The wind had a particular chill as San Lang trudged over falling autumn leaves the next morning, horse reins in hand.
It'd surely be quicker to ride the horse that was lugging the provision cart, but racing through this new work would only mean a higher chance of facing His Highness again, and probably coming across as a fool.
He just needed a little bit of time to get his mind off that dream that still haunted him when he so much as caught a glimpse of shimmering white robes. It had been one thing when these dreams would occur, highly fantastical and typically abstract. But this one was different, and had simply felt so real. Never once had he woken up from those dreams with His Highness' touch still lingering on his skin like that. Not until this one.
And he'd been so nervous of the dream recurring that he hadn't slept a wink last night; he could only imagine he had bags to rival His Highness' own, though the cold kept his exhaustion at bay.
The first stop was the same farm he usually collected flowers around; the farm closest to the city gates he was stationed at. The day was bright, despite the chill, and they were in the midst of harvest season. Long before he even got close, he could see the women that usually wasted time flirting with him tending to the fields, half-buried in the rows of full vegetables.
He had been bracing himself for them to come flocking to him, but none of them even glanced up to the sound of creaking wheels or hooves thudding against the dirt road. When he stopped near the farmhouse and mirrored the horse's heavy yawn, it wasn't any of the girls that met him; it was their father.
"I see you. Hold on, hold on." The man raised a hand from where he stood behind the field's fence, and trudged to the house's back. He disappeared from view, but after only a few moments, with the creak of the home's front door, he hobbled out into the cold air again. "Provisions already, eh?"
The man was clearly getting older in years, but the limp wasn't from age; every inch of visible skin was littered with faces, unmoving and crusted over.
It had long been discovered that the disease, if left to progress, reached a point where it was no longer contagious. This man was one such case.
"Now, I have some sacks ready. I was expectin' to bring up the street to sell. How much are they havin' you take? Same as usual?"
With a simple nod from San Lang, the man headed back inside. While he waited for the delivery, he kicked his feet in the dirt and let out another yawn. And as he stared at the dirt he'd kicked up, his eyes caught sight of a lonely white flower, hanging beside the house so limply it looked as if it were shivering.
San Lang squatted down in front of it, observing silently as it trembled in a gust of wind. With the turn of weather, these flowers would all be dying out soon. With its sullen arch, this one almost seemed as if it knew its fate.
"Don't be plucking that."
The gruff voice made San Lang jolt. He raised his head to see the man, limping from the doorway with two sacks full of vegetables. San Lang stood and made a move to assist, only to be rebuked with a shake of the man's head; he wanted to do it himself.
"My girls say that's what you're always doin' around here. Pick one or two, that's fine. Pick all of 'em, and you're as good as killing off all the butterflies."
When he looked back at the flower again, he could all but see the bodies piled up against the wall, swarming with butterflies. He turned back around to the sound of the cart creaking and rocking under the weight of the sacks, and was met with a finger to the chest.
"That face you're making, I can tell you're thinking 'what do I care about some worthless bugs?'"
San Lang attempted to straighten his face, but he felt the side of his mouth twitch.
"I'll tell you this, you think the flowers just magically pop out of the ground? They've got to reproduce just the same as us. It's those butterflies going from flower to flower that makes it happen. You like these flowers so much, they're only going to spread so long as there's butterflies to help them along."
San Lang's eyes fell on the flower again, bowing as it quivered in the wind.
"...Anyway. You married? You're young, seem nice–"
"I have someone," San Lang interrupted as he grabbed the horse's reins again.
"Beh, shame. My girls like you. They're usually wary of men after an incident back when I was bedridden. Had a farmhand they liked, but just yesterday he found a face on his ankle and made the trek to where they keep all the rest of those that're contagious. They're still glum about it, if you couldn't tell."
That explained the lack of chatter. Some part of San Lang wondered if that was his own luck again, causing misfortune for others. That thought was pushed down.
"...Anyway. If you know any good soldiers, tell them to pass by some time. They need someone to protect 'em. They shouldn't have to deal with anything like that again. Downright dirty business like that belongs to men."
"Mm." San Lang nodded, and finally the farmer let him go. As he pulled the horse along, kicking up dirt as he walked, he took a glance back briefly at the farm, and the girls quietly harvesting in the field.
They'd come into contact with the face disease through two people now. Regular civilians seemed to not have made the connection, even after all these years, and San Lang had never once broken from what His Highness seemed to have decided - to not even speak the secret of the disease aloud.
But it was clear enough what sort of dirty business that man was talking about.
That farm was only one of many that had cropped up inside the walls of Xianle since the siege. They all offered up provisions for the army. On a cart, it seemed plentiful. But it was only one cart, and there was a whole army to feed, and many more civilians beyond that.
It was another reminder that this wouldn't last forever. All it would take was one bad harvest, and they'd all begin to truly starve. No amount of smugglers would be able to make up the difference then.
Again, San Lang thought of that lonely flower, huddled up against the wall. One that was certain to die out from the cold soon.
His Highness wouldn't want to leave his people. He knew that in his bones. But he also knew he wouldn't allow His Highness to sit around and suffer once this deck of cards finally tumbled.
