In the Eye of the Ghost King: I Dream of Flowers, I Dream of You

by Sheepister

Part 1 of In the Eye of the Ghost King, crossposting from AO3. Hua Cheng's perspective of the downfall of Xianle, from when he and Xie Lian are picked up in that cave after that run-in with the Land of Tender yao to his death.

2. Chapter 2

It had rained earlier this morning, and the forest's trees were still splashing leftover water onto the settlement below. The devotee had walked here from the temple with his red umbrella, but that umbrella had since been tucked into his belt. When water splashed down on top of his scalp, he merely rubbed his head as he walked up to the small desk a soldier had pointed him to where a doctor was filling out paperwork.

"Another patient? Take off the bandage and let me see." Despite the words, the doctor hadn't looked up from what he was doing.

"No, no," the devotee shook his head, and the doctor who had only been partially paying attention to him finally looked up from the scroll he was reading. "I want to join the nursing staff."

Only the doctor's eyes were uncovered, but even if he couldn't see it, the devotee knew he was frowning. He pointed a gloved finger at his bandages. "What's under there, then?"

"..." He shifted his feet and tightened his lips. He'd had to show it to soldiers a few more times since the disease showed up, but he wasn't particularly fond of the reaction it caused each time. "Just a deformity from birth."

"Show me," the doctor huffed. He acquiesced, and when the bandage came off, the doctor only huffed again. "Wasting good bandages… Can you see out of it?"

"Yes, sir. But not well."

"Probably because you hide it! No scabs, no swelling, just a strange color. What fool got you into doing that?"

"I, uh–"

"Nevermind. What's your name?"

He blinked. He pulled the bandages fully off his face, a slight quiver in his hands as he looked down at them. He'd never heard it be dismissed like that before. Like it was something as simple as a somewhat unsightly mole. He'd nearly missed what he was asked, his thoughts only focusing when the doctor stared at him more pointedly. He cleared his throat and glanced away. 'Hong' was nearly on the tongue, but it wasn't a full name; only the nickname of a child. And he wasn't a child anymore.

"I, uh. …San Lang." He spit it out without thinking. But it was what people called him when he wasn't being called 'ugly freak' or 'that boy.' The third son. His father's third son. It was either said in mocking or dismissively, and it didn't taste good on the tongue. But the people out here in the outskirts of the capital didn't know him, and he probably sounded like a criminal avoiding revealing himself.

As the doctor stared him down silently, he debated making up some kind of fake name. But before he could open his mouth, the doctor just sighed again, wrote down the name in his scroll, and pulled out a paper from his desk.

It was stamped and pushed toward him. San Lang pushed the discarded bandages into one hand and picked up the paper, turning it around in his hand. A badge, confirming him as part of the nursing squad.

"We're in no position to be picky about ages or names. Go over to the nurse in that tent to get your gear. You'll get your own tent, and rations separate from the patients. If I see you wasting bandages on that eye, it's not going to be pretty. Go."

He listened. This encampment had been set up just yesterday, and the moment he heard of it, he came with the intention of trying to lessen His Highness' load. He hadn't expected to get in quite so easily, but he supposed it made sense. Everyone was terrified of catching whatever this disease was, and there were already fifty patients, already filling the forest with the sound of aching groans and idle chatter.

When he reached the tent he had been pointed toward, he was given quarantine clothing. The bandages were taken from him to be discarded, and the nurse led him to an empty tent.

"Get dressed. Next meal isn't for a few hours. Once you're finished dressing, come find me and I'll walk you around and show you what the schedule is." This nurse, too, didn't pay his eye any mind. He turned and left as quickly as he came, stepping in a puddle so carelessly as he went that water splashed up San Lang's shin.

He slipped into the tent and undressed. He'd brought his few belongings with him, from the umbrella to his blanket and his jewelry box he kept in robe, but it didn't hit him until that moment that he'd truly had a place of his own to rest that wasn't a run down temple. The belongings were all set to the side for now, along with the straw mat that he'd found was below the folded clothing he'd been given. He glanced briefly at his bandaged forearm as he picked up the clothes and began to dress.

The clothing itself had been difficult to put on. It wasn't just robes; there was a cape for his torso to prevent any skin from showing, and another for his head that only had a slit for eyes. There were bandages to secure all the clothing tightly in place so the sleeves and pant legs were tight against the gloves and boots. The moment he finished and stepped outside, his boot landed in the same puddle as before. He glanced down, but found his eyes lingering on his reflection.

The only part of him that wasn't hidden were his eyes.

The moment he was relieved of his duties for the afternoon and went back to his tent, he collapsed on that straw mat. The nursing team was tiny, and even over the course of the day, more patients were showing up. The day had been filled with putting up new tents, scrubbing laundry, serving food, and following a doctor around as he was trained. San Lang knew he wasn't smart, but it wasn't until today that he truly grappled with the depth of things he did not know.

He didn't bother removing his clothing. He'd have to put it back on soon, anyway. He closed his eyes to have a moment of rest, and remarkably quickly, the groaning and chatter outside the tent faded to nothingness.

In his dream, he was resting on a petal as soft as silk and as white as snow. The wind was sweet, and as his hair billowed softly, he was sewing. He had learned how to do that long ago; the woman that wasn't his mother begrudgingly taught him because she didn't want to patch up his belongings.

Despite the bad memories, he didn't mind it. With a needle in his hand, his mind was focused only on his work.

Until he heard petals rustling in the wind, as soft as bells, as warm as a summer day.

He laid back and listened closer, breathing in the warm air.

"I'll save you, no matter what."

"I promise. You'll be fine."

"We're working tirelessly to find a cure. You'll be taken care of."

San Lang opened his eyes the moment he had begun to stir from his dream. That was His Highness' voice. He blinked away his grogginess and slunk from his mat out of the tent to take a peek.

His Highness was making his rounds, rubbing his forehead as a few nurses walked him among the patients. He stopped at each patient, checking their festering plague faces, patting their hands firmly, providing gentle smiles of reassurance. San Lang felt his heart flutter.

"You! I was just about to get you!" His bicep was seized, and his gaze was removed from the Crown Prince. The nurse that'd been teaching him the ropes was already dragging him along, talking about the next wave of chores for the day. And as he went on about the amount of supplies that were coming in from the palace, San Lang turned his head to take another peek.

Among the muddy, grimy surroundings, amidst the wailing and groaning, beside the shivering old man he was holding the hand of and the nurses wrapped head to toe in quarantine gear, His Highness seemed blinding.

That was not the only time he saw His Highness. Every day he came. He checked every single patient, though the number of patients seemed to be increasing disturbingly quickly. He gave everyone smiles and pats and words of reassurance, and his divine power was used to prevent further festering.

On a specific day, San Lang sat beside a man, barely old enough to no longer be called young. The boils were growing on his shoulder, barely starting to grow faces. He had been itching them for long enough they had begun to bloody, and San Lang was in the middle of applying ointment when the corner of his vision was filled with white, billowing silk robes.

"Your Highness, no need to waste your time on me," the man said.

San Lang's breath was caught in his throat.

"Nonsense," the Crown Prince replied gently. San Lang hadn't realized he'd frozen still until his hands were swept away with a single gentle swing of an arm. He was bundled up under a heavy layer of cloth and hadn't touched Xie Lian's bare hands, but his limbs still tingled with the ghost of the soft push.

He almost raised his head to look at him, but then he remembered his eye. He'd forgotten about it in the past few days; no one cared about it when even the healthiest patient here was far more disfigured. But he couldn't just show it to… To His Highness. He kept his head bowed and his eyes on the patient, while his hands began to play with the ointment jar that rested at his lap.

"I remember you," His Highness said, his firm but slender hands carefully rubbing in the cream San Lang just applied. His heart may have just stopped with the words. He opened his mouth, and as he tried to speak, the Crown Prince continued. "You were in the military. You were one of the few that came down with this disease. Thank you for your service. You took care of me, I'll take care of you."

"Thank you, Your Highness," the patient sighed. San Lang's breath returned. Of course he hadn't been recognized. Covered up from head to toe, his eyes staring down, entirely silent; His Highness had nothing to recognize.

He focused on those slender hands that were now firmly touching the grotesque boils on the man's skin. His Highness's hands seemed to take on a slight glow, and under his touch, the bloody scabs disappeared. The developing faces did not go away, but the wounds healed. San Lang's brows furrowed at the odd sight. He knew that this is what His Highness came every day to do, but it was the first time he'd seen it up close; the power of god.

"Your Highness," called someone behind them. San Lang turned his head to see his attendant, Feng Xin, walking in their direction. "Your Highness!"

The Crown Prince was silent. San Lang turned his head to check on His Highness, careful to squeeze shut the ugly red eye that didn't deserve to land on him as he did. His Highness had blue bags under his eyes, eyes that were still turned down and focused only on the faces pushing out from the soldier's skin.

"Your Highness," San Lang spoke up. Only then did some flicker of light appear in those brown eyes as he was shaken from a layer of thoughts and exhaustion.

"Hm?" His voice was sweet to the ears, but it lacked a hint of recognition of his voice and seemed still only partially focused.

"Your attend–"

"Your Highness," Feng Xin pressed a hand to Xie Lian's shoulder. He snapped his head up at him, and then let out a soft 'oh'. He removed his hands from the patient as Feng Xin mumbled in his ear, rubbed his forehead briefly, and that was it. They got up and left, and as they trudged away, San Lang stared at their backs until they disappeared behind the mess of tents.

"Haah," the patient sighed, touching his calloused hand to the shoulder His Highness had healed. "I wish he would have wasted that energy on someone else."

