Work Text:
This evening, the streams of people flow away from the temples as Feng Xin and Mu Qing make their way up the road alongside the edge of the lake. The sky is tinted lavender, and brighter stars begin to emerge around the rosy edges of the clouds; brightly colored lanterns go up to entice the townspeople towards market stalls lining the street, and by the water, fisherman and ferrymen vy for space along the pier, throwing the occasional taunt alongside their nets.
It’s a pretty and lively scene full of laughter, but Feng Xin regards it all with a scowl. Some of that can’t be helped; it’s the way his face naturally falls when it’s at rest, after all. But Mu Qing’s no better beside him, his expression still and cold like jade. Maybe it’s not all contempt for the people in the town, though; only contempt for whichever one of them has been stirring up enough trouble lately for frantic prayers to start pouring in, revealing an anxiety underlying the cheer of the weekly night market.
Feng Xin mostly hears prayers from frightened mothers, begging him to keep their children safe, although there are a handful of sons who tentatively ask him to help them remember their families’ needs. Mu Qing’s prayers seem more enigmatic; scholars begging not to lose their life’s work or their moment of inspiration, or pleas that they will not stray from their carefully cultivated path.
So maybe they’ve agreed to work together to figure out what’s going on here; maybe that cooperation happens more often than not lately, and there’s only so many excuses Feng Xin can make for himself about how it’s just to keep up his reputation for his followers who build their temples so close to Mu Qing’s, as if not accompanying the other god might make all those people start to waver in their belief and stray to the Xuan Zhen temples instead.
Not that it’s likely, of course. Gods themselves aren’t the only ones who are prone to stubbornness, after all.
“They don’t seem scared,” Mu Qing observes as the path winds around a corner and away from the edges of the town, framed by thick clusters of bamboo and twisting limbs of pine. It’s growing darker under the shade of their leaves; lavender is ceding to indigo above. “I suppose we can rule out something gruesome for the time being.”
“That just means they haven’t laid eyes on it yet,” Feng Xin muses. “Should we check in the lake for crocodiles? I’ll throw you in so you can look.”
He doesn’t have time to feel a sense of a reward at the way Mu Qing’s gait stalls, at the almost imperceptible shift in his inhale. “See if you still have two arms after you try it,” comes the ice-laden response, and Feng Xin laughs.
“How will you fight away the crocodiles if you’re swinging your saber at me?”
“I’ll throw pieces of you at them,” Mu Qing answers. “Like bones to a dog.”
It’s a good attempt, but Feng Xin’s smile doesn’t drop. “And give them a taste for immortal flesh? Won’t that only encourage them?”
“I’m going to encourage you to shut up,” Mu Qing mutters.
Up ahead, the sloping roof of one of the temples peeks out from amidst the pine trees, swinging lanterns on the porch casting a warm glow outwards towards the path. Some of Mu Qing’s tension seems to dissipate at the sight, and if Feng Xin didn’t know better, he might have even said that was an answering smile flitting at the corners of his mouth. It’s too strange to imagine Mu Qing looking at his temples with anything other than a smug sense of accomplishment and arrogance, though, especially with how cruel he can be when the designs don’t meet his wretched high standards.
Secluded on the hill, the path to the temple was already quieter than the buzz surrounding the market in the town. The secluded courtyard waiting for them on the other side of the entrance reveals a greater stillness; even the whirring of night insects seems muted by the stone walls. A scholar’s rock stands solemn alongside a low green pool, and a bat dives dangerously close to the top of Mu Qing’s high ponytail as it pursues an insect.
The altar lies on the other side of the pool, and Feng Xin has to roll his eyes as they approach the grim statue arrayed in black and gold armor, its face smooth and expression serene and pensive as it peers down over the offerings laid out before it.
“Looks like no one is here to pray to this pretty boy General,” Feng Xin remarks, turning to look at the paintings along the wall while Mu Qing assesses what his followers have brought him. It’s hard to make out all of the details in the dark with only the glow of the lanterns and a few faint candles to light the interior, but the outlines of the artwork suggest a scene of battle, and it’s not difficult to guess it’s a scene of Xianle’s last war. He wonders if the other side tells of ghosts amidst broken walls and a solitary ascent.
His thoughts are interrupted by the sound of something clattering onto the stone floor behind him, followed by a sound of a body crumpling.
“—Mu Qing?!”
It only takes two strides to rush to the floor beside him, his knees hitting the ground hard while his other hand flies to the hilt of the sword he carries. But there doesn’t appear to be any blood, and a second’s focus reveals no extra sounds of breathing, no ominous and foul presence lurking in the temple with them waiting to strike again.
“Mu Qing,” Feng Xin repeats, quieter this time even though his heart is still beating too quickly from the moment’s scare; he’ll remain on alert, of course, but it’s Mu Qing that needs his attention most. Carefully, Feng Xin slips an arm beneath his shoulders, guiding him into his arms. “What the fuck just happened to you? Did you slip?”
There’s no answer, and Feng Xin swallows past a sudden lump in his throat as he adjusts Mu Qing’s position to cradle his head next to his chest. A glance around the immediate area reveals that the first sound he’d heard had been some kind of jade vial, which is currently leaking fluid onto the stone; next to it is a paper talisman, and though the writing is far from neat, he can just about make out the character for ‘forget’ scrawled in red ink against the yellow paper.
That doesn’t seem good. Neither does the fact that a talisman alone could incapacitate a god, and Feng Xin’s fingers tighten against Mu Qing’s arm. “Ai, enough playing. I promise I won’t push you into the lake, alright?”
Mu Qing still doesn’t respond, lying still and pale in his arms, and Feng Xin allows himself to contemplate the unthinkable as his fingers seek out Mu Qing’s wrist and slip underneath the hem of his sleeve, tracing a line up the inside of his arm. There’s no sign of a damaged meridian, fortunately; his skin is also a little warmer than it looks with its jade paleness and blue veins, and Feng Xin feels his face flush as his fingers retreat. Mu Qing would never permit such a touch if he was conscious, and it’s strange to see his face so serene. Normally he has the look of a cat sizing up prey and deciding how to toy with it, leaving Feng Xin to anticipate sharp teeth and unsheathed claws.
Feng Xin hesitates. Then, in defiance of the warnings sounding in his head, he leans in to gently touch his lips to Mu Qing’s forehead. The exchange of spiritual power that comes with the gesture might not even be necessary—Feng Xin is only guessing that Mu Qing must have been running lower than usual for some reason, and that’s why he’d been caught off-guard. Maybe some other enemy had depleted his energy lately, and of course he’d be too proud to mention it if that were the case—stubborn idiot. Too fucking proud for his own good.
Still, the gesture has its desired effect. Mu Qing stirs, and Feng Xin pulls back in time to see his long lashes fluttering against his cheek and his lips parting as he draws in a breath. Tiny movements, though Feng Xin finds himself bracing for the inevitable moment that Mu Qing wakes up and retaliates for the position he finds himself in. A kick, a punch in the mouth, fingers seizing around his throat—
None of them come. Mu Qing opens his eyes, and lifts his head slightly as he glances around the temple.
“Where am I?” he asks eventually, and if Feng Xin has been quiet, it’s only because he’s been too stunned to say anything.
“We’re in your temple,” he reminds him. “Did you forget?”
“My… temple?” Mu Qing’s brow furrows. “Am I… a priest?”
Whatever relief Feng Xin had felt at Mu Qing waking, it’s quickly replaced by a sinking feeling in his gut. What kind of question is that? It would be one thing if he’d lost track of where they were and what they were doing, but if he doesn’t even know that he’s the god that the temple is devoted to…
“Mu Qing.” Feng Xin’s arm is still wrapped around his shoulder to support him, and his grip tightens once again. “What do you remember?”
Mu Qing’s dark eyes seek out his own. “Is that my name? Mu Qing?”
“Yes.” Feng Xin frowns; he doesn’t know his temples, he doesn’t know his own name. What the fuck had been in that vial and on that talisman? Why had they been among the offerings on the altar? It doesn’t seem likely that Mu Qing himself would have been the intended target, since someone would have to be incredibly bold to assault a martial god in that way, but who knows? It’s not unheard of for ghosts to wreck and defile temples, and it’s possible they’re dealing with something that’s as smart as it is malicious. “Tell me what you remember. What’s the last thing you remember?”
He’s met with silence. Mu Qing blinks at him. “A city… on top of a hill. Red leaves. But it feels… far away.”
The Xianle capital…? That can’t be the last thing he recalls. That was eight hundred years ago.
“What else?” Feng Xin demands, and his voice sounds strained to his own ears. “If you’re just toying with me, then stop. It’s not funny.”
Mu Qing flinches, and when he answers, his voice is quiet. “I don’t know. I really don’t know anything, I’m sorry, I… w-who are you?”