He let out a deep sigh as he trudged up the road. The cart was filled, and now all that was left of this job was to pass it off to the guard station at the center of the capital, so it could be distributed evenly across the army.
There had already been a soldier waiting for him at the Grand Avenue of Might, but even once he passed off the horse, San Lang didn't head back home. The chill wind and the gloom of the reality of Xianle had helped clear his mind, but he had something else to do.
The Grand Avenue was no longer as grand as it once was. The streets weren't barren by any means, but they weren't filled to the brim anymore, over half the population had the non contagious leftover boils of face disease, and a quarter of those on the street were beggars.
There was also a time where there was some semblance of politeness on this street, but now restaurants and inns had been replaced by gambling dens, and half-dressed women hung around beside alleys, offering any passing man a good time.
He ignored the calls of a couple women as he walked and shoved his hand in his robe to fish for his coin purse. He didn't need to pull it out to see; just a gentle lift showed him how exceedingly light it was.
"He's a fucking curse!"
The outburst from across the street made San Lang's heart stop for a moment. He turned his head to look, though of course, things weren't like they used to be - the man outside the gambling den was not yelling about him.
The man was gripping a protection charm anyone in Xianle would recognize, waving it around like a madman in his ranting, all while his gambling buddy looked on, smoking openly in the doorway.
"I'll kill whatever bastard had the nerve to hide this fucking thing in my robes when I wasn't looking! He's a useless god, a god of misfortune, just like everyone says! He's a curse, a fucking plague! He stole all of my fucking mon–"
The man didn't even hear the stomp of boots slapping against the pavement as he jerked his hand back to roll up to throw the balled-up charm. Before he had even completed his word, his wrist was seized.
"It's not the charm," San Lang said when the man's eyes landed on him. His eyes had been filled with offense and anger at being grabbed, but the moment he met San Lang's own eyes, whether it be for the fact he was talking to a soldier or the intensity of the stare, his lips tightened and whatever insults were on his tongue fizzled to something far less provoking.
"Wha…What else is it, if not the charm?"
"Your own misfortune." His grip on the wrist tightened as the man tried to free himself, and he leaned down closer to stun him into stillness. "You blame it on others, but it's all your own doing."
"Feh! Like you can prove something like that, let go!" …No. No, that wasn't true. You can prove something like that. He knew how obvious luck and a lack thereof could be. He knew more than anyone. And for once, San Lang didn't need to be ashamed. For once, it had given him an opportunity to defend His Highness' honor.
"I'll prove it," San Lang insisted, grabbing the charm from the man's grip with his free hand. As soon as he let go of the man's wrist, he pulled it into himself and began to rub away the pain. "I'll prove it, and if I'm wrong, I'll give you everything I have."
The man blinked. He looked over at his friend, who was mid-drag and simply shrugged.
The gambler nodded his head and led San Lang inside, and with his first step in, he was smacked in the face with the thick layer of smoke. It clouded the already dark interior, though what could be seen was nothing special; there were hardly any decorations, the tile floors were chipped, and there were so many gambling tables shoved together that moving between them was difficult.
Nothing newly built in Xianle was extravagant anymore. But this place was exceedingly cheap. He was brought to and sat down in an empty chair that this man must have just arisen from, surrounded by expectant, snickering faces, and the chair wobbled under his weight.
"Really? You haven't lost enough money, so you've got someone else in here to lose all your money too?"
"Don't talk him down. If he really thinks that cursed charm can do anything, let him lose all his money."
It wasn't surprising that they heard the conversation; this building offered no insulation. San Lang ignored the jeers as he tucked the charm into his robe and pulled out his coin purse. When he opened it, he was greeted by just a few coins.
He only needed to bet one, and the rest would be for the piece of shit standing behind him if he were to lose. None of it was anywhere near as much as the coral bead sitting in the pocket in his robe would be worth, but none of them would ever be seeing a glimpse of that.
He'd rather die than give up that bead.
He placed one coin on the table and set the rest of the purse down beside it, and then glanced around at the hungry-eyed gamblers around him.
"What game?"
"Just rolling dice. Whoever rolls the highest wins."
"I have my own, then," San Lang fished out the dice from his sleeve and set them on the table. A couple of the other gamblers frowned, though he could hear the betting man's hopeful snicker behind him.
"How do we know they're not loaded? Just use the house dice."
"Eh, come on. He's got the Crown Prince's charm in his robe. He's going to get such bad fortune that even loaded dice will come up as snake eyes." The full table laughed, save for San Lang. It would be great if he could just stand up and pull his saber out, but the chaos that all of their rightful deaths would cause might mean he'd be kicked out of the military. At best. And he could not let that happen.
Instead, simply he gripped the end of the table and took a deep breath. He didn't need to sully His Highness' name with violence. If the shitty circumstances of his birth made everyone around him taste misfortune, he'd take control of his life, just as that older soldier suggested; he'd make sure the people who tasted misfortune deserved it.
He was no curse, and neither was His Highness. But he could use what little power he could in this life to curse those who dared to call His Highness the same kind of shit he grew up hearing.
