red pearl that sat in the middle of his palm, bright and glimmering in the same way it did when it sat upon the Crown Prince's ear.

He rode the subtle high of the dream, His Highness' laughter and comforting words still jingling in his mind like bells.

But reality slowly encroached, and he remembered what he'd been told. He didn't want to believe it, but His Highness may have kicked him out. And even if he hadn't, he surely must have thought that the situation in the cave was too humiliating, too weird to want to see him again.

'What's wrong with weird?'

He sat up and rubbed his eyes. The pearl was put away, and he felt around his head to find the ends of the bandages. They'd come loose in his sleep; he could see through the eye that he ought not let anyone see, though his vision seemed to only get worse the more he covered it up. He averted his face from the smiling divine statue and tightened the bandages back up again.

He bundled his blanket and umbrella up in the corner where it wouldn't be noticed, shoved the little box that housed the pearl into his robe once more, and set out to go find breakfast.

He trudged through the foliage to hop down onto the path to the capital's Grand Avenue of Divine Might, calculating on a finger how much money he had left and what he could get to make it last the longest. He was getting to an age where stealing wouldn't be shrugged off so easily, but he wasn't confident he'd be able to get a job. One that would last, anyway. He'd tried a few times since he was kicked out of the army, and that same suspicious look in their eyes always stopped him from coming back when the work was meant to begin. And that were the ones that gave him a hesitant yes, despite the fact he had no name to give them.

And once, when he'd tried to find work in a quarry, his prospective employer's eyes had suddenly flashed with recognition. The moment he began to ask 'aren't you the third son of–' he'd fled.

For now, at least, he still had money for a little while longer. He could keep putting it off. He settled on deciding he'd just have another steamed bun and looked up from his hands. His feet stopped.

This trail stood just before a small bridge that directly linked to the grand avenue. It was a busy street, and people on top of that bridge was nothing to write home about. But even with a snow-white back to him, he knew the one on top of that bridge.

The Crown Prince stood atop the small stone bridge, holding the branches of the overarching willow tree with the same gentleness as the way he held flowers in his divine statues. There was no smile on his face, but his eyes were as soft as always as they peered down at the clear water below. He seemed lost in thought, swirling the branches leaves like he were writing on the water's surface.

His heart thumped so hard that it left him forgetting he had to breathe. That dream was still fresh in his mind. His Highness so close to him, smiling and waving off all his worries like they were nothing more than smoke.

His Highness's eyes focused again, and he stood up as if he'd noticed something. All at once, those worries flooded back, and the devotee scrambled to hide behind the trees he'd come out from only moments ago.

He didn't hear any yell, any calling out. There was no sound of quick footsteps. He'd hurried away before he was noticed, if His Highness had looked back at all. Instead, he only heard happy calls of 'hello, Your Highness!' from passersby. He breathed in relief after a few seconds, and peeked his head out from behind the tree trunk to find His Highness was finished crossing the bridge.

He patted his chest, trying to force his stupid, strange heart to stop beating so hard. This is why he was kicked out. This is why he couldn't get new work. This is why His Highness might really have decided he wasn't worth having in the army. He was ugly, he brought bad luck, and he was so freakish that he'd acted like a thief instead of simply bowing like the people on the Grand Avenue of Divine Might were doing. He pressed his lips together tight as he clutched his chest, and as he walked up onto the bridge and saw how everyone else greeted him, he decided: His Highness was having a pleasant day away from the battlefield, surrounded by his devotees. He wouldn't ruin that peace.

That didn't stop him, however, from continuing to walk down the side of the street, far enough back to not be noticed, but close enough that he could just barely see a sliver of him beyond the bodies of people bowing and greeting the Crown Prince.

He'd stay out of his way. He wouldn't ruin his peace. He wouldn't let himself find out that Mu Qing's words were true. But it wouldn't be so bad to just watch from a distance, right? Was simply looking a crime? Just with the one eye that wasn't cursed?

He continued to follow His Highness as he walked. Always far enough away to not be noticed. His Highness was shorter than other men, but the way he seemed to glide when he walked, the way everyone parted ways for him and stopped to look as he passed, the way every ounce of him seemed to glow, from the embroidered hems of his silk robes to his billowing, shiny hair; it made him stand out from the rest like a giant among ants.