He doesn’t remember his name, or who he is. It stands to reason that he wouldn’t know Feng Xin’s name either, nor who he was, nor…
Saying his name is the easy part. Feng Xin doesn’t struggle over that, although it feels strange to have to say it to Mu Qing, of all people. It’s the next part that makes him stumble.
“... I’m your friend.” He can feel himself frowning as he says it, as if it’s misleading despite the way that Mu Qing is still cradled in his arms. Then, after a pause: “It’s going to be alright. I’m going to help you.”
It is misleading, of course. Whether or not they’re friends isn’t something he’s clarified; things have been different, some of the old animosity and resentment dissolving along with Xie Lian’s return. But the tension is still there—the criticism and the frustration, the competitiveness, the pettiness. Feng Xin is certain he’ll never really understand Mu Qing and his weird ways of thinking, and he doesn’t want to set himself up for disappointment by imagining Mu Qing cares any more for him.
It’s complicated. At the best of times, it gives Feng Xin a faint headache to think about it.
But that’s also because of the other thing. The part where he catches himself smiling over something Mu Qing said days ago, or finding excuses for little touches, even if it’s only a brush of shoulders; even walking through a town like the one they’re in now, with its market stalls lit up by night lanterns, makes him wonder what Mu Qing would like, whether he’d give one of those tight-lipped smiles when he’s pretending not to be affected by something if Feng Xin bought him a red bean sweet or a silk fan or a jade ornament for his belt.
By all accounts, they’re still rivals. The south is split, their temples compete for influence, and on most days, Mu Qing annoys Feng Xin to hell and back on purpose.
He’s just not sure what else they are, or what else they could be, or how to explain all that while Mu Qing is looking at him with genuine fear in his eyes.
*
Gradually, it becomes apparent: Mu Qing doesn’t remember he is a god.
“You said this is my temple?” he asks as he inspects one of the paintings along the wall with curiosity. It’s the side with the scenes of battle, and Feng Xin wonders if the details of red leaves stir any further memories, or whether he realizes that the black-clad General bears a passing resemblance to himself.
Feng Xin himself is busy inspecting the vial; he’s already burnt the talisman, not wanting to risk the same fate as Mu Qing. The fragrance is pungent enough to make his head throb, and he’ll need someone with more knowledge of herbs to inspect it if he wants answers, but on its own it doesn’t seem to be harmful. Still, he takes care to seal it and tuck it away in a secure pouch for later.
Mu Qing doesn’t remember he is a god, and Feng Xin doesn’t know if it’s right to tell him that he has the power to rip up the entire town by its foundations and collapse the overlooking mountains onto its ruin, if he would choose to do that.
In any case, it seems risky to try and return to heaven for help; if the effects of this spell are short-lived, Mu Qing would never forgive Feng Xin for making him live through the humiliation. His palace deputies would probably take care of him, but how long before another god finds out? What about the communication arrays? What if the condition lasts longer than they expect?
“You, er. You… come here to pray,” Feng Xin lies, feeling that his face is stuck in a deep frown.
“To whom?” Mu Qing looks over his shoulder.
“General Xuan Zhen,” Feng Xin explains, rubbing at the back of his neck. “He’s… well. He’s a General…”
“What do I pray for?” Mu Qing continues to press.
How would Feng Xin know something like that? Even if he still prayed to someone, it’s not like Feng Xin would be privy to that kind of information. “I don’t know. Friends, probably.”
“But…” Mu Qing chews on his lower lip. “I… have you?”
Right—they’re friends, according to what Feng Xin had told him. Feng Xin is glad his face doesn’t betray his blushes as easily as Mu Qing’s does, but he still gives no more than a noncommittal sound as he turns to the side.
“Come here,” he adds after a moment, and busies himself removing his archer’s gloves just in case they’ve picked up any trace of the liquid from the vial.
It’s strange that there’s no vocal resistance from Mu Qing as he makes his way over, although his steps are hesitant. “I’m sorry. I should have asked… how am I supposed to address you? Are we equals?”
Feng Xin blinks. Mu Qing is the closest thing to his equal that he’s ever had; maybe they had their differences once, but certainly after their ascensions, they’ve been closely matched for power and influence, General and General. But he doesn’t want to explain that right now, because Mu Qing having that much power and presumably no idea how to use it seems like a dangerous situation.
“No need to be formal with me,” Feng Xin mutters as he tucks his gloves into his belt. The most he’s ever accepted from Mu Qing is ‘General,’ but he doesn’t want to have to explain where his soldiers are, if he goes that route. “‘Feng Xin’ is fine. May I?”
He lifts a hand at that, raising it towards Mu Qing’s face with a deliberate slowness like a horse trainer approaching a yearling.
He’s decided that it will be better if he cuts off Mu Qing’s communication with heaven, at least until they can fix this. For the sake of the reputation he holds dear, and for the sake of sparing him an inevitable moment of fear when he hears random voices speaking to him in his head, whether it’s Ling Wen asking for an update on their progress or Xie Lian sharing an interesting piece of scrap he found in his donation box; Feng Xin will think of something to tell them later to explain Mu Qing’s silence, if it comes to that.
Mu Qing inclines his head in acquiescence, and Feng Xin lets his palm connect to his pale cheek, fingers sliding up past his temple. He’s greeted with a flutter of eyelashes, and a blush darkening his skin under the dim lantern light as Feng Xin’s other hand cups his other cheek.
Nothing about this spell requires him to brush his thumb over the curve of Mu Qing’s cheekbone. Feng Xin only gives in to the temptation because he’s not sure when he’ll have the opportunity to try it without getting his hand broken in response.
“That’s all.” Feng Xin lets his hands drop. “Can you come with me to another temple? If we’re lucky, it may help us find out how to help you.”
He’s not sure what the Nan Yang temple could offer, at this point; if he can catch a worshipper along the road and ask pointed questions, that may help, but they stand just as much chance of learning something important back in the town. Certainly he needs to find a physician or healer who can analyze the contents of the vial, and maybe he’ll be able to find the people whose prayers had initially raised the alarm—though it may be harder now if Mu Qing is unable to help.
“I’ll follow you,” Mu Qing agrees quietly. “ … I trust you.”
Oh.
Feng Xin wonders if he should take pity and tell him that he doesn’t say things like that, unless it’s accompanied by rolling eyes and an implication that he doesn’t actually trust him at all.
*
There are no evil surprises inside the Nan Yang temple. Normally, that would be something Feng Xin would boast about—he’d taunt Mu Qing for the apparent misbehavior of the Xuan Zhen worshippers, and Mu Qing would find a way to blame Nan Yang’s followers regardless, and it might come dangerously close to physical blows and drawn weapons after a few comments back and forth. They’ve been better about that lately, though—Feng Xin is making an effort not to use fists and shoves when words will suffice. Mu Qing is still a tactless idiot sometimes, but at least he’s not malicious, even when he chooses his words specifically to annoy Feng Xin. If anything, it’s more like affectionate teasing that misses the mark, which is unsurprising considering how little practice Mu Qing has had.
For now, though, Mu Qing is quiet as his eyes jump between the street, the elegant tiled rooftops of the buildings, and Feng Xin.
Feng Xin might be lazy with his disguises when he descends; a bit of deputy’s armor here, a plain shirt he found underneath a piece of furniture in his palace there. It doesn’t match up with any particular lie about his identity, but it’s not like he’s good at sticking to those false stories anyway. He’s never been a mercenary or an imperial inspector or a scholar, so how would he know the right things to say if he pretended to be one? It’s easier just to let the villagers think what they want and hope that his youthful and handsome face distracts them from finding anything else strange about his presence.
He suspects Mu Qing is trying to gauge his appearance for clues to his identity, though, and he regrets that he’s not telling the truth. But how would that go, when he’s trying to conceal Mu Qing’s own identity from him? I am a god, and I happen to be your friend? It doesn’t sound believable—he’d lose Mu Qing’s trust for sure if he tried that.
The night market is well-attended tonight, and under the multicolored paper lanterns swinging in lines above the stalls are a variety of wares and services—lacquered bottles, silver jewelry, roasted fish and boiled prawns, cakes filled with red bean, silk and paper fans, palm readings and divinations. A few of the shop owners call out to Feng Xin and Mu Qing as they pass, but Feng Xin keeps his pace quick rather than pausing to look. It’s sound advice to take shelter when a storm breaks; if the storm is Mu Qing’s predicament, the best way to weather it will be to find a room in an inn and tackle this case quickly, before heaven finds out something went wrong.