He was given a cup - scraped up and well-used, but no different than any of the gambling cups the other had. His dice rattled when he dumped them inside, and all at once, they shook. All the cups were thumped down on the table.
Through the heavy smoke and the blood rushing through his ears, he focused down on the cup. And when he raised it, he was met with a three and a six.
But then he looked up, and saw everyone staring in silence at their dice.
"This can't be right. There's no way."
Their gazes all shifted to one another's dice; all snake eyes. And then, slowly, their eyes all drifted to San Lang's pair. He couldn't control the corners of his lips as they slid into a grin.
"...There's no way. You just got lucky this time. There's no way."
"It was a fluke. Something strange happened. Let's try again."
San Lang didn't bother arguing. He just covered his dice back up and shook again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
Each time, he rolled something different, something neither impressive nor disappointing. But there were no more snickers amongst any of those other gamblers; just stare upon stare down at two little black dots underneath each of their cups, no matter how many times they shook.
"...I… It's your dice!" the woman furthest from him finally snapped, pointing a badly manicured finger at him. "They're cursed! You must have cursed them!"
That was a new accusation. He quirked a brow, and while at first he thought to protest, he decided it was another opportunity to rub in this lesson. He put his dice back into his sleeve and reached his hand out, palm-up, his fingers curling casually.
"Give me yours, then."
She leaned back with an unnerved grimace at his attention, but she did not say another word and leaned over the table to place the dice down on his palm.
He dropped the dice into the cup, and once again, everyone at the table save for the now diceless woman shook.
San Lang's blood was still rushing but not for any sense of nervousness. He'd never once in his life been less nervous than this moment; the wrinkled charm that sat over his heart was all he needed to have confidence in the roll.
The cups were all slapped down at once, and while the others' eyes shifted between one another, San Lang wasted no time in revealing his dice.
He had expected something as so-so the other roles, but when he looked down, staring back up at him under the swirling smoke, were two sets of sixes.
"Money." He said, his eyes flicking up to the gamblers who had all only just worked up the courage to reveal their snake eyes.
"How– He had to have cursed us," the gambler woman whispered, as if he couldn't hear. "Or he's the luckiest man alive, to be rolling even with that charm."
"Or the charm is making everyone else unlucky to his benefit? Maybe–"
San Lang's hand slapped down flat on the table, shaking them from gossip.
"Money."
He was given silent stares as they all pushed their bets in his direction. No one in Xianle was wealthy anymore, but it was enough to nearly overflow his coin purse.
He pocketed it all, and when he stood, he was met with the gambling man that had given him the charm, grinning ear to ear.
"So we can split it half and half then?"
"I didn't promise that."
The man stared up at him blankly before quietly shuffling out of San Lang's way.
When his boots landed back on the paved road, the fresh chill of the autumn air welcomed him by clearing his lungs of the heavy smoke of the den. With a purse full and a charm tucked against his heart, he headed for what he'd come for; painting tools.
He had enough to buy paper and rent all the rest he needed to set up in a spot decent enough to see most of the Grand Avenue of Might. It was only right that the money he won went to the person that was responsible, and if His Highness wanted to see what this street looked like, then he'd show him.
It didn't feel right to lie to His Highness, so he didn't omit the giggling prostitutes, the drunken victims of face disease that curled up in alleyways, or the cheap gambling dens. But that was not all that the Grand Avenue of Might was.
The buildings that had been crushed a few years back had been rebuilt as if they had never been demolished. The same intricate trim lined the awnings of most buildings, the same lanterns were strung up criss-crossing the street. A pretty young girl was practicing the sanxian next to an open window, and just below a man was ushering customers toward his food cart. The sky overlooking it all may have been caked in clouds, but the silver veil was trimmed with gold, hinting at what lay beyond.
It was halfway through that he noticed that his painting was not so inconspicuous, and the prostitutes that were talking amongst themselves in the corner of the painting were now watching him and giggling.
Despite his age, it was hard to stop the twitch in his brow and the hair that stood on the back of his neck, all whispering to him that the giggling was mocking. Even if he had no reason to care what they thought of him, a voice still called in the depths of his mind that he should have spent some of his money on an eyepatch.
Actually, maybe an eyepatch would be good. If His Highness had to look at him, he might as well try his best to appear half-presentable. He had gotten close to accidentally showing his eye to His Highness the other day, and it was only by sheer luck that he didn't. And maybe, just maybe, if he did a few other things to dress himself up, His Highness would never even get close to recognizing him as that dirty, bloody, beaten-up boy he'd once been.
Though he supposed this would be for a time after all of this. He couldn't dress up when he had a uniform to wear, he couldn't use an eyepatch when it'd restrict his vision during fights, and no matter how much he dressed up, what difference would it make if he were covered in blood?
But maybe once this was done. When Xianle was finished, as he was certain it would be. He'd use his misfortunate birth to his advantage with gambling, as he'd just done - he'd get rich, he'd make sure he looked nothing like that ugly little boy he'd once been, and he wouldn't run away from His Highness ever, ever again.
As he painted, he daydreamed of it. Rich enough to give him jewelry to make up for what he'd stolen, rich enough that even Xianle's toppling wouldn't make a dent in His Highness's standard of living, rich enough that he could deck himself out so lavishly that Xie Lian would look at him like he stared at sparring matches, with stars in his eyes.