He knew he was asking for trouble by following him as far as he did, but he couldn't help himself. The same way he hadn't been able to help but steal that earring when he first met the Crown Prince. All the venomous insults he'd been given all his life for this kind of 'freakish' behavior rattled around in his mind. The cautious eyes of His Highness' servants after they'd retrieved them both from the cave still felt like they were drilling holes in his very being. But the more he stared at Xie Lian, the more they felt like background noise. Like cicadas, with stinging chirps that sounded deafening only until there was a bird singing over them.

Did the Crown Prince sing ever? He'd probably be good at it. It seemed like he was good at everything. He'd probably have a soft voice, just like every other piece of him seemed so soft. His mind wandered to his usual voice, and how it might sound if he strained it just a little –

His face burned when he remembered the kind of voice Xie Lian had in the cave, months ago. He pushed the thought from his mind as fast as he could, and was just fast enough in coming from those thoughts to see His Highness start to turn his head.

He scrambled behind a nearby willow tree as fast as he could, shaking his head roughly the moment he stilled. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why was he even still thinking about something like–

"You're…?"

The devotee's heart felt like it might burst just from hearing his voice alone. He buried his ugly face behind his arms so His Highness didn't have to stare at it any more than he had to. Though even like this, he couldn't help but stare back at him. His Highness had recognized him for sure. The words he'd been told when kicked out flooded through his head, but the gentle eyes that stared down at him didn't hold a hint of malice.

"Y-Your Highness," he managed out, finding it difficult to form words in front of the eyes he desperately didn't want to see go cold. How would he even explain himself? He was following him like– Like some ugly freak. "I didn't mean to…"

His Highness' finger, slender and long, pointed straight at him. The devotee's heart dropped. "You're the one from that night…"

If his stomach wasn't empty, he'd surely have puked. He watched His Highness' face grow red, and his own face under his bandages and arms burned too. This was it. Surely he'd run away, or call him a freak, or have him imprisoned, or maybe cut off his ears for the kind of things he heard or his eyes for the kind of things he saw and–

His Highness cleared his throat, clearing the devotee's wandering thoughts with it.

"So it was you. I was going to look for you a while back, but with so much on my plate I'd forgotten. Ahem, aren't you a soldier in the army? Why are you in the city?"

…He was going to look for him? Why did he think he was still a soldier?

The devotee blinked. Maybe he really had been right. Maybe His Highness' servant really had lied. But he didn't let his hopes get up too high; maybe he'd only wanted to look for him to punish him.

"I'm not in the army anymore."

"Huh? Why not?" His Highness looked just as shocked as he felt. His mind flooded with explanations. It really had been a lie? His Highness didn't declare he was to be kicked out? He cleared his throat and stumbled out an explanation for the shocked prince, and a request for confirmation.

"I...got kicked out. Your Highness, did...did you not know?!"

"Know what?"

He asked it so earnestly, so perplexed, that he couldn't be messing with him. It really had been a lie! He didn't even have a mind to be furious at that Mu Qing for the time being, not when he'd just got confirmation that His Highness truly didn't find him weird. Didn't find him disgusting. Hadn't held what happened in the cave against him. Even better, he was looking for him, just like he'd been hoping back then. He'd forgotten to hide his ugly face, dropping his arms in his excitement.

"So Your Highness didn't know! I had thought... I thought..."

"Come, tell me, why did you get kicked out? Who kicked you out? Why did you think I would know? Also, you thought what?" His Highness wasn't dismissive. With every single question, the devotee felt a little lighter, and his heart beat a little stronger. He was clueless about all of it. He was the same His Highness that'd saved him all those times, that didn't think he was a jinx, that spoke to him so effortlessly and comfortably, who embraced him and gifted him an umbrella and a protective hair around his finger – The same His Highness that asked him to make him his reason for living.

He took a step closer to the Crown Prince, thinking of a way to explain that didn't make him sound terrible, that didn't make it sound like he was pointing fingers at that servant that His Highness seemed to care so much for. But just as he started to open his mouth, he was cut off by a scream.

The scene kept running through the devotee's mind even once he'd returned to the shrine. His heart was running as fast as a galloping horse, circling between relief and horror and confusion. He knew it; he knew His Highness hadn't shrugged him off. He was still meant to make His Highness his reason for living. But His Highness, just like he'd mentioned to the devotee, had so much on his plate. And now this.