He’s checking the signs and banners outside of the buildings and looking for the promise of rooms and alcohol when he feels a sudden touch of fingers against his arm—delicate and questioning where they alight above his vambrace. Turning, he can see that Mu Qing’s eyebrows have knit together on his forehead, and Feng Xin almost hopes that it means the memories have started to return before he remembers that Mu Qing wouldn’t want to touch him, if that was the case.
“Are you upset with me?” Mu Qing asks.
Feng Xin’s lips part, before he closes his mouth again. When is he not upset with Mu Qing? He’s all but useless for the investigation now, and it’s absolutely his fault for carelessly touching strange items; it’s worse still if he had already depleted his spiritual energy on another matter and neglected to mention it out of pride or stubbornness.
But the Mu Qing who looks at him with wide eyes doesn’t remember any of that, and so it seems unfair to yell at him for it right now.
“A little bit,” Feng Xin admits. “You owe me, once you get your memories back.”
“If,” Mu Qing offers tentatively.
“What do you mean, ‘if’...?”
It’s… it’s not possible for eight hundred years of memories to permanently vanish, is it? The eight hundred years of a god’s memories, moreover? It’s not like forgetting where you left an imperial seal or losing track of a tael of silver because you’re distracted—everything that has made Mu Qing who he is, every miserable memory from a turbulent past, every small joy he might have celebrated for himself when no one was looking—all of it can’t be gone just because someone left a shitty vial on the altar.
It can’t be gone. Feng Xin won’t chase the yawning sense of fear that opens in his gut at the thought of having to carry the entire weight of their rivalry alone. Until they’ve exhausted every possibility to get the memories back, he’s not going to consider the cost of failure, and he knows his Mu Qing wouldn’t allow that either.
But this Mu Qing still looks uncertain, his lower lip drawn into his mouth as he chews on it nervously. “Will you tell me who I am? Do I have a family? Do I even live in this town?”
The answer to all of those questions is no. Feng Xin grimaces, which probably tells Mu Qing as much even if he doesn’t answer in words. “I promise we’ll talk, but let’s find a place to rest first—I think that’s an inn ahead of us.”
There are a number of patrons sitting on the lower level when they approach the door shaded by a shapely plum tree, many of them laughing as they pass around shared bottles of liquor. Feng Xin sees a few of them sparing a glance in his direction, but they must not find anything interesting about him or Mu Qing, which is exactly what they had planned for when they left heaven. Even the owner of the inn seems more interested in getting back to the drinking friends, which suggests something about the number of strings of money they’re carrying.
Speaking of that…
“You have our money,” Feng Xin mutters quietly, holding out a hand to Mu Qing.
Mu Qing makes a sound, and it takes a second to realize he’s actually laughing softly. “Am I richer than you? Or more responsible?”
“Shut the fuck up,” Feng Xin answers, and if he’s a little abrupt when dropping the required taels into the innkeeper’s open palm, it’s certainly not that man’s fault.
But it might be part of the reason they end up where they do. The room they’re brought to isn’t large; it boasts only a single bed, which would bother Feng Xin if it wasn’t for the fact that he has no intention of sleeping. But it’s otherwise clean and pleasant, pale paper covering the tracery in the windows and celadon vases offsetting the dark color of the woodwork. It’s the kind of understated design that Mu Qing would appreciate for its tastefulness, Feng Xin thinks as he sets about lighting the lanterns and silver incense burner—or else he’d mock it for its perceived shortcomings.
“How do you do that?” Mu Qing asks, hovering in the center of the floor with his arms folded in front of his chest; it takes a moment to realize he’s referring to the way Feng Xin kindles a flame above his finger, a lazy shortcut that he uses because he can.
“Daoist magic,” Feng Xin answers after a moment’s hesitation. “You’re better at it than I am. You cultivated in that city you remember.”
“Why?” Mu Qing’s dark eyes reflect the yellow glimmer from the lanterns.
“Because you wanted to.” Feng Xin sighs. “I really don’t know why you’ve done everything in your life, so don’t ask me things like that. Your name is Mu Qing, you cultivated with—with the Xuan Zhen temple, and you’re my friend and my equal. If you want to know the rest, then help me figure out who left that fucking talisman on the fucking altar so we can get your memories back, alright?”
Mu Qing blinks at him, then inclines his head in what looks like an apology. “I didn’t mean to make you angry.”
“Don’t fucking say things like that, either,” Feng Xin snaps.
This time, Mu Qing is silent, which is really all he’s ever wanted from him in the past—but this time there’s no sense of satisfaction from it. In fact, Feng Xin feels a stab of guilt in the pit of his stomach, and he’s wrestling with whether or not he should apologize when a voice from outside the door announces that their food is ready.
The servant from the kitchen has brought two bowls and a pot of tea, pale like the celadon vase. It’s only dough in broth, but the dough has been cut into the shape of plum blossoms; perhaps the gentle fragrance comes from the fruit of the plum tree, and he recalls the one whose branches had framed the doorway.
It’s pretty—and if the hint of color on Mu Qing’s cheeks when he sits across from Feng Xin is anything to judge by, he thinks so too.
*
After more than a shichen’s time of watching Mu Qing toss and turn and sigh on the bed, Feng Xin finally takes pity on him. He was worried this would happen; the spell has probably put some strain on Mu Qing’s mind and body, so he should rest if he can, but there’s also the matter of his divinity, the spiritual power of his immortal body that doesn’t demand sleep.
If he expects to sleep like a human because he’s forgotten he’s a god, he’s only going to end up frustrated.
“Can’t sleep?” Feng Xin asks from where he’s been sitting on the floor in a pose of meditation.
“I’m not tired at all,” Mu Qing answers as he moves to sit up. “If you want to sleep, you should have the bed.”
Feng Xin shakes his head. “I don’t need it.”
Mu Qing doesn’t answer, but a second later, he’s crawling off the bed and stalking across the floor to fold himself next to Feng Xin, close enough that Feng Xin would only need to lean slightly to the side for them to brush shoulders.
“Can you tell me more about why we’re here?” Mu Qing asks. “If we’re in the inn, then we don’t live here, do we?”
“Someone sent us to figure out why some of the villagers have been so afraid lately,” Feng Xin explains, answering the first question so he can avoid detailing the second. “There are mothers who think their children are going to wander away, sons who think they won’t care for their families, and scholars who fear losing their life’s work… as if something’s going to take them away.”
Mu Qing is quiet, looking at a painting that hangs on the opposite wall. “Did they lose their memories too?”
Feng Xin blinks.
A scholar goes to the Xuan Zhen temple to pray for inspiration in his dream, and spills a mysterious vial as he places a golden pear on the altar; he leaves uncertain of who he is, and his treatise remains unfinished on his desk. A child tugs on a cloth and dislodges the vial and talisman, and having forgotten its mother, runs away to play with a cat.
How many cases like that have there been? Perhaps not enough for the people in the town to have noticed vials and talismans, but enough for rumors to begin spreading, gossip exchanged over a cup of tea…
Fuck. In a twisted sort of way, if that’s really what’s been happening—then at least what happened to Mu Qing can tell them something about the case.
“I think I could kiss you right now,” Feng Xin says before he can stop himself.
Mu Qing lets out a tiny laugh, and tilts his head forward so that a loose lock of hair falls in front of his face, nearly obscuring the way his lip has turned up into a tiny smile.
His Mu Qing would have threatened to break his nose and bite his tongue out if he came anywhere close, and Feng Xin doesn’t have a name for the mix of emotions that seize him inside the ribcage as he tries to piece together what he prefers. Kindness from Mu Qing, but only because he’s forgotten the rivalry that makes him cruel? Or the cruelty arising from grudges that should have died centuries ago and still lingers out of habit?
*
Ling Wen had given them a set of scrolls before they departed; a few bits of paper had contained the sum total of her records of the town of Fuming, which has never been busy or important enough to breed the kind of trouble that gods descend to fix. A capable official once served here before a promotion, a nearby cultivation sect once chased away a water ghoul, and according to the local legends, a wandering immortal once stopped to have tea on the mountain, which the locals will proudly recount.
But none of that explains the recent string of lost memories, assuming Mu Qing’s theory is correct.
The next morning sees an overcast sky, and mist coming off the lake in white curls; the fishermen venture out in their boats anyway, and their lack of concern seems to confirm that they’re not dealing with something foul stalking in the water.
The inn owner has provided them with the name of a physician, and they find her home on the outskirts of the town. A neat courtyard is framed by pine branches, and two women look up as Feng Xin and Mu Qing approach.
Feng Xin hesitates.
“We’re looking for Li Jingyan,” Mu Qing steps in. “The physician.”
“It’s me.” The older of the two women straightens her shoulders, looking up from where she’s been separating herbs into smaller bundles. “What can I help you with?”