The paintbrush rolled along the paper, leaving a trail of ink to make up a prostitute's sleeve that she used to coyly hide her giggle.
If he could ever be blessed with the chance to hear His Highness giggle like that, then–
His thoughts ended there, with the sight of that prostitute he'd been painting jogging right up to him with her smile revealed.
"Are you drawing us? Can I see?"
San Lang's lips tightened when the girl did as she pleased regardless. She squatted down to check, and after a moment of cooing over it, she leaned far enough over that her cheek was nearly resting on his thigh. He ignored her, his brow furrowing as he went back to his work.
"...I remember you, you know." With that, his eyes dropped down to stare. He remembered her, too, though he didn't say a word of it. She was about his age, and dressed only as expensively as any prostitute house in this dying kingdom could manage; enough to look good from afar, but up close the clothes were showing obvious signs of age and lack of care, and underneath bangs that hid half her face, her makeup was too thickly caked. "Before I got sold. I used to ogle at the tall, handsome boy with the scary face who'd harvest clay shirtless."
Up close, neither the makeup nor the hair truly covered the little face growing on her cheek, though she tried to coyly angle her head away when she caught where his eyes had wandered. Coupled with the memory of being humiliated by harmless giggles, San Lang briefly recalled a time when he was younger, alone and angry, where he'd constantly pray that everyone who thought him ugly should get to experience true ugliness.
He felt shame for ever having done so, when it had caused His Highness so much grief. What a fool he'd been.
"I don't mind you ogling me, either," the prostitute continued. "For you? It's free. I'll take you up and you can draw me nude."
His eyes met hers again. He didn't give her the glare he'd given the gamblers; she was annoying, but in a way, she had helped him. It had taken him some time to realize it, but those giggles as a child were his first hint that he wasn't as ugly as he'd always thought. That had given him the first bit of hope that maybe he could be someone to His Highness.
"I have a husband," San Lang stated.
"...Oh."
He arrived back at the wall not too long after midday. He had wanted to visit the temple, but he figured it was better not to push his luck. The extra time he'd taken was dismissed as visiting that make-believe lover, but if he slacked too much, he knew he was bound to run into trouble. But beyond that, how important was a temple to the real thing?
A day in the fall's cold had wrest free the memory of the dream that'd been leaving him hot and humiliated, and the charm that was still pressed near his heart curved a smile on his lips every time he felt it shift or crinkle with his steps.
He just had to find an opportunity to leave the painting that was rolled up and shoved into his robe beside that charm. He had been given a separate route than his usual schedule since his duties had been changed, and when he passed by His Highness' chambers, it was already being guarded by someone else, though the soldier looked preoccupied.
"Ah, hey, hey!"
The voice had come just as soon as he'd passed by the guard. His brow quirked as he turned his head to face him.
"I, uh, need to go to the bathroom real quick. His Highness isn't in right now, but is it too much to ask if–"
"Sure."
It seemed as if luck was on San Lang's side today.
He watched the man jog off, and just as soon as he'd turned a corner, San Lang opened the chamber door and slipped inside.
The flower in the vase was already withering, but San Lang had no replacement for it. Just the rolled up painting that he left beside it, the first painting he could recall that did not have the Crown Prince of Xianle as its subject; only as its recipient.
He stood guard then, the same as he'd been used to, and he let his mind wander to how he could get out of his new duties and ask for his usual schedule back. As certain as he'd been when he'd made the request, he only felt like a coward and a fool now that the dream was no longer plaguing him.
"Thank you!" It had been no time at all for the soldier to come trudging back, the preoccupation in his eyes gone. San Lang nodded in acknowledgement, but just as he took his first step to be back on his way, he heard a much more familiar, much more welcome footstep.
"What are you standing at attention for, it's not–" The soldier cut himself off and stood at attention beside the door as His Highness walked down the hall.
The rush San Lang felt lacked any of the shame of last time. He may have been too focused on what Feng Xin and Mu Qing were whispering to him to glance at either of the soldiers, but that only meant he could allow himself to stare all the more unreservedly.
His hair was tied in a bun today, instead of the usual ponytail. Gold earrings hung from his lily-white ears, and the silk band that always hid his neck was wrapped much tighter today, showing off the slender shape that San Lang had been unable to appreciate.
Even with Xie Lian's brows knit with worry and the bags under his eyes as heavy as usual, San Lang couldn't help but smile as he passed with his useless attendants into his chambers.
The soldier beside him let out a sigh as he relaxed with the thud of the door, marking the end of San Lang's smile. He passed a glance to the soldier, but he didn't move right away.
And when the soldier's brow raised in confusion and mouthed to ask why he was still there, he merely looked the other way.
He'd just wait a little bit, then he'd go. Just a little bit. He'd just count to–
"Ah." The other soldier seemed not to hear it, but San Lang did. A soft gasp, a gasp that he could recognize anywhere as only coming from the petal-shaped pair of lips of the person he lived for.
"Your Highness, where are you going?"