"You deserve were helping His Highness by enlisting," San Lang replied as he finally tore his gaze away and stopped trying to hide his disgusting red eye. He took a deeper look at the patient's face, and confirmed that it wasn't just a matter of overlooking; he couldn't recognize him, so it must have been a soldier that enlisted after he'd been kicked out.

"No, no." The man waved his arm dismissively, a heaviness clouding his black eyes. "I did nothing to deserve anything. I'm a coward. I never even killed anyone. It's a miracle I made it through the couple battles I've been in. I was only floundering. Hell, this thing is probably divine punishment."

San Lang's brows tightened. Swinging his sword viciously and watching the gore that followed the blade had come far too easily to him, though he was finding that the rage that had made it so cathartic had begun to fade somewhat. He couldn't blame this man for not being like him. He remembered the way Xie Lian was staring down at his trembling hands the night after that battle. It wasn't a matter of being a coward.

"You're wrong, I–"

"HEY, HEY, SOMEONE! GET OVER HERE, NURSE! NURSE!"

The yell made San Lang flinch. Or rather, the voice itself did; shrill, impatient, and all too familiar. He excused himself from the ex-soldier and made his way to the screaming patient. She was just a few mats over, and when he laid his eyes on her, he found it wasn't just a matter of that voice being familiar.

The woman was tossing and turning, pulling at her clothing. He knew this voice, this face all too well. She was more of a mess than she ever was, but the knit in her brows, the twist of her lipstick-smeared mouth - this was his father's wife.

He stepped closer, and that rage that had been fading seemed to fester again, just the same as those faces that were growing on her neck. For a moment, he debated just letting another nurse handle her. If someone wanted to bother with her for long. She didn't deserve anyone's help, much less his own.

But then he thought of the Crown Prince, and how on that night, months ago, he admitted to Feng Xin he was still creating rain in Yong'an.

His lips tightened, and as he stepped closer, he reached in the bag tied to his belt and pulled out a jar of leaves he'd been given. He pulled out a couple, shoved the jar away, and grabbed her by her writhing arm.

She looked up at him, and he didn't bother hiding that eye. Her cheeks were streaked with mascara, and she only briefly truly looked at him. But even as his gaze burrowed down on her in that brief moment, the recognition in her eyes only started and stopped at a simple squint. Underneath the cloth that covered most of his face, his lip twitched.

"Take this. Pain relief. Chew on it." He all but shoved the leaves between her crimson-stained lips, and she did exactly as she was told. It didn't stop her writhing, but it stopped her yelling, and it gave her something to focus on while it kicked in. His fingers touched the boils on her neck. They were hot to the touch, and already growing all their senses.

There wasn't really anything else to do. The boils themselves didn't have wounds. They were just inflamed and developed. As he looked closer, he found that there were other, barely noticeable boils starting to branch out from the main cluster. They were traveling up her neck.

And as she quietly chewed on the leaves instead of yelling her heart out, he could hear her soft wheezing.

"...Do they have a cure yet?" She asked. Her voice wasn't quite so shrill anymore, and as she continued to eye him, it was hard to tell if the look underneath the stare was recognition or not. Her tone at that moment wasn't the kind ever directed at him before.

"No." He answered truthfully, without a hint of hesitation. She seemed to deflate at the answer.

"...Can you bandage them up?"

"They're not bleeding. It won't stop anything. Patients don't do any better just because they're bandaged up."

"I don't want to be seen like this. Please." So she could ask nicely for things. He stared down at her, swallowing down the petty anger that bubbled within him. She waited in silence for his response, and the makeup that had already streaked became wet all over again as her swollen dark eyes began to drown in tears.

He couldn't do what His Highness did. He couldn't muster up a gentle smile, he couldn't softly offer words of encouragement and rub her hand. But he did pull out the bandages from his kit.

The next day saw more new patients. They seemed to be growing exponentially. The doctors were complaining of this constantly, speculating that infected individuals must not be coming until they're already infected others. He heard from the doctor that trained him that perhaps it was a matter of certain people being asymptomatic but still spreading it. But the patients, along with many of the nurses, kept whispering one word. Curse.

But idle speculation like that didn't bring them closer to a cure, so San Lang didn't bother to get attached to any of the theories. He completed his duties best he could, and those duties were so unending that day turned to night in the blink of an eye.

His Highness made his rounds once he returned from battle. San Lang glanced at him whenever he was nearby, though he looked away any time he thought His Highness might return his gaze. Just the same as before, he looked exhausted. He wasn't sure if a god necessarily needed to sleep, but the wariness in his eyes suggested he did.

He didn't want to pile anything else on the Crown Prince's plate, so he never approached. He only focused best he could on his own work, hoping he'd be able to relieve even just a bit of his burdens. Even when most of the patients were falling asleep, he was running errands.

As he carried a new box of bandages from the stockpile to the rest of the camp, he heard His Highness's soft voice.

"If we assume that Yong'an used a curse for the sake of defeating the imperial capital, it would've been the most effective to direct the attack at the army. Wouldn't that be the same as opening the gates once the army falls?"

His Highness was debating if it was a curse, too. He turned his head in the direction of the voice. He and his attendants sat together, lit up by a campfire amidst the trees. They'd set themselves up far enough to be out of earshot of the camp, but not so far that nursing staff weren't passing nearby.

He looked down at his box of bandages, tapping his finger against the wood. After a moment of deliberation, he shuffled behind one of the trees. He knew it was more of that weird behavior, but… Maybe he'd be able to help His Highness if he overheard something important.

The two attendants were bickering, but he had no interest in listening to why. He focused only on His Highness's voice, as soft and comforting as it always way, but laced with the exhaustion of a kingdom resting on his shoulders.

"I've been thinking these past few days about what exactly causes the infection. We have to know the cause before we can control the disease itself."

Feng Xin replied dismissively about how infection always spreads, but then His Highness brought up soldiers. He hadn't thought about it, but only a few soldiers existed in the encampment. And given just how quickly this was spreading, it couldn't just be a matter of the disease taking its time reaching the soldiers. If a few were sick, it would have meant many should be sick.

His brows furrowed as he listened harder. There must have been a reason for their immunity, His Highness was saying. That attendant who'd kicked him out of the army was oblivious to the types of people in the encampment, but as His Highness raddled them off for him, San Lang mumbled along under his breath. Women, children, teens, seniors, and younger men of smaller builds.

The stupider attendant wondered if the civilians should just be made to strengthen their bodies, but San Lang had already realized what was wrong. The first man. The one that interrupted his conversation with His Highness. He was a grown, strong man. And while San Lang had been working on getting stronger, he was still shorter among others his age.

What set them apart? What did he do that the others in this encampment had not?

"Impossible!" He heard His Highness shout. The rambling, the declaration that it was absurd and couldn't be true… His Highness had probably reached the same conclusion.

"We can't use a live person for testing. What if I'm wrong?" Even now, he was thinking of others. But those two attendants still hadn't caught on, and His Highness seemed to not want to speak it aloud.

As they began to bicker with each other, San Lang stood with legs that felt like iron. The soldier he talked to flashed in his mind. A coward, he'd called himself.

This was a curse, then. A curse that attached itself to non-murderers. If this was true, if even the theory got out, it would mean pandemonium. Even if the people themselves meant nothing to San Lang, His Highness having to grapple with such a thing sent a cold sweat down his neck.

He hadn't even noticed the footsteps until the corner of his vision was filled with billowing white silk. His breath caught in his throat as he raised his head. His Highness, in his exhaustion, he'd noticed him in the tree's dark shadow. He passed by, his face no longer just tired. Those eyes were filled with a nervous dread that his thick brows were trying to suppress with their calm straightness.

An urge rose up in the back of his mind. To drop the box and rush over to give His Highness a hug, to tell him he'd deal with it and to go rest. But that sort of thing out of someone like him was laughable, so he swallowed the urge and simply watched as those silk robes swayed like petals in the cold night wind in his wake.

For His Highness' sake, he hoped he was wrong.

When he'd finally regained the use of his legs, he rushed off to finally drop the supply box off. The same doctor that had hired him was taking stock, and gave him a passing look. Wondering where he'd been, no doubt.

None of the doctors had gotten the disease, but some of the nurses had. The less experienced ones. They were dismissed as not having been careful enough about the way they wore the quarantine gear. But if His Highness was right…

"Have you ever killed anyone?"

The words had leaked out of his mouth without any semblance of tact, and the doctor's eyes scrunched in befuddlement. "What kind of a question is that? Do you know what the point of being a doctor is?"

"I mean…" He trailed off, picking at his glove. But before he could find words, the doctor sighed.

"If you're worried that you did something to cause that patient today to die, don't be." Ah. He had forgotten about that; on the way from getting that supply box, he had seen a few nurses carrying a body away. "Plenty of people die under our care. Even if it was from something you did, on accident or from them not being able to tolerate treatment, if you worry over it, you'll never stop worrying. Now go." He waved his gloved hand, and San Lang did as he was bid.

He didn't say it directly, but he made it clear enough. He headed back through the rows of patients and tents. His Highness was sitting beside that soldier he'd talked to before. Asking things to him too quietly for him to hear. He was holding the soldier's hand gently between his own, but his eyes, even illuminated by the torchlights set up around the camp, were as dark as night.

The Yong'ans had supplies and rations they shouldn't have. They captured Qi Rong months ago, and San Lang saw for himself how they'd set up a trap for His Highness using strange spirits. This disease had to be a curse, if this realization was right. There was something deeply odd happening, something San Lang knew was much bigger than just himself.