Feng Xin has the vial from the temple with him, and he spends a moment fumbling to find it; from the corner of his eye, he can see that Mu Qing’s face is twisted into a little smirk, and it’s familiar enough that he briefly has to wonder if his memories had come creeping back sometime before sunrise.
“Do you recognize a bottle like this?” he asks when he eventually finds it, holding it out in the flat of his palm.
Li Jingyan studies it for a moment, then shakes her head. “I believe that is a perfume bottle rather than medicine. You may want to visit Madame Zhu’s shop rather than mine if you’re looking to purchase something like it for your wife.”
“I’m not.” Feng Xin’s face reddens. “I don’t—I don’t have a wife.”
That’s not really what he means to say, but the younger woman at Li Jingyan’s side raises her head with sudden interest at the statement. “Really? But you’re so handsome. You could find a very pretty wife if you wanted to.”
The glance that Feng Xin throws in Mu Qing’s direction is meant mostly as a cry for help—Mu Qing is usually good at interrupting with something rude enough to steer the conversation completely off its course, and as awful as it is, at least it spares Feng Xin from having to dance around marriage proposals. But this time, he finds Mu Qing looking back at him with an intense but unreadable expression, as if Mu Qing is also demanding to know why Feng Xin isn’t married to some beautiful lady.
“Lingling,” Li Jingyan quietly scolds her companion. “Don’t be impolite. Some men don’t wish to marry women, some women don’t wish to bear children—your job as a physician won’t be to ask why or why not. It’s better to find out why they’ve come to us for help.”
“Someone left that bottle in the Xuan Zhen temple,” Mu Qing answers, evidently taking pity on Feng Xin and his stumbling words. “The contents spilled, and I’ve lost every memory of who I am. I’d like to know what’s in the vial, and whether there are antidotes that can counteract its effects. Or, perhaps, if you’ve seen anything like this substance before. That would be useful too.”
Li Jingyan frowns, but she takes a few steps forward to pluck the vial from Feng Xin’s outstretched hand. “Did you touch it? Ingest it? Breathe its fumes?”
Mu Qing blinks, and this time it’s his turn to look at Feng Xin for help.
“I think he only breathed it in,” Feng Xin adds, finding his voice again. “But I don’t think it’s harmful on its own. There was a talisman next to it.”
“I can’t help you with talismans,” Li Jingyan replies, shaking her head. “You’ll want to talk to the priests in the Xuan Zhen temple about that. But Lingling and I can identify the ingredients for you. Return at sundown and I can give you answers.”
*
Sundown. It’s not that far away—they can wait until sundown to hopefully restore Mu Qing’s memories, Li Jingyan and the Xuan Zhen temple priests accommodating—
“Am I married?” Mu Qing asks as they make their way along the pine-edged pathway that leads up to the temples.
Feng Xin nearly trips over a rock. “What the fuck?”
“I assume you would have told me if I had a wife or a child,” Mu Qing reasons. “Unless…”
“Unless what?”
Mu Qing only blushes, his pale cheeks rapidly turning red. “Actually, I forgot. Never mind.”
“Mu Qing, are you…” Feng Xin raises an eyebrow, and finds himself biting the inside of his cheek to stop a grin. “Are you flirting with me? It sounds like you’re flirting with me.”
Mu Qing will be horrified once he gets his memories back—he’ll probably try and make excuses for himself, and Feng Xin will delight in seeing him grow more and more flustered as he tries to defend himself. It’s probably the promise of being able to tease him in the future that makes Feng Xin let out a happy little laugh as they walk, and he’s still picturing how Mu Qing’s face will turn a shade of lively crimson when they reach the entranceway of the Xuan Zhen temple.
The courtyard holds a little more cheer in the morning sun than it did at the onset of evening, and Feng Xin observes the handful of worshippers near the altar. Of course it would be too easy to catch one of them leaving another talisman in plain view of everyone else; no such offerings are in place yet today.
But speaking of offerings, Mu Qing frowns as he regards the praying villagers. “We didn’t bring anything for the General,” he says, a touch of sadness in his tone that would be amusing for its irony if it wasn’t unsettling. “Shouldn’t we have bought some fruit back in the market so we can pray?”
“I’m sure the General knows what has been happening around his temple,” Feng Xin assures him. “He’ll help if he wants to help—the offerings don’t matter that much.”
“Worshippers in the temple of General Xuan Zhen should give proper respects,” a scratching voice interrupts.
Standing off to the side in the shadow of the temple’s walls is a thin, bony youth whose posture is less than upright. He observes the worshippers with red-rimmed eyes, and Feng Xin feels particular scrutiny on himself, as if this boy has any right to be listening in on their conversations.
“Who are you to tell us what the General considers respectful?” Feng Xin raises a brow.
“A priest in his temple.” The youth looks smug as he says it. “If you want to pray, then give offerings like everyone else. Or else go beg in the Nan Yang temple. That General doesn’t mind trash.”
“You’re a rotten priest if you purposely drive away Xuan Zhen’s worshippers,” Feng Xin returns, because Mu Qing’s in no state to admonish the young man like he deserves. Still, it’s for the purpose of finding a priest that they came back here this morning, and he has to bite down on his tongue to stop himself from saying more about what he really thinks. “But speaking of that. Haven’t there been incidents in this temple lately?”
The youth narrows his dry eyes. “Who’s driving away who now? There haven’t been any incidents here. You’re mistaken and spreading slander.”
“Do you even check what people put on the General’s altar? Those are offerings to a god, and you’ll let anyone walk in here and lay out poison and talismans?” Feng Xin’s voice rises enough that the other worshippers lift their heads to look at him. “You should take your duties more seriously! Talking of trash, but you can’t even tell what a good offering looks like? This General has thousands of temples, and you think—”
There’s a touch to his arm. Mu Qing’s fingers alight on his sleeve just above his elbow, firm but not rough.
“General Xuan Zhen doesn’t like your type.” The priest waves a dismissive hand in their direction. “Offerings or not, you’ll find no favors from him speaking like that. Please make your way out, and don’t come back with any more accusations.”
The fucking irony of it—trying to throw Xuan Zhen out of his own temple. He must be a junior priest indeed if he can’t gauge any trace of the divinity that still clings to Mu Qing, even in disguise and without Mu Qing having knowledge of it; an older and wiser attendant would have enough sense to shut their mouth in front of unfamiliar visitors even if they couldn’t discern their true nature.
But at least he’s right in one respect—Feng Xin knows all too well that Xuan Zhen isn’t fond of him.
“Fine. We’re leaving,” Feng Xin snaps, and resists the urge to add something worse after it.
*
So much for a calm investigation. Feng Xin has a headache, and so far, they haven’t found anything that leads them closer to solving the villagers’ prayers or to restoring Mu Qing’s memories. Mu Qing hasn’t complained, but there’s a palpable sense of distress surrounding him, visible in his chewed lips and slightly furrowed eyebrow.
As the sun pushes past its peak and begins to fall again, they end up on the shore of the lake. Under the grey sky, it reflects a somber hue, the wind stirring up rough waves under the green shadows of the mountains. Although he tells Mu Qing it’s a chance to catch their breath, Feng Xin has really been using the moment of quiet contemplation to contact Xie Lian by private array, doing his best to make the fingers poised at his temple seem incidental.
Something’s happened to Mu Qing. He’s not hurt, but I might need your help.
Feng Xin, what’s going on? Do you need backup? I’m a little busy right now, but I can…
I don’t think so. It’s just that he doesn’t remember anything—it’s like I said. Something happened to him. I might need you to ask…
He doesn’t want to resort to that yet. It’s just a thought, in case herbs and talismans don’t provide any relief. If there would be anyone who could know about evil spells and ways to counteract them, of course it would be him —even if it pains Feng Xin to acknowledge he’s a valuable resource.
“Anything come back to you yet?” Feng Xin asks, steering his shoulder to the side to nudge Mu Qing’s arm.
Mu Qing doesn’t answer right away, his eyes following a ripple over the water as the breeze blows across its surface. “It’s not accurate to say we’re friends, is it?”
Feng Xin’s breath catches on his inhale. “Ai. Haven’t I been trying to help you this whole time? Don’t be so ungrateful.”
“I don’t mean it like that,” Mu Qing clarifies, his voice calm as if he’s reasoning his way through a puzzle. (From his point of view, maybe he is.) “It’s just that… the way you bought me dinner, and let me sleep in the bed… the way the physician could see something about us… and some of the things you say…”
Oh, fuck. He’s even blushing again, and Feng Xin feels his stomach flip with the realization that Mu Qing is really suggesting they could be more than friends, and so casually, too—
Feng Xin briefly considers pushing him into the lake, the way he’d threatened before. His heart has skipped straight to the part where it starts pounding on the inside of his chest, and normally that’s an indication that they’re about to spar with one another. But this Mu Qing has forgotten that that’s the way they usually communicate, and he’s peering over at Feng Xin from under his long lashes while looking so fucking expectant .