"Let's go do your plan," Xie Lian replied to Mu Qing. And just a fraction of a second later, the doors were shoved open.
"Pla– What, to see the Grand Avenue of Might? Your Highness!"
Xie Lian's feet padded down the hallway as the two attendants hurried after him, entirely oblivious to the two soldiers staring at the scene.
"Your Highness, at least put your shoes back on! You forgot them again!"
…Again. Did His Highness do that a lot?
San Lang pondered that with a smile on his face as he finally walked away.
He dreamt again that night, though he couldn't quite recall the details beyond the scent of flowers, so overwhelmingly sweet that it became nauseating, and the feeling of butterflies crawling over his skin.
San Lang paid it no mind; it was a better dream to wake from than something as humiliating as what his subconscious had gifted him the other night.
And there were more important things to focus on. He had meant to ask, after eating his morning rations, if he could return to his usual schedule. But as he ate, he had heard a couple generals chatting nearby.
"That's right, maybe morale will go up now. It's better that royalty who can't fight stay put in the palace, anyway. About time."
It seemed that the secret trip to the Grand Avenue of Divine Might had turned into a trip back to the palace. San Lang had a feeling he'd come back soon, but until then, he figured he'd have a better chance of stumbling across His Highness while doing work away from the wall.
And so he had simply quietly finished his rations while thinking of His Highness, robes billowing as he rushed past him with more urgency than San Lang had seen since he was a nurse, and his pink bare feet rushing out from the hem of his clothing with each step, like loose petals coming free with a gust of wind.
He hoped His Highness was having a good day with the Emperor and Empress.
His whole day was spent being something of a runner boy. Things like making tallies of the width of the area for the sick–which now expanded far, far beyond just the forest and was a town in itself–, handing over his general's reports to guards stationed at the palace, doing the final inspection on the merchants' carts that had come in from the back gates before they'd be allowed to sell their medicine and food in the Grand Avenue of Might.
Despite what vague hopes he might have had, the closest he got to seeing His Highness was only having to briefly dispel some troublemakers who were defacing the palace walls. But he had not heard anything that suggested he'd gotten into any trouble, so he supposed that was all he could hope for.
It was getting closer to dusk when he had finally gotten a break from any new orders, and had decided to visit and help His Highness in another way. He had been given this schedule to assist and keep tabs on a loved one, after all.
The trek up the Taicang Mountain felt particularly cold that day, with any sweat San Lang worked up only dragging his body temperature down further as he crunched the fallen, browning maple leaves underfoot.
Technically, this was really only the beginning of fall, and yet it already felt as though they were approaching winter. While most of the trees on this mountain had been burnt down, the maples that remained didn't seem interested in trying to keep their red leaves this year, suffocating the still-remaining plant life below them when they gathered in heaps over the mountain's soil. And when the wind blew, creaking the maples' branches with the breeze, the crisp scent it brought in with it felt far more like the return of winter than fall.
When he reached the temple, he found the door had been broken in, a part of its empty courtyard had been set aflame and left with a crusting of ash, and more than a handful of tiles had clattered from the roof to break against the ground in piles.
In his absence, someone had visited and trashed the temple again. And unfortunately, when he walked through the short courtyard and peeked inside, whoever it was was long-gone. And with no one to take his anger out on, he simply let out a breath, pressed his lips tight, and picked up the kicked down door from the dust-covered floor.
All in all, the amount of damage that had been done was not the worst this place had seen. The door was splintered but wasn't so thoroughly destroyed that San Lang wasn't able to put it back in place, and the ink and papers he had kept on the altar had remained untouched. It seemed whoever had done this had not wanted to enter the temple itself; they'd only trashed the courtyard.
That'd made things easier. He swept up the ash, and once he was done with that, he sorted through the fallen tiles. Most were broken, but there were some that were still intact.
San Lang filled his robe with those tiles and climbed carefully up the temple's wall, doing his best not to disturb the rest of the roof, lest he end up breaking even more.
Dusk had come, and when he looked on from the roof, past all the empty, sparse trees, he could see beyond Xianle's outer walls. The sun hung just beyond, painting the sky an orange that sparked the memory of Xie Lian's loose, blowing hair the other night, burning gold by the firelight.
He was disturbed from that memory with the crunch of leaves, too deep and consistent to be an animal. His eyes dropped down from the darkening sky, and his breath caught in his throat.
He quickly finished the tile he was working on and clambered down from the temple, and like the fool he was, he fled to the inner temple and hid behind the door he had only just placed back on. He debated hiding further, among all the rubble or behind a broken pillar. But the moment San Lang heard the footsteps arrive at the temple's entryway, he couldn't help himself; he pressed his face to the slit in the door and peeked out.
His Highness' white robes clung to his legs when the wind blew, and his sleeve billowed lazily when he lifted his hand to rub his chin as his eyes wandered the courtyard. He lingered at the threshold, as if he couldn't bear to walk entirely in. But sure enough, after a moment's hesitation, he stepped through, and San Lang felt his heart jump.
His Highness was leisurely in his walk, with one hand calmly tucked behind his back as the other felt along the courtyard's walls. Painted in the dusk's shadows, he stepped over where San Lang had swept ashes, danced his fingers over the chipped stone wall, and turned his brown eyes up to trace along the temple's awning.