His Highness stayed silent on the matter, so San Lang felt it wasn't his place to tell anyone else. He didn't think he was smart at all, but the people around him were leagues less intelligent than he. They couldn't even figure out that His Highness didn't like them prostrating when in prayer; if so much as a suggestion of the theory of who is immune was leaked, it wouldn't take long for murders to happen. And if the theory was indeed true, those murders would multiply until the capital was drowning in blood.

So San Lang did his work as usual. He was run ragged, and any semblance of free time was left for only eating rations, sleeping, and the occasional bath in the nearby river. But even if it was hard work, he found himself entirely without complaint.

Among all these disfigured people, no one looked twice at his ugly eye. No one scoffed at him, and more often than not, patients were relieved to see him. He was learning things, useful things, that never would have been possible before, both from his work and from the sort of rambling the patients would dump on him in their boredom. He had steady food, his own little space, and best of all, he saw His Highness on a near-daily basis.

When he was much younger, he used to volunteer where His Highness cultivated just for a chance to see him. He'd get glimpses sometimes. He used to swing on the swings that hung from the maple trees, a bright smile on his face as he laughed with glee. Little of that same memory remained when he saw His Highness now, weighed down from stress. But every once in a while, he'd be passing by or working just a few patients over while His Highness listened to a patient or one of his attendants tell a joke that set him into a fit of giggles.

He'd heard it again this evening. He had been writing notes about the spread of the disease on his father's wife. It was traveling up her neck, and whatever went on beneath the surface of the boils had stopped her from being able to speak anymore. She only wheezed shallowly, and her neck had become so heavy that she could not raise her head, even with assistance.

He kept stealing glances at His Highness, who was only a few patients over, talking to an old man whose back was now covered in faces. He had explained to His Highness how the nursing staff wouldn't get him a mirror to see the faces. He asked His Highness if he could describe them for him, and when he stammered and told him it'd be best not to know, the old man barked that he'd like to know if they smoothed out his wrinkles and made him look a little younger.

The incredulous laugh that surprised His Highness too much to suppress in time still rang in San Lang's ears as he laid in his tent, eating the steamed bun he'd been given for dinner. He licked his fingers when he was finished, and raised that bare hand up to admire the hair that still sat knotted to his finger.

There were one hundred new patients today, and the forest was running out of space. But they'd get through it. He believed in His Highness. They'd get through it, and the stress would be gone, and if he had any other chances to see His Highness again, he'd have the gentle, carefree smile that he recalled from his memories. And maybe he could try to reach out to him one more time. Just one more conversation. To ask why he'd been searching for him after the time he'd given him this hair.

He'd had lots of dreams of him recently. Some he tried not to think about, since they felt blasphemous. Others more innocent. His Highness kept appearing as a flower, the same flower he told him he liked once. San Lang dreamt of sleeping in his shade, of climbing his stem, of hanging off his leaves. And he always woke up with the same comfort as when he used to wake up in that little run down shrine. Maybe after all of this, he could have a chance to make His Highness feel just as comforted. One day.

Just as he pulled his glove back on and started tying it in place so he didn't reveal any skin, he heard a cry.

"Your Highness,save me!"

The smile that had spread across San Lang's face at the thought of His Highness melted away at the familiar voice. He sighed and fixed the cloth around his face so his mouth no longer showed and clambered out from his tent to check on the man that was crying out.

He knew this one. He cried for His Highness constantly. Like a toddler. And yet, somehow, His Highness seemed particularly fond of him. That irritated San Lang. Every time he saw this young man, who was as different from San Lang as one could get, throwing another fit about his stupid leg, only for His Highness to come over and talk, San Lang could feel his face twitch underneath his gear.

A few other staff had already gathered with the fit the man was throwing; even some doctors. He pushed his way through, and brows furrowing. He was a big baby, but he didn't usually writhe like this. He was kicking and screaming like his leg had a mind of its own. He hadn't even been able to move his leg yesterday. His eyes traveled down to that leg, and while most others seemed to not have noticed yet, he was left so shocked that he stumbled when His Highness pushed through the crowd and held the man down.

He wasted no time in helping His Highness subdue the writhing, kicking man. The moment he yelled about the faces on his leg being alive, everyone finally saw what San Lang had, stinging his ears with their screams. No one besides himself was paying a lick of attention when His Highness asked if the leg still worked, and yet his breath still almost got caught in his throat as he answered.

"No, Your Highness! His leg is already forfeit. We don't know what else is festering in there; the leg is heavy as a block of lead, and we could hardly move it." He glanced again down at that leg. There had only been one face before, but now… "The infection is also climbing. Soon it'll progress beyond the leg and reach his waist."

One of the doctors whispered in His Highness' ear, and his face steeled. The laughter from earlier was long gone when he opened his mouth. "Then cut it off!"

"No!" The man yelled out in objection, and as he started bargaining with His Highness, San Lang got to his feet and moved out of the way as His Highness held him down harder. He was blabbering, sobbing, insisting his leg would be fine. And after all of it, he asked if His Highness had any other way to save him.

He'd been so loud and pitiful that the crowd had gone mostly silent again. Every single one of them heard the response. A response that didn't sound like the Crown Prince at all, choked out so quietly that it sounded like a cry for help.

"I'm sorry. I don't."

A couple people behind him screamed. Others stood in complete shock. Someone was sobbing right next to him. But his eyes did not leave His Highness. His Highness, who'd saved his life so many times, who could kill thousands in the battlefield without a thought, who could create rain during a drought, who could fight even the most bloodthirsty of ghosts for days on end without tiring, who could skewer himself and come back anew after a few days of rest. He had no other way to save him. No way that wouldn't cause complete chaos, anyway.

Body in was like the heavens themselves were orchestrating this just to mock him.

And then San Lang had a thought. Where were all the other gods that supposedly existed? His eyes rolled up. He couldn't make out the sky among the canopy of leaves, but an unsettling feeling was growing in his veins, cut only by the person who'd just been sobbing suddenly yelling out.

"No?! You're His Highness, you're a god, how could you not have another way?! We've been waiting for you to come up with something for days, how could you have nothing?!"

He didn't even think; he simply shoved the person as hard as he could. They were silenced with their collapse, and through his panic-darkened vision, he realized the man that was now turtling on the ground was that soldier.

Coward.

If that man had done his duty, it never would have happened to him. And yet here he was, asking for salvation from the person he never assisted. He raised his leg for a kick, but something screamed. A quieter, higher pitched scream than a human's. And everyone's heads turned back to that leg.

Everything seemed to happen at both breakneck speed and in cruel, agonizing slowness. That disease was spreading too suddenly to be anything natural. Everyone was screaming, wailing, panicking so badly that even in the front of the crowd, San Lang was having a hard time keeping himself upright from the jostling. He regretted not skipping out on his rations for the evening as those boils continued to cry out, as the doctor that first whispered to His Highness was now backing down, as that young man clinged to His Highness as desperately as if he were hanging onto the edge of a cliff.

In the end, even his attendants weren't doing anything. Everyone, even himself, only screamed or cried or stood in silence, as useless as cattle. They all left it up to His Highness to make the decision.

He willed himself to take a step closer, but the look in His Highness' eyes as he stood up left him still again. Wide-eyed, sweating, pupils unfocused; a look he hadn't even seen on the battlefield. His arm seemed to have a mind of its own as he raised his sword up.

He may as well have been a ghost, standing there so uselessly. He didn't feel like a person at all as he watched the sword come down, watched the blood splatter across His Highness' silk white robes. In the end, was he any different from back in that cave, when he'd merely fallen to his knees at the sight of His Highness skewering himself? Even now, even when these doctors were all useless as well, he couldn't move a muscle. He could do anything at all beyond stare, and hear the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears, numbing and deafening the wild screams around him.

"Stop losing your heads." The servant that San Lang forgot was even there finally stepped forward, and with his words, he found himself again. That's right; he was of no use to His Highness when panicking. Maybe he should have been the one to declare he'd amputate it. Why hadn't he done that? Those boils were already trying to grow up his waist. If the amputation didn't work, it would be better he be treated as the wrongdoer over His Highness, when there were already so many screaming for him. He sucked down his nerves and watched the two tend to the wound, when another thought finally occurred to him.

Why hadn'thedone it?

He hadn't been panicking. He was the only one among them, even His Highness, that had any sense of calmness in his eyes. The other attendant was who-knows-where, and he had been here, standing by in silence. Just like that night in the cave, they only act when it's too late.

His lips twisted, but he hadn't had time to dwell on it when His Highness yelled out in delight and relief. "It's good, it's stopped. It's not spreading!"

"Really? Is it really better?" The young man was already calming, and the crowd was starting to demand to be treated as well. They were still beside themselves with panic, and His Highness probably didn't realize the state he was in; exhausted, almost quivering, covered in blood and grime. And while that idiot was silent, San Lang realized that if this treatment didn't actually work, if His Highness amputated everyone's diseased body parts only for them all to come back, things would get very,verybad.

"Don't be so reckless!" He yelled over the crowd, hoping with all his might that His Highness was listening. "We can't be sure—what if he relapses?"

Xie Lian let out a sigh and nodded, and San Lang's heart quivered in relief. "That's right, nothing is certain right now. We need some time to observe."

But these idiots did not listen. They all kept declaring they couldn't wait, that they were willing even with the risks, that they needed it now. And then they began to prostrate. Once one did it, all the patients fell to their knees and prostrated toward His Highness, begging that he save them, that he relieve them of their suffering. The doctors and the other nurses were floundering, and some joined in, but San Lang stood still, looking them all over.