Feng Xin’s eyes linger for a second on Mu Qing’s lips before he drags his gaze down to his lap.
The things he does for Mu Qing… that’s the problem, isn’t it? If Mu Qing would let him, he’d do all of it for him, and more besides. But the Mu Qing he knows would criticize the food he bought, would take it as an insult as if he’d been called weak if Feng Xin suggested he rest on the single bed in the room, would have mocked Feng Xin for tripping on his words around women and called him unmarriageable rather than fixating on the suggestion in her words.
From the corner of his eye, he sees Mu Qing’s shoulders hunch, and a second later his knees draw towards his chest.
“I’m sorry,” Mu Qing says.
“Stop apologizing,” Feng Xin replies, equally quiet. “You wouldn’t like that about yourself.”
They should get back to talking to the villagers. There are leads to follow, and if they waste too much time, someone else might end up falling victim.
This time, Feng Xin doesn’t extend a hand to help Mu Qing stand up.
*
By the time the edges of the sky have started to turn dusky orange, they’ve managed to pick up some useful information about the recent incidents within the town. Namely, Feng Xin manages to win over a group of young officials who are out for celebratory drinks by buying them another bottle for their festivities, and also sharing a scrap of a second-rate poem out of Xianle that they now hold to have extraordinary historical merit.
Someone is definitely targeting Xuan Zhen’s worshippers.
That leaves a strong possibility that one of Feng Xin’s own supporters is the one causing all the trouble, maybe out of a misguided sense of duty. If the priest in the Xuan Zhen temple had been unpleasant, it’s not unreasonable to think that some toxic kind of competition inspires the Nan Yang devotees to be equally awful. Maybe a stern dream would set some of them back on the right path; a reminder that dragging others down doesn’t increase one’s own might. Except that it’s hard to convey when his own reputation rests on suppressing and eliminating strong and evil spirits, so it’s no wonder that some of them might get things twisted.
That’s still speculation, though, and the more difficult task of pinpointing who has the knowledge to create tinctures and talismans powerful enough to incapacitate a god still remains. Some of the answers will hopefully come from Li Jingyan’s analysis, however, and Feng Xin allows himself a small bit of hope as they return to her shop.
At the very least, she might be able to help with Mu Qing’s memories. Rather than having him curious, blushing and quiet at his side, he’ll have the fully capable General Xuan Zhen back, who will probably give him a well-deserved tongue lashing for all the things he’s perceived to have gone wrong since last night.
Li Jingyan is drying her hands on a piece of cloth as they enter, and she straightens her shoulders, expression growing serious as the cold stonework of her courtyard. With her assistant gone, it’s quieter, too.
“Was it poison?” Feng Xin blurts out, hoping her look doesn’t mean anything that bad.
“Not exactly. There’s really nothing remarkable about the substance,” Li Jingyan confirms, frowning slightly as she says it. “It seems to be made of herbs that grow in the wild, or that are easily bought and cultivated in a field or a garden.”
Feng Xin feels his heart sink. So the vial can’t help them, can it? Maybe it had been incidental—completely unrelated to the talisman, an accidental casualty as Mu Qing fell to the floor. Maybe there had even been another piece of evidence that he had overlooked, like a needle or some kind of charm.
“However,” Li Jingyan continues, dragging his attention back. “All of these herbs contain strong properties of yin, and would be used to treat a deficiency; perhaps being sealed inside of the vial amplified their effects and caused your friend’s trouble. Has he shown signs of yang deficiency? Cold to the touch, lethargic, lowered sexual desire?”
At least one of those things must be true, and at least one untrue, but Feng Xin hasn’t been in the habit of checking; all he knows is that his fingers felt warmth when they traced the jade paleness of Mu Qing’s skin. He can feel Mu Qing’s curious eyes on him, however, as if he’d be the one to know the answers.
“How can we counteract it?” Feng Xin asks, ignoring the questions.
“Give him food to restore his yang, and hope that it’s enough to improve his condition. Beef if you can afford it, or prawn will do. Ginger and pepper will help. You should be able to find cherries and peaches in the market, too,” Li Jingyan recounts.
Meat and spices to restore his memories, and his favorite fruits? That sounds reasonable—
“Aside from that, if my patient were a woman, I would suggest being sexually penetrated,” Li Jingyan continues, eyes briefly flickering between them. “Men usually take less kindly to that advice, but your situation does seem more severe than usual, and I suppose… well. Perhaps a prayer to Ju Yang would suffice for now.”
Feng Xin can feel his face reddening.
Sometimes he thinks heaven is laughing at him. Actually setting him on a path in life just to mock him. There’s no other way that he’d find himself being told to fuck Mu Qing’s memories back into him, or that Mu Qing praying in his temple is an acceptable substitute for it. What the fuck. What the fuck kind of advice—
Anyway, it’s not like it’s really a possibility, given Mu Qing’s cultivation. Solving one problem that way would only create a host of new problems for him with the loss of spiritual power, not to mention…
No. Feng Xin’s not going to take that advice seriously. He’s not thinking about it.
Mu Qing’s face looks more thoughtful than tormented right now, however, and Feng Xin finds himself feeling grateful that at least one of them isn’t so easily flustered.
“These herbs might be easily gathered and grown,” he muses. “But who else has the knowledge of their properties? You… your assistant Lingling…?”
Li Jingyan narrows her eyes. “Anyone with an understanding of the elements could have concocted it. A priest, a scholar, even a well-read concubine if she were so inclined. I’ll help with your condition given that you are in need, but I can’t offer advice when it comes to blaming anyone in this town—that you will have to do on your own.”
“It’s alright,” Feng Xin sighs. “You’ve done enough for now. Thank you, Li Jingyan.”
*
Feng Xin finds a restaurant for them. It’s attended by men and women luxuriously dressed in silk with ribbons in their hair and jade on their belts, and the waiter is only able to find a small table for them in the corner of the upper balcony before he scurries off to see what can be done with beef and ginger, prawn and pepper.
There’s a golden moon hovering over the lake, and stars winking in the indigo sky; lanterns catch in the breeze.
Compared to all of the gilded palaces in heaven, the streets lined with glittering stone and tendrils of white cloud, flowers spilling over the ledges and blossoms falling like snow, this is really nothing remarkable at all. But Feng Xin has always preferred the places where humans live to all of that. There’s a liveliness here that the pretentious palaces could never capture, and he lets himself smile faintly at the sound of women laughing and wine-besotted men stumbling over their complicated orders, chopping and boiling and sizzling coming from behind the open doors of the kitchen, a pipa player drifting between tables to take the patrons’ requests.
“I don’t feel anything towards it,” Mu Qing remarks at one point, idly poking at the surface of the table with his pair of chopsticks. For a second, he looks like he’s going to say more. But his black eyes find Feng Xin’s, linger, then glance away. “Thank you, though. For trying. I know that you...”
The waiter returns at that moment with a plate of prawns, setting the platter down on the table between them with a flourish.
*
“I was going to buy cherries,” Feng Xin recalls when he closes the door to their room in the inn.
Pretty and dark, like the red stitched around the edges of Mu Qing’s favorite robes. He always seemed to like them back in the Xianle capital, although maybe Feng Xin’s memories are slightly distorted—they used to spit the cherry pits at each other when Xie Lian wasn’t looking, so it’s those days that stand out more in his mind. Not that he wouldn’t have spit an entire peach or plum stone, but then they might have left a mark on Mu Qing’s pale skin and Xie Lian would have been disappointed—
He hears Mu Qing sniffle, and when he turns, Mu Qing is blotting at his nose with the dark sleeve of his robe.
It’s too late to buy cherries. They stayed too long at the restaurant, and the market stalls had closed, the sellers going back home to their families.
“We can buy them tomorrow… Mu Qing, are you crying?”
“No.” Mu Qing’s voice wavers, although Feng Xin doesn’t need that detail to tell him he’s lying, especially since he’s now wiping at his cheek to get rid of a tear.
Feng Xin isn’t good with tears. Even if Mu Qing were the type to spill them, he certainly wouldn’t allow him to get close to offer comfort, although Feng Xin likely wouldn’t try unless it was for the sake of teasing him. But when has he ever been a good shoulder to cry on for anyone else, either? He’d failed in that respect for Xie Lian back then, and now Dianxia has his Ghost King to run to when he’s upset; Jian Lan hadn’t wanted comfort for her tears and used to throw as many threats as Mu Qing would now, and it doesn’t make him feel any better to think about her now while he grasps for an idea of how to help.
Mu Qing is crying . Feng Xin wonders if it’s something he did. It’s probably not the cherries, is it?