The slender fingers thumped against the stone rhythmically, and as His Highness stood there, casting a deep shadow, San Lang's brows furrowed.
His Highness' eyes flickered in the last of the sun's rays, catching golds so pale that it washed them into something that couldn't quite be called brown. That light was swept into a bluish shadow when His Highness' gaze turned toward the door that San Lang stood behind.
It took the first couple steps forward for San Lang to think that he should move. But just as he backed from the door, His Highness called out softly.
"I know someone's here. You don't need to hide, you aren't in trouble."
His voice left him hesitating long enough that he had lost a chance to move before white light crawled over the tiled floor with the creak open of the broken door.
Couched in shadow, framed in the pale gold light, His Highness stood in the doorway in front of San Lang. They stared at each other for only a brief moment before His Highness' eyes wandered the inner temple, brows raising just slightly at the altar.
San Lang felt some semblance of embarrassment at the way he stared at his offerings, but that embarrassment faded into a cold chill when His Highness turned his gaze back to him and offered him a gentle smile.
"Do you come here a lot?"
"...When I have time," San Lang replied. He didn't move an inch as His Highness approached, each step echoing across the run down temple. His eyes were as gentle, as bright as ever, and as he approached, San Lang could see his under eyes lacked a hint of exhaustion.
"Thank you, really." His hands were chilled from the Autumn air when they took San Lang's. When they squeezed, there was a strength behind them that whispered that San Lang would never stand a chance. And with their squeeze, his eyes stared into San Lang's own. "...Will you hear me out for a moment?"
"..."
"...You have a beautiful eye. It shines like a ruby."
"You're not him."
San Lang had met His Highness a handful of times in his temples, though only ones in those cases had he revealed himself, if only for a second. But when he focused, he could feel his presence; warm and inviting, as sweet as the smell of flowers, ushering him in the right direction like he was gently being nudged by a hand of fate.
There was no warmth in this temple.
But he hadn't even needed to focus to know it. This was His Highness' face staring back at him, but all of him was wrong. And even moreso with San Lang's statement; his gentle smile twitched, his brows raised more regally than His Highness' ever did, and the hands holding his own rejected San Lang's attempt to pull back.
"Him? You were waiting for someone? …I guess I got my hopes up, that someone would be at a temple of mine simply for me. Not anymore, I suppose."
San Lang's brows knit as 'His Highness' head hung. Even when it was revealed, it didn't seem eager to give up the act.
At the slightest opportunity with the slackening of its grip as part of this act, San Lang pulled his hands free, only to have his robes seized and the distance between them eliminated.
"But no one would come here to have a rendezvous. Not unless they wanted the misfortune I bring to rub off on them, the same as everyone else. You aren't waiting for anyone, are you? Who would it even be? That sick lover that doesn't exist?"
San Lang's thoughts came to a halt with the last statement, and his heart jumped when it turned its head up to stare at him again.
"Please," 'His Highness' whispered. The sob that accompanied the plea, in that same voice that San Lang clung to every word from, made his heart quiver for a moment. He tried to still himself, but the one holding onto him continued with a voice as soft as a cloud. "I can't take it anymore. It's too difficult. I'm tired of it all. I… I want to run away."
San Lang's lips tightened. He knew he ought to push this thing away, but when it looked back up at him, with pleading, shimmering eyes, inches away from his own, with a gentleness that he always dreamt of, he was struck dumb.
"Help me run away," it said, like a dagger to San Lang's heart. It's hand touched San Lang's cheek, and he all but lost the ability to breathe. "You're a soldier, you can help smuggle me out of here. Please."
He was caught in its stare. The same stare he'd dreamt of. With eyes as bright as the stars, golden and brown and as gentle in its gaze as a spring breeze. Accompanied by straight, thick brows, dark hair that looked soft as silk, a perfectly sculpted nose, lips the shape of flower petals, cheeks blooming with just a vague hint of red- All he'd dreamt about, over and over. Except for Xie Lian's smell, the one that lingered in his chambers, the one that San Lang once breathed in from his own blanket; warm and earthy and vaguely sweet.
The thing clinging to him lacked any smell at all. San Lang's eyes focused as he steeled his wavering heart.
Xie Lian would never run away. And Xie Lian would never beg for help from someone like him. Xie Lian's eyes were framed purple because the stress of refusing to give up on this hell ate away at him so terribly. This thing was not Xie Lian.
San Lang's hand slowly started to move in the direction of his saber.
"Why are you so quiet? …You don't have to hide it. I know. I know you aren't waiting for anyone else. It's easy to tell you're a follower."
'His Highness's' hand slid from San Lang's cheek to his robe again, and when its fingers dipped under his robe to reach for the charm still nestled inside, San Lang halted the slow reach for the saber and swung his arm upward.
When his hand struck the side of 'His Highness' face, it stumbled off of him and grabbed its cheek in shock. The shock melted away, replaced by a chuckle, and then a laugh, and then an uproar loud enough that San Lang fumbled for a moment before he unsheathed his saber.