How hard was it to listen? They didn't give a damn about His Highness or his word, and couldn't even keep straight how he wanted them to pray, and yet here they were, demanding something he couldn't even give. He sucked in his breath as His Highness did his best to convince them that he'd do more if the young man didn't relapse. He promised them things he shouldn't, still giving out his heart to these people that didn't deserve it. And then he picked the amputee up and walked him to somewhere cleaner.

San Lang finally buried his face in his hands and let out a sigh. His mind was rushing. He had been so hopeful only moments ago, and now, he knew this was not a matter of believing in His Highness. He believed in His Highness, but what happened when all these other people, so selfish and demanding, clearly did not? What happened when the heavens he'd been told about, the gods that supposedly existed beyond His Highness, all turned a blind eye?

Believing could only do so much.

His hands balled up into fists, and he pushed through the crowd of lingering patients to follow where His Highness had gone. He treaded past where he'd left the amputee, who was now clinging to his stump and mumbling prayers to himself. And when he heard those attendants and His Highness' voice again, hushed and anxious, he followed the sound.

"Your Highness, I think you'd better take a rest. You really don't look that good. We'll take over for you for the time being." It was his bulkier attendant speaking, Feng Xin. His Highness had settled himself against a tree, and was sitting half in a daze. More than half, if San Lang was being honest. It reminded him of back that night, months ago. While all those soldiers partied happily, he sat outside and stared at his shaking hands.

His Highness agreed to rest, and the two attendants rushed off at the sound of the first patient wailing. They left the Crown Prince alone to lay down on the cold ground, blood and grime still staining his pure silk robes.

Even now, what use were they? They were his attendants, and yet here he was, laying without a mat, worse off than even any of the patients.

Nurse or not, he couldn't care less about any of these people, crying for a savior that they didn't really believe in, who they grumbled about with ease. He ran past each and every one of them, ignoring even a doctor's call for his assistance. What use were these people that couldn't listen, that only sat idly by and did as they pleased while they demanded His Highness save them? They could rot. He dunked back into his tent and grabbed the patched up blanket that was folded in the corner.

There weren't many blankets to go around with how many patients there were. Most went without. Because the nursing staff at least had tents, they'd usually be expected to give up the blankets for the sake of the patients that needed it most. But this was his own, one of his belongings that he'd brought to this forest. Patched up from years of use, and not too dirty since he'd only washed his things the other day.

When he rushed back, His Highness was still lying below the tree exactly as he'd left him.

It felt odd to approach him like this. Like he was a beggar, instead of the Crown Prince, a god. His god. But if no one else was helping him, he'd do it. As small, ugly, useless, and stupid as he was, he'd do it. For him.

He stepped closer as quietly as he could and knelt down beside him. Even in his sleep, His Highness looked troubled. His gentle, thick, straight brows were knit, and he was squeezed up so tight in on himself that he looked almost like a trembling child. If His Highness ever saw him sleep all those nights he spent in the temple, he probably looked just the same.

He draped the blanket over him and was careful not to touch him; he knew he had no right to do that much. He made sure the blanket was covering all of him, so he wouldn't have cold feet or a chilled back, and once he was finished, his eyes lingered again on him.

He'd probably never be able to get to see this again. And he probably shouldn't be looking now. But just like when he followed His Highness down the street only so many days ago, he couldn't help himself.

Even with his hair unkempt and messy, it looked as soft as silk. He had grown purple bags under his eyes, but they only seemed to make the rest of his skin look all the more fair in comparison. His eyelashes were much longer than San Lang had ever noticed before, the one visible ear more round, and his lips were such a soft shade of pink that he couldn't help but wonder if–

No. He shouldn't be thinking that way. He shook his head roughly, and as he stood up, he let himself glance over His Highness only one last time. Curled up under his blanket, looking a little less tense now that he had a bit of warmth. Then he snuck off again. Not too far; someone had to be around to keep watch. He lingered just within eyeshot, doing busywork among the patients on the forest's outskirts and tuning out their anxious chatter.

In the couple hours His Highness slept, he heard plenty of gossip of His Highness being stabbed by the Yong'an leader today. Someone had dared wonder if His Highness was really a god if he couldn't kill a single man, but they had been shut up by San Lang's seething stare. And with all this chatter, not one of the patients he worked said a single thing out of concern for His Highness. He had been stabbed, and yet he still came to help them without a hint of rest; had he even healed? It seemed like it was only San Lang that took the time to wonder about it.

They only cared about themselves.

After those two hours, Feng Xin had broken out from between the tents and patients and made his way to His Highness. San Lang stared from the corner of his eye as he worked on sewing a patch in a patient's ripped robe to accommodate the faces growing on his bicep.

His Highness sat up the moment the attendant called for him, and for a brief instant, they talked about the blanket. His Highness began to look around, so San Lang put his head down and focused only on his patchwork. After a few breaths, he glanced up again. There was no one below that tree anymore. Only his blanket, neatly folded.

He was used to the smell of blood and grime and body odor. His own, the smells from the barracks and the battlefield, and the even worse smells that permeated the air everywhere in the camp. He never even thought about it because he'd grown so accustomed. And the blanket did have some blood rubbed off on it from His Highness, but mostly, it smelled… Nice.

It was hard to describe the smell entirely. He buried his face into the blanket as he rolled up on his mat, still too wound up to fall asleep yet. It smelled sweet, but in a subtle kind of way. And warm and earthy, like laying in a field on a sunny day after playing in dirt the whole morning. He knew this smell. The same smell he'd had his senses full of when he was held by His Highness as a child. The same smell he'd breathed in when he buried his dirty little face in His Highness' robes.

It was hard to stay stressed with lungs full of that smell. Eventually the groans from outside, the chill in his tent, and the pit in his stomach all faded away into nothingness, swept away with the wind that carried that earthy smell.

In his dream, he was bundled up so tightly he couldn't even see, so warm he felt like he'd melted away to nothing. He rocked in the wind like he was wrapped up in a swaying hammock, but he didn't feel relaxed in the least.

"Stop, stop…" The plea was muffled, but he could hear it clearly. Someone was crying. Someone who's sorrowful voice made his heart feel like it was being crushed underfoot. The wind only seemed to get stronger, more merciless with the pleading. "Stop… My petals… My…"

The voice seemed so weak. And yet he couldn't move a muscle.

The next couple days were not any less stressful. Many people did not have any interest in heeding His Highness' command that they wait to see if the amputee relapsed.

He was making his rounds for the night, checking not just for anyone who called for him, but those that were suspiciously still.

Between a few mats of groaning patients that were writhing as they tried to find a way to get comfortable, there was a still lump hidden underneath their white blanket. The other patients had probably dismissed them as sleeping, but he waited some seconds, and there was no rise and fall one would expect from breathing.

He thought he knew which person this was, though it was hard to keep track with the hundreds of patients. He stepped closer and knelt down, and when he pulled the blanket back, he found his suspicions were confirmed.

His father's wife. The moment the infection traveled up her face, her vanity apparently got the best of her. Her face didn't have any of those sores on it, only because she'd cut them out. Her cheek that had been hidden under her head was splotched with dried blood that still clung to the gore the carving had left behind. That woman that'd beat him black and blue and called him ugly was now, in death, uglier than he'd ever been.

He supposed he should probably feel at least some amount of pity for her, but he didn't. Nor for her family, that was never really his own.

The rawness of his heart existed for other reasons. Before yesterday, only five or so patients had actually died. That number had doubled from this behavior. His Highness, who cared for every patient regardless of if they deserved it, would be upset to hear of this.

He dropped the blanket back down on the corpse and stood up with the intention of alerting another nurse so they could be removed. But just as he turned, he heard His Highness.

Not laughing, not gently offering words of comfort, not whispering between doctors or his attendants.

He was yelling.

The body could wait. He passed through the mess of tents and patients, toward the crowd of nursing staff and patients that was gathering around His Highness. He shoved his way through the crowd, trying to squint over shoulders and cursing how small he was that he couldn't see over anyone. He'd been growing plenty the past year, and yet he was still about a head shorter than most of the adults.

The mood among the people he was passing under was unsettling. Some were bowing their heads like scolded children, others were getting antsy, and as he moved through, he kept hearing waves of hushed grumbling.

His Highness wasted his power coming here at the end of every battle, checking on these hundreds of people individually, and they were whispering to each other about him sarcastically, as if he didn't care about them at all.

San Lang scoffed under his breath, and eventually found a place where the crowd parted amidst a few supply boxes. He stepped up on top of one, and the boost was enough to let him see over the ocean of disfigured bodies.

His yelling, which San Lang had realized was about the idiots who had disobeyed him and disfigured themselves further, had ceased by the time he'd gotten a view. He was only so close, but he could see His Highness was staring daggers at someone in the crowd who'd probably spoken up, though San Lang couldn't hear whatever they'd said from this distance.

A person in front of him whispered in another's ear that maybe His Highness was punishing them on purpose. That person had only been halfway through that accusation before San Lang's foot smacked between their shoulder blades and knocked them forward into the crowd.

San Lang had never seen His Highness angry before. Even with all the mistakes he had made every time he had a chance to see him, His Highness was only gentle and patient. He was clearly at his wits end, but why wouldn't he be? Didn't he have a right to be angry? And angry out of concern, of all things.

Someone else closer to His Highness yelled something at him, though San Lang could only pick up the animosity in the tone, but not the words. His Highness's face seemed more pale than usual, and every single thing he could possibly be feeling as he tensed up at the words and grumbling that surrounded His Highness swirled in San Lang's mind.