At first, he was worried that he was the reason for it. It happened right when His Highness talked to him, after all. But then that other man came, and he admitted that this was something that had been growing for days.

There was something deeply wrong. He didn't understand it, but he knew he wasn't the cause. And he knew he had to help His Highness somehow. His Highness had told him to dedicate his life to him, to make him his reason for living. And that's what he'd do. His Highness already had so much on his plate, and the utter shock on his face, the way all these other idiot devotees were yelling 'save me' and scrambling in terror - he wouldn't be useless like them. He'd find a use for himself.

When His Highness' attendants had shown up, he fled to avoid getting caught and hounded by Mu Qing. His Highness didn't pay attention to him after that scream and probably forgot about him the moment he left, but he hadn't taken it personally; it was only because this was just one more thing for him to deal with.

The temple's doors thumped shut behind him. He stared at that smiling clay statue, jolly and carefree and barely resembling His Highness at all. Nothing like the stressed, exhausted face he'd seen both today and months ago. His Highness deserved to be carefree like that. To smile and talk about sabers, to question the devotee all he wanted, to sword dance without a care. To sit among flowers like he had in that dream last night.

He lifted up his arm and pulled back his ragged, patched up sleeve to look at the sliver of a scar left behind from when he'd drawn his own blood for His Highness. He'd help him just like then. And he'd get better. He'd do better. When he drew his blood, His Highness still drew his own, too. He would make sure that that wouldn't happen next time. He'd be so useful to His Highness that he wouldn't have a single worry. But until he got that useful, he'd keep helping with what he could. Even if it was only on the sidelines, even if just from a distance, that was fine.

His hand balled into a fist, veins cresting from his skin amongst the scar.

His mother had a tattoo there, he remembered. He barely remembered her; she died when he was very young. But he remembered sitting in her lap, running his little finger over her tattoos. She had them up both hands and arms; of ferocious beasts, of leaves, of monsters. He was old enough to question it and ask about it, and she told him that where she was from, that tattoos were tradition. She promised him that when he was fifteen, he'd officially be an adult and get his own.

Every time he'd been called 'kid' over the past few months swirled in his head.

He was small. He knew that. He wasn't very strong; the only reason people didn't mess with him was more out of tenacious viciousness than true strength, and he got hurt easily even with His Highness' blessing to protect him. His Highness had no time to wait for him to catch up; he had no time to listen to any pleading that he simply wait for him.

He had to grow upnow.

The day was a blur. Even when he returned to the Grand Avenue of Divine Might, the street was near-empty and the people that remained were clearly on edge. There were soldiers patrolling, going door to door to check for more victims of the disease. They had stopped him briefly, demanded he take his bandages off to be sure - they gasped when they saw his eye, and one mumbled something under his breath, but for the first time in his life, he was told to go on his way without a touch of malice. He tightened the bandages back up and wasn't given a single other problem as he hurried off to the store he was looking for.

The last of his money was spent on bandages, needles, a brush, and ink. He thought he'd be questioned then, too, but the store's owner seemed so sidetracked by that morning's events that he barely even seemed to notice him.

On the way back to the shrine, his mind was so one-track that he had nearly stepped on a flower. But only nearly. He knelt down in front of it, his hands still filled with the things he'd bought. It was pure white, and wilting to the side under the weight of its own beautiful, oversized petals.

He shuffled his belongings to his left hand and reached out with his right, carefully picking it from the ground.

Once he reached the shrine, the flower was set on the altar while everything else was dumped on the ground in front of it. He pressed his hands together and prayed. Just a short prayer, thanking His Highness for giving him purpose. And praying that he could be true to his word and help His Highness in the same way His Highness had helped him.

He'd devote himself, every ounce of himself, to The Crown Prince.

He knelt down and squinted at the writing at the altar. He had managed to learn to read over the years, though only barely. Just like he knew the words 'Body in Abyss, Heart in Paradise' that was written on the shrine's doors, he knew the words written across the altar. His Royal Highness the Crown Prince, The Flower Crown Martial God - Xie Lian.

Xie Lian. That was his name, underneath the titles. Who he was before he was officially a god, when he'd plucked him from the sky. Who he'd be, no matter what. That was the name that belonged to no one else but the person that saved his life time and again.

He popped open the bottle of ink and picked up the brush. This was his first time holding one; his father's wife had said he wasn't worth sending to get an education, and shortly after that decision, he had run away for good. He wasn't sure if he was holding it right, but he did what he recalled seeing others do and dipped it into the ink.