His blood was pumping hot. From confusion, from horror, from the rage that someone would make such a mockery of His Highness. He didn't spare a thought for demanding who or what it was, where it came from, why it wanted him to run off with it - he had no interest in knowing. He only cared that his saber would slice through it.
But when his blade swung, there was no blood. No screams. Nor the black smoke of loose spirits. The white clothes it had worn flew across the room into a heap, as if all he'd swung at was hanging laundry, and the laughter ceased.
San Lang stood in place, his eyes glued to the pile of white as the silence in the temple suffocated him.
And as he stood there, he thought about something he had not thought for a very long time.
It was like the heavens themselves were orchestrating this to mock His Highness.
He squatted down in front of the pile of fabric. When he picked it up, he found it truly was just normal fabric. Rather than the royal robes this fake had walked to him in, it was just a peasant robe, so white it glowed pale in the moonlight.
He couldn't keep it here. He could burn it, but he wouldn't allow himself to burn a single inch of this mountain; it'd seen enough fires, and with all the dry leaves strewn across the ground, any small fire could develop into a wildfire and burn what was left of the temple.
He stuffed the clothing under his arm and rushed from the temple out into the night air. As he stepped into the courtyard, his brows tightened. He walked to the spot he remembered that thing stopping at, and when he turned around and looked up in the same direction he recalled it staring.
San Lang confirmed it; 'His Highness' was staring not simply at the awning; he was staring specifically at what he had fixed.
He turned and fled down the mountain. He wasn't smart; he didn't know what was going on. But he'd be a fool to just sit on his fingers now, of all times.
The fallen maple leaves licked at his feet where the wind whipped them in circles, and where they had piled up, their deep reds melded into each other like pools of blood.
He was nearly down the mountain, relying on the moonlight not to stumble in the dark, when for the briefest moment, the sky lit up with a loud BOOM over the capital.
The white robes were forgotten on the cold ground as San Lang broke into a sprint.
Once he was at the very outskirts of the mountain, screaming pierced his ears. Screaming that chased him and became deafening as he approached the Grand Avenue of Might. Smoke billowed up from up the road, filling his nose but doing little to mask the smell of burning flesh.
After years of ennui, it had become chaos once again.
He rushed toward the smoke, smacking into fleeing citizens as he went. But this was not like when the Pagoda of Celestial Being collapsed; the fires then spread far, jumping from home to home, and the rubble had stretched far past the point of impact.
This time, he didn't see rubble until he could make out the fire that soldiers were busy trying to contain, located in the middle of a street. That 'rubble' was an arm.
There were body parts spread across the road; hands, shoulders, scalps with the buns still intact, chunks barely recognizable as human.
And as he approached, through the burning flames, he could see the blackened form of what was slowly turning to ash. Carts. A line of carts, nestled up against a row of shops that'd had all their windows and doors blown in.
And just beyond the flames, kneeling in the smoke and being passed over by the soldiers that were focused on putting out the fire before it could jump to the buildings, was a member of the quarantine zone's nursing team, still wrapped head to toe in robes and bandages that were now discolored into blacks and reds.
In lieu of any bucket to assist with the fire control, San Lang grabbed the doctor by the elbow, though just as soon as he did, he realized that this man barely had anything past the elbows. He switched to grabbing him by the armpit as he dragged the man, panting and trembling, away from the fire. Blackened rice crackled as the beads were kicked up and across the pavement under his boots, nearly tripping the doctor before he was led to sit against one of the damaged buildings.
"What happened?" San Lang demanded, though he knew full well what being this close to an event like this did to one's mind, if he could even hear between the injury and the explosion.
"My– My hands," was the only response he received, but the voice alone left San Lang stunned. A voice he knew, though it hadn't ever had any hint of urgency or emotion when he knew it back in his nursing days; when this man had ignored his suspicious name and given him work.
He pulled the man's sack off of him and fished out the medical supplies. He found that they were as undamaged as the man had been from the elbows up, so he unwrapped the bandages, forced the man's sleeves upward, and went to work.
The doctor would need more assistance than San Lang could offer, but he could at least give him time in the meanwhile. The stumps were wrapped tightly in thick layers of bandages, and his hands pressed firm over those layers. Each time his hands moistened with blood, he wrapped another layer on.
By the time the bleeding seemed to stall, he glanced back to find that the flames had lessened to embers, with soldiers panicking and stomping and slapping out the remaining flickers.
"You–" The doctor hoarsely forced out the word, and when San Lang turned his head back to him, their eyes met. "San– San Lang."
He recognized him. Of course he did. Even if he'd grown and his voice had deepened, that cursed eye of his remained unchanged.
"YOU!" The bandaged up stumps slipped through his fingers when the back of San Lang's collar was seized.
"It was you!" Just as quickly as he forced the other soldier's hand off of him, he was grabbed again. He squeezed the soldier's wrists as he pulled him off, but his face flashed white with the words that were spat at him. "You were the last one to check these! What the hell did you do? WHAT DID YOU DO?!"
"There weren't any explosives when I checked–" San Lang replied lowly, though when he looked back at the burnt carts as he tussled with the soldier, he could see the eyes of all the others. Eyes he hadn't seen for years, but had followed him like a plague since birth.