What use were devotees who didn't listen, and who got angry when they were punished for disobeying? They were better off dead, and some part of him wished His Highness would at least beat a few. At least the ones speaking out. To hell with gentleness; even rabbits bit when cornered. If it were him, they'd all be dead.

His Highness cracked his knuckles, and San Lang found himself smiling with the hopes that what he was thinking might just happen.

Instead, he struck a tree hard enough that the trunk snapped. It made the rest of the crowd jump and drop into silence, but San Lang, who'd been expecting violence, just raised his brow.

Of course. He wasn't the same kind of person as San Lang, he was leagues better. His Highness, even while being berated by hundreds after only asking they not harm themselves, the same people he devoted himself to trying to cure, would rather take his anger out on a tree than resort to punishment.

It was an act of mercy.

And beyond that, to break a tree like that, a feat that a regular mortal could only dream of… Even when he was spending every day on the battlefield and every night at this encampment, even when his energy was so drained that he had bags under his eyes, he still had power beyond San Lang's imagination. Even at his worst, he was better than he could ever be.

Someone spoke up. And with the silence they spoke over, he could hear it this time.

"Your Highness, there's no need for you to be so angry. Everyone here is a patient, and we're all your followers. No one owes you anything."

It wasn't like they were wrong; none of these idiots owed His Highness a thing. But that's precisely why he was angry; they acted like they did. San Lang's brows tightened at the words, and his jaw clenched when he saw people begin to nod along and whisper to each other yet again.

They expected god-like feats, but they refused to heed his words. They expected endless patience, but had no patience for him. They talked back to him as if he were nothing but a mortal, but when he had mortal emotions, they grew upset.

He tuned out their bullshit and stared at His Highness. That anger that had left him punching a tree had withered away, he could tell. He knew it in the way he stepped back and started looking around at all the huffing, whispering faces. He knew it because he knew the feeling.

His Highness, a god that could still snap a tree with a single swing even at his most tired, was scared. Just like a little boy had been before His Highness held him from behind and said he wasn't cursed.

He jumped down from the box and started shoving his way through the crowd. He stumbled as he smacked against elbows and shoulders while he forced his way through, and each comment he heard overhead felt like just as much of a jab, even if it weren't directed toward him.

Though in a way, itwasdirected toward him.

What was he, if not a ghost kept alive by His Highness' earnest request that he live for him? He would have been dead a thousand times over if not for him. His only belongings had all been touched by him. His name was carved into his flesh. He couldn't see flowers or the color white without thinking of him. Every action he made was with the consideration of whether or not he would approve. If he were to make the Flower Crown Prince his meaning, then any stab at him might as well have been a stab at himself.

He didn't make it very far in the crowd before he heard distinct voices yelling after His Highness, asking where he was going.

"He just left us!"

At the yell from somewhere around him, San Lang's brow twitched. Even now, they had a problem? Even now? What the fuck could he do that they wouldn't find issue with?

He squirmed through the crowd just a second longer, even with the knowledge that His Highness moved so fast that he was already long gone; he was certain he'd be able to figure out where he'd gone, the same way he was able to follow him months ago. He knew if he just focused hard enough, he'd be able to feel where he'd gone. But he might as well been trudging through a river full of leeches with how hard it was to get through, and only a brief moment after he'd heard His Highness had run, a person just in front of him spoke with a voice full of venom.

"Maybe the reason he couldn't lift the curse is because he's the curse."

Just like that tree His Highness had punched, San Lang snapped. There was no thought of what His Highness would have wished him to act like when he grabbed the patient's shoulder and forced him down just enough for his fist to land squarely on his wide, oblivious eye.

He threw one, two, three, four punches in quick succession, and the crowd quickly tried dispersing around him as he walloped this waste of space. Though it only took a moment for them to catch their bearings and start trying to pull him off.

"What the fuck are you doing?! You're a nurse, get off of him!"

"What'd he say that was wro– Agh!"

Anyone who got close, San Lang turned his fury to next. And with a heart beating so hard his veins tingled, he yelled out. "Devotees, my ass! What the fuck does His Highness do but help you people all day, and you bitch until he runs away! What's he shown you other than kindness?!"

In the sea of frustrated patients, the most obvious statement in the world seemed to spark realization in some eyes.

"Kindness my ass, he's done nothing for me, and he just punched that tree!" The man on the ground was snapping back again and was trying to pull him down with him. San Lang kicked his sore-covered arm away.

"Yeah, a tree! He's too nice to beat any of you, but I'm not!"

Someone grabbed San Lang from under his arms to restrain him, but just as quickly as he was swept back, someone had pushed that person hard enough to free him.

"His Highness saved my son's life on the battlefield, he's right!"

"Fuck off, what use is that here?!"

"He's doing what he can, isn't he?! He's better than the doctors!"

He couldn't keep track of where each of the voices were coming from; everyone was yelling something, and just as he went to punch some other idiot that'd said some other bullshit, a fist connected with his cheekbone.

It sent him stumbling into other bodies of people, some of which were grabbing at him, some trying to right him again. Someone else threw a punch, but not at him. As his head reeled from the hit, his vision went from backs and shoulders to clenched fists and arms as his body was smacked around between the restless crowd that were now all fighting and shoving each other. But all it took for some other jackass to say something about His Highness right above him for him to start throwing punches again.

Each time he got hit, he gave back what he was given tenfold. By the time the encampment's guards forced their way through the crowd and stopped the fight, blood was leaking freely from San Lang's nose. He was in the midst of thrashing on some piece of shit that had the nerve to say the words 'plague god' when a soldier had grabbed him from under his arms and forced him high enough in the air to only leave him kicking uselessly.

"You say that shit again, I'll kill you!" he yelled as he wriggled. He spat a glob of thick blood into the cold grass and stared daggers down at the patient that had finally shut his mouth. "I mean it. I'll kill you!"

"Alright, alright," the soldier huffed as he turned their bodies around and carried him through the crowd.

He was dropped down among some doctors to handle, and as the doctor that'd initially hired him looked him over and gave a deep sigh, he pulled the disheveled, half-loosened face coverings entirely off of himself so he could properly wipe his bleeding nose on his sleeve.

"You don't have to clean me up, I'll do it myself and get out of here."

"...There's hundreds of people here to look after, and not enough nurses. Just don't do it again." And with that simple, deeply exhausted response, he was handed a clean rag and a bucket of water to wash himself off. "What even set you off? They said you started beating someone up out of nowhere."

The bucket was set on the ground and San Lang sat beside it. As the rag was wet and used to wipe his face, he shrugged. "They insulted the Crown Prince, they deserved it."

He'd say he'd do it again, but that probably wasn't the best thing if he wanted to stick around to continue to help His Highness. And some of the people here did back him up and defend His Highness. Not all of them were such wastes of space.

"...If this kingdom falls under the weight of this war and plague, what are you going to do?" He shot his head up to stare daggers at the doctor, but the tired eyes that stared back at him caught him off guard. "Are you still going to be beating people in the name of someone who's not a prince anymore?"

"Of course." He stared back down at the bucket of water, already too bloody to see his reflection in. "It doesn't matter what happens, His Highness is still His Highness to me."

In some part of his heart, he thought that perhaps it'd be better if Xianle fell. It was selfish of him to think that way, he knew, but a silly, far-fetched daydream of a Crown Prince who was no prince at all running away with him from all of this stress sometimes floated around in his mind when he worked.

He heard that doctor sigh again, but he didn't argue. He just left San Lang to pull the ointment and bandages from his kit and treat his wounds before wrapping his head up again in the way he'd done a billion times before. When he covered up his eye that'd gotten a good couple hits, it felt strange; he'd gotten used to having vision in both eyes.

Others who'd participated in the fight were treated not far from him, both from this doctor and others. Not one dared so much as look in his direction after the fight, and San Lang was satisfied with that. If he had done it well enough, maybe when His Highness came back, some people might apologize.

He dwelled on the sweet thought of His Highness having some level of relief when people greeted him with apologies, but the daydream was shaken away when the ground underneath him started quivering.

There was a rise in yelling among the patients again, but there was no real danger to them; the trees were all too firmly rooted to collapse, and tents collapsing was nothing. But the capital–

Regardless of how terrified His Highness was, San Lang knew in his heart that he'd be helping prevent casualties without hesitation. And most doctors were here, in Buyou.

He stumbled to his feet as the tremor continued. Other nursing staff were already rushing to get supplies ready, yelling at each other over how many of them would stay behind and how many would be going, but San Lang didn't wait for any of that. He stumbled across the forest floor, struggling to keep his balance as he rushed as fast as he could manage toward the end of the forest.

He heard that doctor call after him, but he went entirely ignored. His Highness already had so much on his plate, and this was something he was sure he could help with.

The tremors ended by the time he stumbled from the forest's edge, and with his stability returned, he broke out into a run.

His lungs and legs were on fire by the time he had nearly reached the Grand Avenue of Divine Might. He keeled over and grabbed his heart as he caught his breath, his ears once again stinging from the yelling around him of frightened, panicking citizens.

He stood straight again, and as he looked around to take in his surroundings, he realized people weren't just blindly screaming; they were pointing at something. He squinted up in the direction of their terror, and his heart jumped.

The tallest tower in the capital, inside the palace walls but still easily visible from here, was tipping.