He had no clue where to start to mimic the characters that made up Xie Lian's name. What strokes were first, what direction. But he did his best, his brows furrowing tighter and tighter as he went. The name looked nothing like the name that was written on the altar. It was ugly, disturbing; more like he was writing a curse than anything else. He huffed and dropped the brush, spit on his arm, and used his sleeve to wipe it clean.

He tried again, and again, and again, growing more irritated each time. Surely writing wasn't meant to be this hard, and yet every time he tried, it looked nothing like any handwriting he'd ever seen before.

After an incense's time, he at least managed to write out 'Xie Lian' half-legibly, at least in the sense that he could identify it as the name. The name sat crudely on top of his arm, nowhere near as gentle as the man himself. He stared down at it, completely blotting out his scar, and started to feel his heart race again. It didn't matter if it wasn't perfect; the rest of him was ugly anyway. As long as he could look down at it and recognize the name, that was enough.

The brush was dropped, and as his arm trembled, he took the needle he had bought. He dipped it in the bottle of ink and held it over his forearm, took a breath, and pushed it down. He winced as it sunk down under each layer of skin, and when he pulled it back out again, his brows twisted at the feeling of the skin briefly following the needle upward before it popped free.

This pain was nothing, really. It hurt briefly, but it paled in comparison to the times he'd been beaten. He kept poking the skin, dipping the needle in ink again before each stab, step by step outlining the name.

Xie Lian. Xie Lian. Xie Lian. It wasn't a name he dared speak out loud; that was too disrespectful. But when he sounded it out in his head, it sounded sweet. And the name he was given, Lian, spelled out what made him worth dedicating himself too. It wasn't just a name, it was a description. Tender, loving compassionate sympathy for everyone, from the people that were assaulting the kingdom to the ugly little freak that still dreamt of that night in the cave from time to time.

The sting that the needle left behind grew with each poke, throbbing up his arm with each thump of his heart. He lost track of the time between the sting and his deep focus, but the first time he'd rubbed his eye with a knuckle to quickly wipe away the growing tiredness, he realized it had gotten dark. By then he'd outlined all of it. He smeared away what he could of the remaining ink so he could better see the places he'd missed now that he didn't need it to see the word.

The ink still sat as deep as obsidian where he'd pricked his skin, spelling out the name that had swirled in his head for so long now that it felt foreign. The skin itself had reddened and puffed where the ink had been introduced, and the redness had blossomed past the needle's path. He glanced briefly toward the shrine's doors. He could hear crickets and frogs, and there was no longer any light peeking in between where the doors met. It was hard to tell how long it'd been this dark, but he hadn't felt too tired; maybe only a little past sunset.

He kept going. He filled it in, step by step, ignoring the pain that shot up his arm each time. Bit by bit, the outline was filled up with ink, black as night, black as obsidian, black as His Highness' silky hair. Sometimes he pushed the needle in too deep and drew blood. That was wiped away uncaringly with his ink-stained palm each time before continuing again.

The frogs were silent by the time he finished, leaving no other noise than the gentle chirping of crickets. His mind swirled with hunger and exhaustion the moment he put down the needle, but he pushed that all down to the side as he stared down at his handiwork.

Xie Lian.

The person he'd devoted himself to. God. His arm stung terribly, horribly enough he was sure he wouldn't be going to sleep easily once he settled down, but that pain seemed to fade even just thinking about their interaction today. The way his hair glowed in the sun, the redness in his cheeks when remembering the time in the cave, and how gentle his voice sounded when he said the words 'I was going to look for you a while back.'

Once he'd rubbed the tattoo, cleaned it off thoroughly with his sleeve, and bandaged it up, he looked down at his hand. His fingers felt stiff from how long he'd been going, and while he already had calloused hands, he could feel blisters starting to form under where he'd been holding the needle. His palm was smeared black and red from ink and bits of blood. The hair still wrapped around his finger had been dirtied all the same, soaked deep crimson.

He didn't wipe it off. Instead, even once he'd gotten out his blanket again and settled down to try and sleep, he stared at it until he couldn't keep his eyes open anymore. And once he fell asleep, he dreamt again. Of a field of flowers, flowers that all felt like weeds beside the only thing that mattered to him.