It’s probably not the cherries, but he doesn’t know what else to say. Tentatively, Feng Xin steps towards Mu Qing, extending a hand to rest on his shoulder. “Let’s go to the market in the morning. We can buy peaches too, if you want.”
“If my memories never come back,” Mu Qing says, and the statement sends a fresh set of tears leaking over onto his cheeks. “Then what? Will you stop being patient with me?”
Feng Xin frowns. “They’re going to come back. It’s only been one day.”
Mu Qing isn’t consoled, and his shoulders move as he tries less than successfully to swallow a sob. “All this time I’ve been afraid and useless, but you—you’ve taken care of me, and I don’t—don’t even know what you are to me or why I matter to you…”
His voice trails off there, and it takes two hands to try and wipe away the tears this time. Feng Xin considers reaching up to try and help, but in typical Mu Qing fashion, the words are indecipherably strange, and it’s hard to guess whether or not he’s saying them because he wants comfort. In their current position, it wouldn’t be hard to pull him in for an embrace, with Feng Xin’s hand already in position on Mu Qing’s shoulder, but when has he ever been comfortable with any gestures of affection beyond a playful swat or shove?
Feng Xin’s hand slides carefully down Mu Qing’s arm, fingers toying with his sleeve along the way. “You’re not useless. Who’s been keeping track of the money this whole time? And do you think I’d really spend all that for you if I thought you were a burden?”
“I don’t know.” Mu Qing gives another tiny, choked sob. “I don’t know…”
“Mu Qing.” Feng Xin finally gives in, darting in to trap one of the tears that has made it down to Mu Qing’s chin with his thumb. “As frustrating as this is, it’s far from the worst thing I’ve dealt with from you, alright? So I’m not going anywhere. Believe me.”
Mu Qing’s efforts to stop his tears still seem unsuccessful; there’s a steady stream of them at the corners of his eyes, trickling down next to his delicate nose, and his skin reddens where his hands helplessly try to scrub the droplets away.
“You should lie down,” Feng Xin continues, now tugging at Mu Qing’s forearm. “Come on. It’s late, you’re tired, you’re under a lot of stress. You can have the bed again.”
“Will you…” Mu Qing doesn’t resist as Feng Xin guides him across the floor, and it does something to Feng Xin’s heart when he guides him to sit down and sees dark, pleading eyes looking up at him. “Stay next to me?”
There’s room on this bed for two people; Feng Xin’s teeth gnaw on his lower lip, and he considers that he hasn’t made any attempt to rest himself since they left heaven. Not that there’s been much need of it, in the absence of any gruelling fights so far, but there’s another kind of weariness that comes from trying to solve a problem.
“Alright,” he concedes, and figures that at the very least, it’s not the type of request Mu Qing is likely to ever make again.
*
He doesn’t sleep. This immortal body no longer demands it.
He doesn’t seek a proper meditation, either. Feng Xin’s eyes are simply closed, and he spends some time concentrating on the cycles of his breath, the rise and fall of his chest in time with Mu Qing’s. From there, he attempts to clear his mind and think of nothing, but that’s a path that leads through the day’s tangled emotions and unhelpful investigations, and more than a few older memories along with them, ebbing in and out like a tide.
How could they not resurface, with Mu Qing pressed warm against his side, dark hair fanning over his shoulder and across the empty side of the bed, subtly fragrant like plum blossoms? The first time Feng Xin had thought Mu Qing’s long hair was pretty was when Xianle’s capital still stood, and he doesn’t dare try and count how many times since then he’s made the same observation, how many times it’s made a lump rise in his throat to see that the wind can play with the long strands while he cannot.
Outside the paper screens on the windows, the light hasn’t yet turned to dawn grey, and it’s only whirring insects and night birds that can be heard in the street. But next to Feng Xin, Mu Qing suddenly stirs, propping himself up on his elbow so he can peer down with a serious expression. In the dark, it’s not possible to see if his eyes are still rimmed with red from crying; Feng Xin blinks up at him as he attempts to adjust to the weak bit of moonlight that manages to creep in through the traceried windows.
“What’s wrong?”
Very faintly, he feels fingers tracing over the fold of his inner robe where it crosses his chest; a strand of Mu Qing’s silken hair falls and brushes against Feng Xin’s cheek, and the tips of their noses accidentally brush before Feng Xin realizes what he’s trying to do—realizes that all he would have to do to connect their lips in a kiss is angle his head a little bit, search in the dark until their mouths instinctually seal together.
His heart seizes so hard in his chest that he almost does exactly that.
He’s thought about how it would feel to kiss Mu Qing—he’s not as soft as he looks, in personality or strength. His lips might seem delicate like petals, but Feng Xin is certain he’d kiss with bruising force, maybe with a graze of his teeth; it would come with hands pulling on his hair or grabbing at his neck, or else holding his chin in place, and Feng Xin would be prepared to let him, tease him for his eagerness and lack of finesse later.
But that’s with a Mu Qing who remembers, and so, paradoxically, Feng Xin knows it would never happen.
His hand finds Mu Qing’s chest, and he pushes back with just enough resistance to keep Mu Qing from bringing their lips together.
“No,” he says quietly, while his heart flutters in protest on the inside of his chest.
It can’t be like this, though. It’s cheating; it would be no better than giving him too much alcohol and taking advantage that way, a thought that makes Feng Xin faintly sick to his stomach even while a part of him protests that it’s still Mu Qing, Mu Qing still wants to kiss him.
He hears Mu Qing give a frustrated exhale. “...But I want to.”
“No,” Feng Xin repeats, biting back the response that he wants it too, that the admission feels like kindling on dry and yearning wood. But it’s not right. Mu Qing is stressed out, confused, maybe feeling indebted because of Feng Xin’s efforts to restore his memories… it can’t be like this.
(In many ways it would feel the same, if Feng Xin gave in; the taste and the shape of Mu Qing’s mouth, the way he’d fit in his arms, maybe the sounds he’d make in his throat if Feng Xin kissed him the way he wants to kiss him, slow and deep with their tongues gliding together. He’s already had a knee slotted between Mu Qing’s thighs during their countless brawls, and he flushes to think of that, too.)
“Why not?” Mu Qing makes a small effort to dodge Feng Xin’s warding hands, but Feng Xin can tell it’s half-hearted; the most he has to do is dart out a hand to catch Mu Qing’s slender wrist to keep him imbalanced.
“Chastity vows.” Feng Xin moistens his lips.
“Yours?”
“No. Yours.” He doesn’t know the specifics, but Mu Qing might already be breaking them by thinking about kissing in the first place, which can’t be good for when his memories return.
Mu Qing makes a small, frustrated sound. “Would you, if it wasn’t for that?”
Would he…?
It’s funny; maybe Mu Qing’s sworn chastity should be the greatest barrier between him and a relationship built on desire. But it’s not the thing that has stopped him, in the past, from stealing a kiss, from buying the gift to try and make Mu Qing smile, from confessing that he sort of likes it when Mu Qing works with him to subdue the troublesome ghosts in the territory they share.
“It’s not that simple.” Feng Xin swallows. His throat feels tense again, and his fingers are loosening their hold around Mu Qing’s wrist.
“Then why…” Mu Qing begins to protest, but a second later, he sighs.
It feels colder in the room when he retreats back to his side of the bed and turns his back, and for a moment, the familiarity of his guarded posture makes Feng Xin wonder if Mu Qing’s memories might have already quietly returned. But his Mu Qing wouldn’t try to kiss him, wouldn’t question the pure foundations of his cultivation for Feng Xin’s sake—not outside of Feng Xin’s daydreams, anyway.
*
By dawn, Feng Xin has made up his mind. They can’t continue like this, and aside from Li Jingyan’s mortifying and unlikely solution that Mu Qing submit himself to sexual penetration, Feng Xin only has one other idea about how to restore Mu Qing’s memories.
— How quickly can you be here?
It’s a clear, bright morning, and the sun is sparkling off the surface of the lake when Feng Xin leads Mu Qing towards the docks; a number of young women are also out to enjoy the pleasant weather, giggling amongst themselves, and he averts his gaze as they pass. He’s carrying a small basket of cherries propped up in his arm, and Mu Qing has been idly nibbling at them as they walk, until his hand suddenly hesitates with a vibrant cherry raised halfway to his mouth.
“Is that,” he says, voice unsure, and the rest of the statement goes unfinished.
The bamboo hat might make Xie Lian blend in amidst the fishermen and ferrymen, but the crisp white of his robes stands out in sharper contrast. Half a pace behind, though, there’s a flash of crimson fabric, and Feng Xin finds himself frowning in anticipation of the mockery they’re about to receive.