It didn't matter what the truth was. They weren't going to believe him. At best, he was simply incompetent to them.
"Get off of me," he spat, giving the soldier a hard shove. He stumbled, and San Lang took the opportunity to step back. What was he meant to do? Any talk of what had happened at the temple would sound either insane or deceitful. His lips twisted into a scowl. "...We wait for a superior."
The soldier eyed him warily, but accepted the statement. He spat at the ground. "...Figures this happens the moment His Highness comes up here."
San Lang's blood simmered. "Shut the fuck up."
"Don't tell me to shut up, traitor. Isn't it obvious to everyone by now?! He's bad lu–"
San Lang lunged before the sentence was finished. They hit the ground with a heavy thud. His fists moved on their own, and his face rippled with pain where the soldier's own fists landed.
"Woah!"
"Stop them!"
"Go get the captain!"
But just as the first hands came to pry them apart, another explosion shook the ground underneath their feet. Fists stopped flying just long enough to see one of the carts had burst anew from an untouched cache, with flames that jumped high enough to hit a balcony.
While the other soldiers rushed to quell the fire again, San Lang felt a tug at his waist.
The blade of his saber flickered red with the reflection of the flames when the soldier beneath him pulled it free. At first he grabbed the wrist that held it, but he reeled back for a brief moment when his hand was bit.
He lost himself in the scuffle. He wasn't like His Highness, or the other cultivating students he used to see when he volunteered at Mount Taicang as a small child. Every action they performed in fights always looked so clear, so purposeful.
But in a fight like this, San Lang could only focus on the immediate. A grab to restrain, a punch to match the one he one he'd received, a thumb dug into an eye to keep a head restrained, a tremble in his arm where he fought against the direction of the blade, and a yank that swung half of him with it when he'd pulled it free only to have his hand clamped down on.
A soldier could not afford to let his mind stray from the moment, even to retain the incident. San Lang wouldn't be able to say what had happened exactly once it was finished. But when he was seized, he wrested free three or four times until enough soldiers had restrained him to do nothing more than kick as he stared. At his saber. In the chest of another Xianle soldier.
"Get off of me!" He snapped as he struggled.
"What the fuck happened here?!" He could hear one of His Highness' attendants, but the panic that set in with that only made him struggle harder.
For a moment, he got free.
Then he was driven to the ground with enough force to make the world spin.
"The merchant carts that arrived today were loaded up with gunpowder," he could hear one of the soldiers explaining as his head was kept down by a single heavy hand. As the information was relayed, he stared forward. Through his dizziness, he could see Mu Qing looking over the soldier, who's eyes stared back at him, unblinking.
"The soldier accused him of being the last to check the shipments. He attacked him–"
Vaguely, he could hear a sword being drawn.
"NO!" San Lang yelled.
His left hand pressed flat to the pavement. And then the right hand. He couldn't die here. He wouldn't. What would this shitty excuse for a life even be for, if he left His Highness alone with nothing to show for ir but failures and a dishonorable end? He couldn't let it happen.
"Fuck, who trained this guy? Stay down!" Feng Xin snapped, driving him back down into the pavement. A blade jammed against the pavement right in front of his eyes, and San Lang forced his body right back up again.
"Fuck! Stop– Wriggling–!"
"Don't kill him!" Mu Qing's voice shot over Feng Xin's curses, though San Lang paid them no mind as he struggled. For an instant, he managed to start to pull himself out from underneath the man, only to have the wind knocked out of him with another slam downward.
"Why not? It's treason and murder, at the very least–"
"There's no blood, you moron."
"What?"
Feng Xin's weight still kept him from pulling entirely free, but had slackened just enough for San Lang to raise his torso a few inches from the ground and fill his crushed lungs with air.
He looked up as Mu Qing tore his saber from the soldier's body and tossed it to clatter at the pavement.
The attendant sat the body up and tugged off the armor to reveal a stab wound in a bare chest. A chest that lacked even a drop of blood, though the weapon had left such a deep gash that it had to be fatal.
"What the fuck?"
"It's a puppet, you idiot."
"..." The two attendants stared at each other in silence before Feng Xin gathered a deep breath and bellowed. "EVERYONE BACK TO YOUR POSTS."
San Lang dropped back down onto the cold ground. That fake Xie Lian and the white robes he'd left in the mountain flickered in his mind like the remaining embers on the blackened carts.
They left a few minutes for the stomping of soldiers' scattering feet to disappear before he spoke again. "Then what the fuck do we do with–"
"Take him in for questioning, I guess. I'll go tell His Highness about this."
"Fuck, can we even keep letting merchants in now? What are we supposed to do?"
"That's not our decision."
San Lang was limp when he was forced to his feet.
He had run off away from His Highness out of embarrassment just when he had been acknowledged, and in a matter of two days of doing busywork…
Not only was he too weak, too stupid to be able to handle this, much less understand what was going on. But this luck, the stupid star that cursed everyone around him, just damned what little remained of this dying kingdom. Of His Highness' kingdom.
'Make your own luck'; what a load of bullshit.
What fucking use was he? He'd only made things worse.