He pressed his palm to his forehead as he stared up at the sight. That passing thought he'd had earlier that this all felt like divine intervention just to terrorize His Highness crept up again, cut short by another tremor that left him clinging to the edge of a building to stay on his feet. The wave of screaming and panic started up again, but San Lang stayed silent. Something was different about these tremors.

The tremor was remarkably short. But then another hit. And another. And they seemed like they were getting louder.

He turned his head just quickly enough to see a giant golden foot crash down beside him.

"..."

If people were still screaming, he couldn't hear it. He didn't even notice that he'd completely collapsed as his one unwrapped eye followed the foot as it raised up again just in time for another golden foot to slam down nearby. The rumble of its weight left him completely breathless, and as he raised his head, the heart that had felt like it was beating so fast he might just drop dead suddenly skipped a beat.

"Your Highness!" He yelled, as if the divine statue was the Crown Prince himself. He'd heard about this statue. He was forced away any time he'd tried to go to the temple it belonged to, but he heard. The pure gold divine statue of His Highness, the Flower Crown Prince of Xianle.

He pushed himself up to his feet again and chased after the statue, though he landed flat on his face after another golden footstep. It didn't faze him; he just kept running after the statue, confident he'd catch up even as the statue long outpaced him.

A far cry from the crowd in Buyou forest, now the people he ran past were screaming out for His Highness and prostrating in the street. Even among collapsed buildings and the palace walls that had collapsed, everyone was only yelling out His Highness' name and rushing to witness this miracle of the divine statue holding up the partially-collapsed pagoda tower.

He started shoving his way through the crowds of people, but everyone else was doing the same. The best he managed was to get close to the end of the collapsed wall and try to get a glimpse above the masses.

His face and knuckles still ached from the fight earlier, his lungs and heart and legs all felt like they were still on fire from his running, and the wind was whipping hard enough to sting his eyes as it blew his uncombed mess of hair back, but all those idle pains were dulled to nothingness at the sight.

His Highness was exhausted; he was clearly working himself so thoroughly to the bone that he'd easily fallen asleep on cold, hard ground without so much as a blanket. And yet, not only could he snap a tree with a single punch, he could command a giant statue to do his bidding.

If His Highness was well-rested, surely he'd be able to do anything at all.

He turned his gaze down from the statue, and over the heads of all the masses that had begun to prostrate, he saw His Highness, and the awed grin on his face faded.

His ears were throbbing from the noise of everyone's cheers, so he couldn't make out a word of what His Highness seemed to be earnestly trying to yell at them as he looked back at all of his devotees. But he could see well enough from his eyes alone. His Highness wasn't pushing that tower up; he was only keeping it from falling. And he wasn't moving, as if he couldn't step away from that statue for even a moment.

He squinted up at the pagoda again, the cloudless sky too bright to let him stare for too long. The tower could be evacuated, and people could be moved away so it could be lowered safely. And yet, no one even seemed to be considering that. All he heard now, for so long his ears were buzzing, was a whole sea of the same scream:

"Save us, Your Highness!"

Just like the victims of the Face Disease, none of these people wanted to save themselves.

"Hey, it's still gonna collapse! We should get out of here!" He tried to yell, but no one bothered to so much as pass him a glance, and his voice didn't carry far over their own yells, especially when there was a commotion somewhere at the front that left His Highness looking even more distressed. The only voice he could even barely hear over the echoing screams was that wretched cousin that he could now see clinging to His Highness.

"You'll protect us for sure, right?! RIGHT?!"

His Highness was only staring back at him, even as he continued to yell whatever bullshit that was just quiet enough that San Lang couldn't make it out. His hearing was fully drowned out again, until he heard that fool's voice again, a thousand times worse than the screaming of all of these civilians at once, as His Highness' bulkier attendant pulled him off of the god.

"YOU HAVE TO HOLD ON! YOU CAN'T FALL!"

He squinted back up at that tower again, threatening to crush all of them under its weight. The tower that was the symbol of Xianle; something that was only temporarily stopped from falling and couldn't be pushed upright again, even by god himself.

If this was the alternative, what's wrong with letting go?

His Highness did not come back to Buyou Forest. The patients heard about this miracle, but they were still unnerved by the lack of assistance. Even that amputee had begun to ask constantly,'His Highness hasn't abandoned us, has he?'

San Lang knew better.

He would have abandoned them too, if he had. But His Highness was clearly at the end of his rope, so he followed His Highness' lead and spread himself a little thinner.

Visiting His Highness wasn't anything like the battlefield, but it didn't feel right to leave him there. And if that tower collapsed, what then? That's how he rationalized it when he'd show up after everyone was awake and one of the doctors was ready to chew him out, but he could tell what little patience he'd been granted was wearing thin. He'd probably get kicked out soon. And if that happened, he'd just spend all his time looking after His Highness.

He let out a yawn as he traveled up the road that led to the Grand Avenue of Might. It was just about midday when he left, but he hadn't been getting much sleep since he had to make up for the time he spent on these visits.

In this midday sun, it was already scorching enough to make use of his red umbrella. The forest was much cooler, and even with the umbrella, even while not having to be covered head to toe in quarantine gear when he was out like this, and his face now bandage-free again since his injuries had healed, he still felt sweat dripping down his back. He could only imagine how His Highness felt.

He looked down at the shadow his umbrella was casting, and just quick enough to see a flower that he was dangerously close to stepping on. He set his foot back and knelt down.

The flower was small and white, just like the ones His Highness said he liked. It was already drooping in the sun; it'd probably wilt soon with the unending heat. They hadn't even had rain in a while, now that he thought about it. Not quite to Yong'an's levels, but maybe that wouldn't be too far on the horizon.

He picked the flower, stuffed its stem in his belt, and kept on going.

The Celestial Pagoda leaning achingly against that straining statue was a disturbing sight no matter how many times San Lang made the trek up and saw it on the horizon with his own eyes. All the civilians that resided in or visited the Grand Avenue of Divine Might seem to have gone back to near-normal. No one ever panicked or stared forebodingly at the tower, though it was tall enough to cast a shadow over the streets when the sun was in the right spot. In fact, more people than ever visited this place now.

It was rather ironic to the boy; that temple that he had been cast out of on a number of occasions for being an ugly, poor little wretch now stood entirely empty. All of its previous regulars now made the trek down here to pray to the divine statue that had ran from that temple.

It confirmed to him that none of them were ever really praying to His Highness, the Crown Prince. Just the idea of him. That statue. That statue itself never told them not to prostrate, so he guessed when he looked at it that way, it made perfect sense why they never stopped doing it, even right in front of His Highness. Even now, as he walked through the rubble of the palace wall, there were at least twenty devotees currently prostrating around the golden statue's foot, where His Highness sat.

The Emperor and the Empress were there too, standing together and holding an umbrella over their son. They visited him every day, just like he did. At different times, and sometimes only for a moment, but every day. At least there were two other people that cared for His Highness, but at the same time, it left an empty feeling in San Lang's heart. He really didn't remember much of his mother anymore, but maybe she would have been that kind of parent. He knew his father wasn't.

He squinted up at the pagoda again, even more menacing when he was right under it; he felt like a rat staring up at the back end of an oncoming shovel. Could he really not just try to set it down? How many days had it been? As oblivious as everyone else seemed, His Highness was clearly not able to push that thing up again. It wasn't getting any higher. Some things even god couldn't do, and increasingly more frequently, San Lang was wondering if saving Xianle was one of those things.

Supposedly there were other gods out there, though they'd never answered a single one of San Lang's prayers even when he used to pray to anyone and everyone for some relief as a small child. If not a single one of them lifted a finger to help, maybe Xianle was just doomed to fall, and His Highness was the only one with a heart gentle enough to help even things that were undeniably doomed by the hand of fate.

He pushed the umbrella down into his belt and prayed. Not while prostrating, but on his feet, like His Highness had commanded. He didn't bother praying for saving or protection; he only prayed to His Highness to reiterate that he believed in him.

Whatever he decided to do, even if he didn't understand it, he believed in His Highness. He didn't want saving. Rather, he hoped His Highness would save himself. If His Highness failed to do something, that was okay. Even if the body wasn't able, he knew the mind was willing. He believed in His Highness for who he was, where his heart was at. Even if all of it fell to ash, he'd still believe. He'd always believe.

"Mother, go back, I don't need this." It was quiet, but when everyone else was silently praying, it was easy for San Lang to hear the gently spoken words from a voice that sounded just as much like summer as he remembered, but more like late summer, when everything was wilting under the strain of a season of overbearing heat that was quickly approaching stifling cold. "Don't come near, and don't let anyone else come close, I'm scared that..."

San Lang stopped praying and squinted up at the pagoda again.

His Highness knew, too. Of course he did. He wasn't going to be able to keep it up. But he wouldn't say it, not with all these people relying on him. If San Lang could be more like him, and a little less like himself, maybe he'd be able to help him. More than help him; just do it for him. To be able to flick the tower back in place for him with a single effortless movement. But as much as he tried to get more useful, San Lang only just seemed like himself.

What good was believing, if it didn't help His Highness in the least? What good was it to tell someone 'you can do it!' but not be able to lend a hand?

"My child, you've suffered so terribly. Why...why would such punishment befall you?!" The words stung San Lang as they came out the Empress' mouth. The face disease and its unusual immunity, the starving, thirsty refugees that somehow became a well-supplied army, and now this.

"Don't worry, mother. I'm alright. I'm not suffering."

San Lang's lips tightened, and he went back to praying.

I believe. I believe. I believe.

When he looked up again, the Emperor and Empress were gone, and His Highness's head was rolled back against the divine statue's shin; he was asleep. With the opportunity, he pulled that flower out from his belt and stepped closer to the golden foot, too priceless and divine for him to feel like he had any right to touch.