Hua Cheng’s face isn’t twisted into a full-blown smirk at the moment, but he still looks faintly amused as he stands in his youthful form, neatly attired in his expensive robes.
Perhaps the women weren’t actually out to admire the lake in the morning sunlight after all.
Before Feng Xin can give Mu Qing a word of warning, Xie Lian has already bounded to his side, hands rushing to check his vitals. “Mu Qing! Feng Xin said something happened? I really trusted you two to look after each other—don’t tell me you were fighting and let something take advantage?”
“All I did was turn my back for a few moments.” Feng Xin folds his arms in front of his chest, and kicks at a loose stone on the paved road. “Next thing I know, he’s fainted, and doesn’t remember anything about who he is or why we’re here. We tried to restore his memories using a recommendation from a physician, but it didn’t work.”
“Is that so?” Hua Cheng asks. There’s the missing smirk, although it quickly jumps from Feng Xin over to Mu Qing. “You must feel rather humiliated by that, General.”
Feng Xin steals a worried glance in Mu Qing’s direction—he’s yet to call him by his title, after all, and he expects to see more confusion written in his features, not least on account of the casual familiarity from Xie Lian and Hua Cheng. But Mu Qing’s expression is guarded and unreadable, and Feng Xin wonders if it’s because he finds something inherently untrustworthy about the tall figure in red.
Xie Lian looks perplexed too, but he leaves a hand against Mu Qing’s arm as he turns back to his lover. “San Lang can help with this, can’t he?”
Hua Cheng gives an exaggerated stretch of his arms, like a cat in a patch of sunlight flexing its claws, and he takes a few steps away from the docks. It takes a minute to realize that he intends for the rest of them to follow him, and he meanders a few paces until they’re standing at the back of one of the buildings nearest to the water. “It’s possible,” he finally answers. “The question is what they’re willing to give in exchange for my help.”
“San Lang…” Xie Lian sounds like he’s making an effort to chide, but his voice trails off, leaving Feng Xin to wonder what Hua Cheng is saying in their private communication array.
“Some people offer their arms and legs when they want something from me,” Hua Cheng muses. “But I already have two perfectly good ones of my own. Gege has two pretty hands and two pretty feet, too, and I really don’t want any others.”
“You’re foul,” Feng Xin accuses under his breath.
Mu Qing is still silent, although when Feng Xin glances at him, he catches him idly nibbling on the cherry again. Is he not alarmed by the talk of sacrificing arms and legs? He can’t really be thinking that it’s a fair offer…
“I’m not fond of taking eyes, for personal reasons,” Hua Cheng continues. “But yours are nice and dark. Maybe I could fashion them into dice and let the gamblers in the ghost city use them. Quite symbolic, wouldn’t you say? Giving up your sight to restore everything you’ve previously seen. Given your unnaturally long years, I’d almost say it’s unfair.”
“It’s reasonable,” Mu Qing says quietly.
What the fuck?!
“Dianxia, you’re not seriously going to let him do this?” Feng Xin interrupts. “I asked for your help, not for you to torment him?!”
“Feng Xin…” Xie Lian sighs, and a hand goes to rub at the back of his neck. “I think…”
“What about you, General?” Hua Cheng cocks his head to the side, and folds his arms in front of his chest as he turns to look at Feng Xin. “If you’re not willing to let your treasure hurt itself, maybe there’s something you’re willing to give for his sake? I’d suggest your firstborn child, but I really have no use for such a wretched thing.”
“Stop,” Feng Xin snarls.
“You’re right.” Hua Cheng throws up a hand in a quick gesture of apology. “I forgot you have no use for it either! Thus making it a bad trade. What about the child’s mother? Would you trade her for your beloved rival’s memories? What are each of them worth to you?”
This, Feng Xin thinks, is exactly why he didn’t want to involve Crimson Rain Sought Flower from the start. His tone is still light and mocking, as if it’s nothing but a joke to him, and it’s really only for Xie Lian’s sake that Feng Xin fights the urge to ball his hand into a fist and smack it into that pale jawline.
“Leave her out of this. She has nothing to do with it.”
“Fine.” Hua Cheng shrugs his shoulders, still seemingly uncaring. “Let’s keep it between the three of us, then. What about a simple trade—all of your memories for all of his to return?”
His memories—all eight hundred years in heaven, and everything before it. Jun Wu’s betrayal and fall. Countless times that he’d fought with Mu Qing. Countless years searching for Xie Lian in the mortal realm. Jian Lan… Cuocuo. Xianle at the height of its beauty, and Xianle at its fall, diseased and ravaged.
All of that so that Mu Qing would remember, without any guarantee that he would even be grateful after the fact.
Feng Xin has never been selfish, though. He hears the words, and wants to protest for the simple reason that it’s Hua Cheng suggesting it, but if that was really what it came down to…
He frowns. “Could you do it? If I said yes?”
“Oh, easily.” Hua Cheng rocks backwards on the heels of his silver-touched boots, and an exaggerated frown of his own suddenly appears on his face. “There’s just one little problem.”
Next to Feng Xin, Mu Qing has gone very still, the way someone might if they were trying not to be noticed, and Feng Xin realizes that it’s strange he hasn’t protested, hasn’t said anything about the unfairness of making Feng Xin give anything up for him, hasn’t…
“General Xuan Zhen already has all of his memories restored,” Hua Cheng sighs. “So I’m afraid there’s no deal today. Such a disappointing waste of my time, although I’m a little relieved—what would I do with General Nan Yang’s memories, anyway? Sell them to the highest bidder? I’m not sure I’d get more than a few bits of copper for them. Ah, Gege, let’s take a boat out to the lake together so my day’s not wasted...”
Mu Qing already…
He’s still avoiding Feng Xin’s gaze, and Feng Xin stares, feeling anger and disbelief competing for his mood.
More than a day of struggling to find a way to help Mu Qing, only to hear that everything is fine? Obviously someone is lying to him, but it makes his skin prickle to think that it might not be the one he expected.
“Is he telling the truth?” he asks through suddenly gritted teeth.
Mu Qing looks up, fingers twisting around the empty cherry stem that’s still in his hand, and the remorseful look really tells Feng Xin everything he needs to know.
Feng Xin’s vision blurs with the force of his anger. “Since when? Was—was any of it ever real? Or have you been fucking lying to me this entire fucking time for some kind of fucking twisted joke?”
“It was real,” Mu Qing answers quietly. There’s a flash of his eyes that might only be a sidelong glance, but it doesn’t look entirely dissimilar from the way he sometimes rolls his eyes in scorn. “Until last night…”
“And you didn’t think I’d fucking want to know that?” Feng Xin knows his voice is raised loud enough to be drawing attention from the people in the town, but he’s not sure he cares right now. “Couldn’t spare me two words this morning? Not even when I bought you these entire fucking basket of cherries to try and heal your shitty imbalance because I’ve been trying this entire damn time to make you better, and you don’t even have the fucking heart to tell me if my efforts were working?!”
He’s thrusting the basket towards Mu Qing now, shoving it into his hands with far more roughness than is necessary—Mu Qing must have been laughing at him as he spoke to the fruit seller, probably thinking of ways to mock him for it later. Bastard.
“And you—” Feng Xin suddenly turns towards Xie Lian. “Did you know he was lying? Are all fucking three of you in on some kind of fucked up conspiracy to make me look stupid?”
“Feng Xin,” Xie Lian protests, waving a hand. “It’s not like that! I didn’t—”
Feng Xin decides he doesn’t want to hear it.
Fuck them. Fuck all three of them.
“Since you’re apparently perfectly fine, solve this case yourself,” he snarls at Mu Qing. It is, after all, evidently something wrong with his temples and his worshippers—maybe it’s no surprise, if they take after the one they worship. “Good fucking luck with it. Don’t ask me for help if you get into trouble again.”
He’d ascend back to heaven right here if it wouldn’t cause more problems than it would be worth to make a dramatic exit; it’s not really the town’s fault, in any case, and they don’t deserve quaking earth and lightning strikes just because Mu Qing is a malicious piece of shit and a liar.
“You lied, too,” he hears Mu Qing calling after him. “Didn’t you say we were friends?”
If a tree falls in front of the path to the Xuan Zhen temple with a viciously loud crack as the trunk splinters, Feng Xin will certainly take credit for it if anyone asks.
*
Avoiding Mu Qing is easy—Feng Xin has practiced it for hundreds of years, after all, making it practically an artform of its own alongside archery and swordplay. Their palaces aren’t close enough to cause them to accidentally stray into each others’ path, in any case, even if the opportunity had presented itself to rebuild them nearer to one another in the wake of Jun Wu’s devastation.
He passes Mu Qing once on the way to the Ming Guang palace, but of course Mu Qing doesn’t spare him a glance as he passes, face frozen like ice as he concerns himself with something on the other side of the avenue from Feng Xin.
(It’s a subtle thing, but Feng Xin thinks there’s something different about his expression than usual. He doesn’t want to flatter himself by thinking he looks sad, but maybe the shadows under his eyes have grown a little darker, which is unusual given how much Mu Qing prides himself on keeping his appearance free of flaws.)
Fortunately Ling Wen doesn’t press for details about Feng Xin’s lack of involvement in the recent case, although she raises an eyebrow when Feng Xin explains that the problem is nothing to do with him, and that she can ask the palace of Xuan Zhen if she has concerns. (Phrasing it like that isn’t a way to avoid having Mu Qing’s personal name on his lips, so why does Ling Wen look at him with such bemusement?)
Maybe it’s on her recommendation that Feng Xin receives a letter from the Xuan Zhen palace roughly a day later, with a dull note scrawled in handwriting that isn’t Mu Qing’s.
Priest did it. Jealous of a woman’s husband, tried to make her forget her marriage.
Somehow that doesn’t come as much of a surprise; Feng Xin tries not to dwell on how Mu Qing might have dealt with that man. It’s not his temple, and so not his problem; he has his own followers to worry about, and he personally listens to as many prayers as he can in an attempt to drown out the lingering anger, the lingering questions. It requires listening to too many prayers for sons, and for sexual advice that he has no business trying to give anyone when he can’t even kiss the one person he wants to kiss—
Ah. Despite everything, it remains.
He thinks about Mu Qing’s curious questions and blushing cheeks, his quiet admissions of trust, and measures that against the stern General who won’t look at him without rolling his eyes, who only looks in the first place to pick out something that he perceives Feng Xin is doing wrong.
He wonders how Mu Qing himself feels about the sense of trust, the attempt he’d made in the inn at night to—
Feng Xin is within one of his splendid temples in the southeast when he makes a realization.
He’d been too angry to clarify at first, but at some point between sundown and sunrise, Mu Qing’s memories had returned. Had it been the reason for his sudden tears and cryptic statements? If that’s true, then he’d tried to kiss Feng Xin in the middle of the night with full knowledge of every bitter argument, every crossed blade and planted fist and spat insult; he’d known, and he’d still wanted.
And he had also lied.
That’s the part that doesn’t make sense, and it stamps out the ember of hope that tries to ignite in his breast at the thought of his Mu Qing sharing his desire for affectionate gestures. He’s learned better than to try and guess at what kind of twisted logic runs through Mu Qing’s head, but trying to reconcile his cultivation with an attempted kiss is hard enough already without the added complication of lying about his memories.
Feng Xin sighs, and stares mournfully at a painting on the temple wall that bears very little resemblance to his actual self.
*
When a vicious tortoise crawls out of a marsh near Dongqian, Feng Xin is almost relieved.
It’s the usual shit that drives the monster out into the open; the beast has been sleeping for a few centuries after a fit of blood and madness, sealed under the mud, but then the governor proposed digging a new canal to help with trade. Someone’s shovel struck the tortoise’s back, and half the team had missing or crushed limbs by the time they fled back to the village, only to find inexplicable floods sweeping their streets the next day.
Feng Xin doesn’t have to struggle to find the hulking shape of the tortoise amidst the flooded rice fields, and he releases a quick volley of arrows towards the weak points around its shell.
He’s fought far worse in the past. In fact, the tortoise is slow by nature, and though its hide is rough along its legs and at the crown of its head, the neck is weak. It struggles to find its balance between snapping with its jaws and withdrawing into the muddy brown shell to protect itself, until—
Feng Xin hesitates as he tries to decide if the killing blow would be better struck with a sword, and the tortoise chooses that moment to make a final, desperate attack. It lowers its head and charges forward, and the mud and water are suddenly working against Feng Xin. He’s unable to dodge in time before the jaws clamp down hard over the lower part of his leg.
Something crunches at the same time the sword drives in under its jaw, and the accompanying burst of spiritual energy explodes through the tortoise’s body.
*
He’s only aware that he’s been lying unconscious amidst the mud and the sprouting rice plants when he suddenly feels someone’s arms slipping beneath his shoulders and hoisting him upwards, cradling his body against their black robes. Water pours from his back, rivulets from his soaked hair running beneath the hem of his inner robes and making him shiver.
“Mu Qing,” Feng Xin murmurs, tasting grit in his mouth. And blood, too—it’s smeared under his nose, over his lips. The gold ribbon in his hair feels sodden and heavy where it clings to his neck, but that’s probably water, not blood, even if it’s too warm to easily tell the difference.
Mu Qing. Why is he here? They’re meant to be fighting; Mu Qing isn’t speaking to him.
“You’re not supposed to sleep here,” Mu Qing chides. “What if I hadn’t come? Drowning in a rice field is no way for a martial god to die.”
It’s raining, Feng Xin realizes a moment later. A faint gray mist that puts little droplets in Mu Qing’s black hair, clinging to him like little pearls. As if he’d need the ornament to make him pretty; he’s pretty enough without it, a fact that remains unfortunately true no matter how vicious their fight.
“I’m resting,” Feng Xin murmurs. His voice feels faint, and he wonders how long he’s been here; it hadn’t been raining when he descended, but the weather can change quickly, especially when resentful tortoises enter the picture. Resting is nice, though; his leg is starting to ache, and he doesn’t want to try and move it just yet and learn what the full extent of the damage is. “Were you following me?”
“You weren’t responding to anyone, so my deputy asked your deputy where you went, and I came to get you,” Mu Qing explains. “Can you please get up now? I like these robes. They’ll be hard to wash if I have to sit in the mud with you for much longer.”
“That’s your fault.” Feng Xin raises a hand to wipe at the mud and blood on his mouth. “If you wear silk to a flooded rice field, they’re your consequences to bear.”
Granted, he did too; there’s probably ancient turtle gore spotting the fabric of his clothing. But he’s not complaining about it, which makes all the difference.
“We should go,” Mu Qing prompts again after a moment. “Can’t you stand up?”
They’re words Feng Xin doesn’t like to utter, but he can swallow his pride just this once. “... Help me?”
It’s probably Mu Qing’s arms that keep him from falling face-down back into the mud. There’s definitely something wrong with the bone in his leg, and the excessive burst of spiritual energy has left him feeling more exhausted than he should; the mingling tastes of iron and mud in his mouth hardly serve to make him feel better.
“You could just carry me,” he mutters as he braces himself against Mu Qing’s shoulder.
“Aren’t we in your territory? How could you be wounded that badly?” Mu Qing sighs.
“Not everyone has to make an entire fucked up scheme to get someone to take care of them.”
It’s one of those insults that flies off his tongue before he has time to really think about it; Mu Qing tenses next to him before Feng Xin’s brain can catch up.
Fucked up schemes… taking care…
“I was going to tell you,” Mu Qing says, looking away. There’s a droplet of misty rain on the end of his long eyelash. “I suppose you won’t believe me, but I really didn’t mean anything malicious. I just wanted…”
“You wanted me to buy you cherries,” Feng Xin concludes when his voice trails off.
He said he’d buy Mu Qing cherries, because the physician said it would help him, and Mu Qing was crying, so what was he supposed to do? And Mu Qing could have said, while his memories flooded back, there’s no need, I don’t need the cherries anymore, but instead—
“You’re an idiot,” Feng Xin adds, incredulous. “Damn it, Mu Qing. I would have bought them for you anyway.”
With a bit more complaining, no doubt, but can Mu Qing really not see it?
Mu Qing is silent, but he nods his head once, a gesture so small that Feng Xin feels it more than he sees it.
There are trees bordering the rice field, bent over from heavy winds off the coast; they sway a little bit now as the breeze picks up, and Feng Xin is reminded that they’re not in a good place to discuss this. It’s not a good place to give in to the increasing rate of his heartbeat by angling his head towards Mu Qing while they’re close enough for lips to touch, but the revelation that Mu Qing wants to be taken care of is too much to hold in after waiting so long for a sign, and it probably doesn’t matter that right now he’s the one who’s vulnerable and in need of help—
Mu Qing draws his head back to avoid their lips touching.
“You’re bleeding,” he accuses, and Feng Xin notices that his dark eyes flicker towards his lips anyway.
That’s true. But it’s only one side of his mouth that’s stained by the injury, and Feng Xin raises the hand that isn’t wrapped around Mu Qing for support to point to the other side of his mouth, still clear of mud and blood.
Mu Qing rolls his eyes.
A second later, he leans in, lips gently covering the corner of Feng Xin’s mouth.
He’s always thought Mu Qing to be cold, but against the rain and wind, he’s perfectly warm. Feng Xin has to fight the urge to turn his head and kiss him properly, bloody nose be damned.