He took his time staring at His Highness. He looked just as exhausted as the last time he'd had the chance to see him up close, but just like before, this was the same face underneath it all. The same gentle brows. The same welcoming lips. The same silky hair. But those bags under his eyes were a little deeper. And his skin now glistened with sweat.

Then he looked up at the statue. Smiling as if it didn't have a single care in the world, but still posed as if under immense strain. It was golden and massive and magnificent, especially in the sun, but as he stared at that face, he realized.

It didn't look much like His Highness at all. The eyes were the wrong shape. The chin too thin. The nose was overly sculpted, as if his real nose wasn't perfect as it was. And why did these statues always seem to feel the need to curve his eyebrows so dramatically? His real smiles were so gentle because he looked so calm. Maybe if he couldn't do anything else, he could at least learn to sculpt, so he could make divine statues a million times better than this one. Ones that really worshiped His Highness, not a shallow idea of him.

He looked back down at His Highness, whose face was flush from the sun's unending rays. He pulled out his umbrella, just as the Empress had, and held it over him to over a little more relief. Even if he wasn't suffering, even if he'd meant it - was there anything wrong with some shade?

Someone coughed behind him, and when he glanced over his shoulder, he looked at all those people. Prostrating on the ground like ants.

He looked back once more at His Highness, shifted where he was standing so could block everyone else's view of His Highness with his umbrella just the same way the Empress had incidentally been doing a moment before, and again looked back.

"His Highness says he wants everyone away."

About three fourths of the devotees looked up, differing levels of shocked and confused. San Lang nodded.

"You're distracting him from his meditation. You're to pray at proper temples only. If the Celestial Pagoda falls, it will be your fault for being a distraction."

Surprisingly, a good few of them took his word for it and got up. He did his best to conceal his surprise, though he was just so used to no one listening to the things he said. He had gotten better at talking without stuttering, he supposed. And his voice was getting deeper recently. Maybe he seemed more authoritative.

"Why are you saying it? Why isn't he?" …Maybe not quite so authoritative. One of the remaining ten or so devotees spoke up, and the others were nodding.

"He's busy spending all his energy focusing on keeping the tower from falling.."

"He was just talking to–"

"Are you comparing yourself to the Empress?"

That shut the devotee up, but out of stubbornness, he stayed. Most of the others, save maybe three, were persuaded by his word and filed out. He let out a puff of air through his nose, and turned his head back with hopes he hadn't woken His Highness from some much-needed rest.

He hadn't.

San Lang stayed there, holding that umbrella His Highness had gifted him over his head and doing his best to try and stop other devotees from prostrating. Some believed his words, others didn't. But he at least thinned the number that visited. Technically, he should have been one of the ones leaving, but… There had to be someone, didn't there? To look after things. To look after His Highness.

And if it was possible, he'd like it to be him. He was useless, small, ugly, and stupid. But if all else, even if all he could offer up was his heart, he'd give the whole thing to him, even if it meant tearing it still-beating from his chest. Even if he had nothing else to give, he had his devotion.

When the sun started to set, San Lang put his umbrella away and prayed once more, reiterating his belief. He'd be back tomorrow, but he had to get back. A lot of the pain the patients in Buyou had got worse at night, and they now had to keep extra watch to try and prevent more people from harming themselves. It hadn't been quite long enough to deduce if the amputee wouldn't relapse, but he seemed like he may just be cured, and that seeming was enough for many desperate patients to follow through and start maiming themselves.

They hadn't learned from when His Highness had lectured them. The same as always, his other devotees never truly listened to him.

San Lang let out a sigh as he stepped carefully over the rubble of the collapsed wall and traveled back down the Grand Avenue of Might. The same as always, the streets were bustling. It was only him that seemed to look back at that menacingly leaning pagoda with unease.

A faint stench of blood stopped those thoughts. His brows furrowed, and as he looked forward again, on the horizon, just past the Grand Avenue of Might, he could see a commotion; people were staring at something.

The first thought that came to San Lang's head was that the gates had fallen without His Highness in the battlefield. His heart seized at the very idea, and with one glance back at the palace walls that were now only looming in the distance between alleyways, he started running toward the commotion.

The stench of blood got stronger, and by the time he'd reached that little stone bridge that he had quietly watched His Highness stand on not even a year ago, he could see what the commotion was about. There were no soldiers. No one was being killed. The stench of blood was from the people causing the commotion themselves; the patients he was supposed to be watching, slowly making their way up the street.

The blood drained from his face and his legs felt weak, but he still stayed where he was, hoping to block them off on the small bridge.

"You're all quarantined! Why are you here? Go back, you're going to get everyone else sick."

"No!"

"Fuck off, you get to come up here, why shouldn't we!"

"We need to find His Highness! He needs to help us! We can't wait around any more!"

"No," he reiterated, stopping their path by pushing back a patient in front. His hands wet the moment he pressed them to his shoulders; they were slick with blood from festering wounds where he'd cut out the disease.

"Fuck off!" someone snapped at him. He was shoved back, but he went back at it, trying to push anyone that started coming closer. But even with all that pushing, someone still managed to crawl out from the crowd and pass by his feet. He looked down at the sight, and his blood ran cold to see the amputee, crawling on two hands and his one leg with nothing but fury in his eyes. He didn't need to see to figure it out; he must have relapsed.

In the time it took for him to balk at the amputee, he was easily shoved aside by the mass of patients. He was shoved and smacked around and smeared with blood as they passed by him off the bridge, and each time he started trying to force him back, he was shoved more wildly.

"His Highness told you not to maim yourselves!" he yelled as he tried to shove his way through the crowd to get back to the front again. He was only scoffed at among yells that they needed a cure.

The city was already a mess. They didn't even have enough soldiers to go around to stop people from hopping over that collapsed palace wall. Even when he saw soldiers trying to corral the group, there weren't enough, and they were hesitant to touch these infected people.

"Look! Look, there's the statue! He's there! Like they said, he's got to be there! Let's go!"

His heart rose into his throat at the words. The crowd was moving faster, but he tried to keep up, shoving people back where he could. But every time he pushed someone to the ground, they were trampled over by others, who pushed San Lang right back, smearing him further with sticky, crimson blood.

"Stop! Stop, stop, stop! He's not here!" Of course none of it worked; he could only keep following and pushing and doing his best to stay upright. If he had a saber like on the battlefield, maybe he'd be able to do something useful, but all he had was that umbrella, and he wouldn't risk breaking it when His Highness was the one to gift it to him.

He heard that amputee scream, blood-curdling in its fury, and that's how he knew that they'd gotten over the wall. He burrowed his way through the crowd of bodies, forcing his way through as quickly as he could and nearly tripping on a piece of the crumbled wall.

Surprisingly, they had all given that amputee space after that initial lunge. None of them approached, and it gave San Lang an opportunity to shove his head out from between a couple bodies to see that amputee sprawled out near the foot, with his remaining leg's trouser yanked up to show His Highness another face.

His Highness was awake now. And was only staring. And then he said the words that sealed his fate, that of course His Highness would say, because this wasXie Lian. Maybe others would yell to go back, to say they don't know, to say they don't care. But Xie Lian only had one thing he could say.

"Let...let me help you!"

There was a screaming sea of 'save me!' and San Lang was once again at the mercy of the rioting crowd as they broke out like a tsunami to grab at His Highness. They begged to be saved, to be heard, to be seen, when they'd never once given His Highness any of the same grace. He tried to yell at them to stop, but the breath was knocked clean out of him by the pure force of the rioting crowd, silencing him.

He kept doing his best to force his way through the front, and between the mass of bodies throwing themselves at His Highness, he could see him. Shivering, waving his hands, his white robes already smeared red. Just like a single white flower in a sea of red that he'd dreamt about once. And through all those revolting cries, he could hear his voice, weak and desperate.

"No, I don't want to look, I don't want to look!"

"Stop," San Lang managed, still gaining his breath back. He shoved harder, punching and kicking where he had to to get up to the front. His Highness squeezed his eyes shut, but instead of refusing them, he was using what little power he had to help these people that were so clearly beyond saving.

In the sea of yells for salvation, San Lang could feel the ground rumble in a way that didn't feel like it was from the crowd. He looked up as he continued trying to force everyone else back with his extended arms. He couldn't tell from here, especially not with how he was swaying among the bodies that were still forcing their bloody arms out from around him, but was that the statue?

"Wait, wait, I–" His Highness didn't just sound weak. He was soundingpanicked.

"No, I don't want to wait, I've already waited too long!

"Your Highness, why would you treat him but not me?!"

With the tide changing from devotees screaming for saving to anger at perceived injustice, he was once again shoved to the side and sent toppling between the sea of people again. Once again, the breath was knocked out of him, and the most he could do as he kept clawing at and punching people was to again squint up at the shadowed statue and the pagoda it held that loomed over them.

Now it felt like he was less like a lone rat underneath the back of a shovel, and more like he was an ant on a busy anthill, staring up at an oncoming shoe.

He could still hear His Highness from here, arguing with the ones that had pushed their way to the front. He was panting as he tried to reason with them, though those words fell on empty ears, the same as they always did. He could feel his heart squeezing a little tighter with every plea to wait.

"Don't you know how to cure this disease?!" With the sudden change of topic, San Lang's heart sped up once again and his face paled.

"I—" His Highness wasn't allowed to finish his sentence, yet again.

"If you know, why won't you tell us?!"

"I don't know anything!" His Highness seemed even more desperate as he cried out.

"You're lying! I already heard someone talking—you know! I've seen through you! You won't tell us because you just want us to keep begging you like this so you can steal our donation money! Liar! You're a liar!"

His blood was no longer cold at that declaration. As if they knew His Highness at all! As if His Highness would have ever bothered with that! If that's what he wanted, why would heeverhave bothered with any of these jackasses in the first place? His face went from pale white to red hot as he went back to punching and kicking his way back through the front, hard enough to knock people over. He trampled over them, stomping all the way.

"What's the cure, just tell us! Tell us now!"

If His Highness told them, there'd be even more chaos than before. These people were already ready to kill. The capital would be done for. But worse than all of that, with His Highness as their closest person, they might all just decide–

He didn't want to finish that thought.

"Fuck off! Fuck off! All of you!" he yelled, though his screaming wasn't getting anywhere. He forced his way through and when he saw His Highness again, just a sliver of him in an opening between all these bloody, mangled limbs and stumps, he was clutching his head and curling in on himself, his eyes red and cheeks streaked with tears, alone in the sea of hands grabbing so desperately at him. At his silk hair, at his pure white robes, on his slender shoulders, and around histhroat.

The cries were too loud to even hear himself think, but when he broke through the bodies and nearly fell against the golden foot that was now streaked in blood, between all those yells, he could hear His Highness' voice. So quiet that it wasn't even a whisper.

"Save me."

He swung back as many of those hands as he could with his arm, and punched that person who had dared to put their hands around His Highness' throat. They let go, and were quickly replaced by the people behind him clawing their way to the front of the crowd, but just as he started swiping their hands away as well, the people behind him pulled him back. He forced his way forward again, punching and swinging where he could to do so, and kept at it. As long as he could keep them away, they'd get tired. Just like before. Just like all the times he'd beaten back people. He could do this. If he could do nothing else, he could scare people away with his swinging arms. He was certain of that. At least until those attendants showed up. At least until someone could take His Highness away to safety. He could do it. He could do this.

Above all the screams, he could hear the Yong'an victory horn.

When he was grabbed by his belt by someone behind him and forced back into the crowd, he was knocked onto the stone ground. His head buzzed as the breath was knocked out of him underneath countless feet, but just as soon as he'd grabbed at the hem of someone's skirt with the intention of crawling his way back up, the ground shook, and his ears were filled with the noise of clattering metal.

Shatteringmetal.

The screamings lost any sense of word or meaning and became more filled with panic as a louder rumbling began, accompanied with the sound of destruction as stones and wood and tile started striking the ground. His vision and lungs were filled with dust, and though the people that had been trampling over him were suddenly clearing out to escape, he didn't have time to do any scrambling himself.

In a split second, he remembered His Highness' words, squeezed his eyes shut, and struck his hand up to the sky; the hand with the finger that still held His Highness' silky black hair.

The rumbling ceased in a moment, and though he was now covered in a layer of dust over the blood that he'd been smeared with, though he had felt pebbles land in his hair and a tile smack against his shin, he wasn't hit when the pagoda crumbled. He opened his eyes to find he was in darkness, but not complete darkness. There was a hole big enough for him to climb out from, framed by a crumbled piece of golden arm.

He coughed too hard to even get a chance to wheeze when he pulled himself out from the rubble, but amidst the massive puff of dust that swarmed the air, he could see His Highness fleeing with his head in his hands.

Every time His Highness had run by himself before, it was the run of a god. It was something he couldn't keep up with; he could bound over hills in a single leap. But this time, he was running just the same as the citizens and soldiers around him.

San Lang sucked in what little breath he could muster, regardless of it caking his lungs in the dirt, and ran after him.

"Your Highness!" He tried to yell, pushing the people that were running all over the place as he went, but just as quickly as the words came out, a coughing fit followed. He wheezed in the cleaner air that the Grand Avenue of Might's streets offered, though it wasn'tsoclean; the Celestial Pagoda was big enough it had fallen over a number of buildings across the Grand Avenue, setting fires and leaving people screaming for help.

Those people could get fucked, as far as San Lang was concerned. There was only one person that mattered, and he was still running, half-stumbling.

Even if His Highness couldn't run like he usually could, he was still taller than San Lang, and he wasn't held back by wheezing and coughing. He did his best to keep up, but His Highness was gaining more of a lead, and didn't seem to hear, or want to hear, any of San Lang's attempts to call for him.

By the time the imperial gates were in view, flaming and billowing a deep black smoke, he had to kneel over and start coughing out all the dirt that he'd breathed in. His entire insides felt like they were on fire, but he was only close enough that when he raised his head, he could see His Highness rushing past retreating soldiers, into the city tower.

San Lang coughed a few more times, raised up, and started running again.

He had slowed significantly; what was once a full sprint was now a jog, marred with his wheezing breath as his lungs begged for air. Even before he'd gotten any closer than a couple hundred feet to the tower itself, he could see when peering up that His Highness had already reached the top.

It was a mistake to squint upward while running; he stumbled and fell flat, and the best he could do was scramble into a sitting position as he grabbed his chest and breathed desperately. He squinted up at the figure that was entirely still up on the terrace, and only then did he realize just how much his eyes stung from the dirt that all the smoke had waved into them.

He rubbed them separately and blinked away the dirt, and when he looked back up, he could see His Highness pulling himself up atop the tower, over the bit of all that protected the terrace.

His Highness was a god, and he leapt distances like that with ease. But he wasn't able to run much faster than a mortal could just now. His wheezing ceased as San Lang entirely stopped breathing when that silhouette up atop the tower disappeared over the other end.

His entire body felt like nothing but puddy, like it'd melted in the scorching heat. But just as quickly as his heart had dropped, it skipped a beat at the sound of a bloodcurdling scream.

His Highness had survived that fall. But he was hurt. He let out a deep, hoarse cough that made his throat go raw as he stumbled up to his quivering feet again. As long as he was still alive. He was still alive. He was still alive! Just like when he'd skewered himself. He was hurt, but– But–

"Your Highness!" He heard soldiers screaming on the other end of the wall. San Lang broke into a run, much faster than before, a sprint so fast the wind whipped at his hair and made his already stinging eyes burn. By the time he'd run down those few hundred feet, His Highness was being carried from the barely-cracked-open city gates by a couple of soldiers while the attendants were barking orders from the other side.

"I'M A NURSE!"San Lang screamed, hard enough both soldiers' heads snapped to him. "I'm a nurse! I'm a nurse! I can help! I'm a nurse!"

He barreled toward the soldiers, who ran a little further from the gates and set His Highness gently down in the grass. San Lang dropped like a sack of potatoes before His Highness, but even before he had landed, he could see it. His leg. His leg wasn't just bent. His shin held the same shape as the tree that His Highness had punched on that day that he'd run away from Buyou Forest.

When he looked up at His Highness' face, he seemed like he was in a daze. Only when his trembling hands reached out and carefully pulled his dirtied white pant leg up, pushing his robe up as he did so, did his eyes suddenly open wide, though they didn't even seem to register what was going on around him. He jerked his leg away, but San Lang grabbed his ankle and forced it flat down while the soldiers grabbed his shoulders.

"Don't–!"

He ignored the request as he stared down at this leg. It needed to be handled. He wasn't sure if a god would be able to heal from something like this without getting crippled. It had to be set at least, so it could heal properly.

He handled the leg as gently as he could, looking it over and touching where it was starting to swell. From what he could tell, the break was clean. This wasn't an injury he dealt with too often, but there were times where patients fought, or accidents happened due to how weak their bodies became with the Face Disease. He could handle this much. And he still had his kit on him. He dug through it for bandages, dropped those bandages on the ground, and pointed at one of the two soldiers.

"Give me– Give me your scabbard for your sword. Not the sword. The scabbard. And then hold his leg down. Put your hands on his thighs and don't let him move it."

The scabbard was dropped right next to the bandages, and he grabbed tight hold of His Highness' ankle, ignoring his all too mortal kicking.

"Your Highness, I'm sorry. It's going to hurt. It'll be over in a second. It'll be okay, just yell if it hurts."

"It doesn't– Doesn't hurt– I– … I'm fine, I'm fine…"

He was mumbling like he didn't know what was going on. San Lang's lips tightened, but he took in a deep breath and pulled.

That mumbling turned into a pained groan, and not far away, he could hear his attendants yelling for His Highness. He didn't bother to spare a glance for them approaching.

"It's okay, you'll be okay," he mumbled, pulling just hard enough and stopping when the leg straightened out. He pressed around the wound just enough to make sure it felt like the bone was in place, and then took the bandages and scabbard and started on making a temporary splint.

"Alright, Your Highness. It's done. Do you hear?"

He looked up as he wrapped the bandages around his shivering leg, but His Highness only looked dazed again, his face dirtied and streaked with dried tears. Mu Qing and Feng Xin were on either end of His Highness, shooing away those soldiers and hammering him with all sorts of questions and all but ignoring San Lang. The moment he tied the scabbard in place for the splint, His Highness was pulled up into Feng Xin's arms.

All he got was a passing glance from Mu Qing, who only briefly squinted at him, like he wasn't sure if he recognized him or not. But he wasn't wearing bandages, he was covered from head to toe in dust, and his eyes burned so badly he could barely squint through them. What was there to recognize?

He was just left there then. Those two had enough energy to bound away in the same way His Highness was usually able to, and that's what they did.

They had all that strength, and they'd left His Highness alone again, and only came afterward to pick up the pieces.

Just like before, they weren't there when it mattered.