Chapter Text
The prison is about as nice as could be expected. There is something dripping from cracks in the stone ceiling, over wooden beams and leaving puddles of wetness to settle in the grout. He has been graciously given a chamber pot that is…somewhat regularly emptied and sits in the farthest corner from where Xie Lian likes to rest. There is very little lighting at night, as the nearest lantern sits with the night guard at the far end of the hall and its glow offers nothing to the prison’s lone occupant. In the mornings, at least, there are sparse cracks in the wall that let little streams of direct sunlight in, but it only lasts for a few hours before the sun continues its route.
Xie Lian has more-or-less moved on from caring about the sticky dampness that has soaked through his robes, but his hair has become such a frustration that he’d have begun hacking it off if Lang Qianqiu hadn’t taken Fang Xin immediately upon capturing him. The memory of his student’s right arm locked around his neck whilst his left hand twisted his fingers until they snapped has been burned into his mind. Some (broken, damaged) part of him finds the phantom touch comforting. How long has it been since he last felt someone else’s skin beneath his own? He only wishes he had been given the opportunity to enjoy that touch, for his own fingertips to have been given a taste.
Poor, sad, broken Xie Lian, he laments, cooling the back of his hand on the chilly jade of his mask.
One of Lang Qianqiu’s guardsmen had reached out after his capture, looking to swipe a look at the face of the monster who massacred the royal family. Xie Lian had already been dizzy, having just been choked near to death, when Lang Qianqiu used Fang Xin to cleanly slice that guard’s fingertips off. “Don’t fucking touch,” the prince had growled, face so red that he looked as though he had been the one being strangled.
A week of captivity later, and Xie Lian still doesn’t know how to read into that interaction. Was it that the prince wanted to be the first, or the only one, to see the Guoshi’s well-hidden visage? Or had Lang Qianqiu simply been confused, perhaps believing the guard meant to do more than just take a look? 'Don’t fucking touch,’ Xie Lian repeats in his head, ‘don’t kill my enemy before I am through with him'?
He presses a short, quick kiss to Ruoye through the mask. He’s been wrapped around his palm since they were imprisoned, soaking up the blood that had poured through his twisted flesh. “How was his grip?” Xie Lian whispers to the silk, humming when the demon tightens its hold just slightly. “Yes,” Xie Lian agrees, pretending that Ruoye has said more than what is possible, “Some grip strengthening exercises would have been a good supplement to his lessons, maybe.”
Someone scoffs in the distance. When Xie Lian looks up, it’s Lang Qianqiu himself.
“My horrible luck,” Xie Lian whispers to Ruoye at the same volume as before, aware that Lang Qianqiu can certainly hear him, “I always forget about my horrible luck.”
He must look satisfyingly wrecked from the crown prince’s perspective. He’s fortunate that he always wore black as the Guoshi, because he doesn’t have to worry about looking as dirty as he is. But what good does a lack of stains do when the bottom of your robes have been torn to shreds, your hands twisted bloody, your boots have fallen apart, and your hair is undone and tangled in sweat and grime? The prince’s eyes keep looking to his hand, where Ruoye is wrapped; every few hours Xie Lian has made the decision to break those fingers himself, so that the guards cannot report their captive suspiciously capable of rapid healing.
Years of Xie Lian being so careful to not be himself, to become a stranger, to never let his wounds show, just to have to do the whole song-and-dance anyway—he could scream! He might, if Lang Qianqiu doesn’t kill him soon.
There are several long moments wherein Lang Qianqiu continues to stare at Xie Lian, and Xie Lian is already so tired of this chapter of his too long life. He’s ready for the next, he thinks, and it should be a lazy one. No performing, no saving princes or fighting wars. He wants to find a nice cave and sleep for ten years, instead. He could become a hermit and try to grow a beard, maybe.
(He can’t grow a beard. He is forever locked in the body of a seventeen-year-old who never managed even a bit of peach fuzz on his top lip; he used to run his fingers along the length of Feng Xin’s neck and snicker at the prickle of short hair there; as a child he would rub his cheeks against his father’s and giggle at the scratch.)
“Your horrible luck?” Lang Qianqiu repeats finally, mockingly, infuriated. “You killed my family, my court, and you lament your horrible luck?”
We’re getting somewhere, Xie Lian thinks. He’s decided that the sooner Lang Qianqiu kills him, the sooner he can move on to his next ‘life’. Move on from destroying his own legacy, move on from hurting this boy who really, really didn’t deserve it. If he can’t die for real, he wants to die for the prince—Xie Lian can handle any torture and will inevitably rise from any death. It just needs to happen—now, ideally. “Let me comfort you,” Xie Lian calls, forgoing the cold, stern voice he had always used as Guoshi in favor of his own natural cadence. He knows it’s soft and smooth, because that’s how his own Guoshi taught him to speak. He used to tap Xie Lian’s throat with two fingers, gliding them along the larynx. ‘A prince’s voice should project, not yell,’ he’d say, ‘it should make even the most furious man melt in its comforting embrace.’
At the time, Xie Lian had been the ripe age of thirteen, in that part of puberty wherein your voice began jumping octaves like a frog was trapped in your throat, and had inwardly rolled his eyes at his Guoshi’s poetry. When Lang Qianqiu was at that age and going through the same thing, Xie Lian hadn’t bothered teaching him that lesson—he wasn’t that kind of Guoshi and had never pretended to be. When the prince’s voice cracked, Xie Lian ignored it.
Xie Lian isn’t too lost in those memories to miss the way Lang Qianqiu’s face changes colors. Red, in embarrassment, white, in shock, purple, in rage. He’s trying to expedite the process, so Xie Lian makes the executive decision to not slow down. “Let’s have tea,” Xie Lian suggests, smiling beneath the cover of the mask. He pats his injured hand on the wet stone floor and observes the way Lang Qianqiu’s eyes follow the movement. “Won’t you come sit with me?” He continues, “Come sit with your Guoshi?”
The title seems to snap the prince out of whatever stupor he’d been put in. The young man turns his furious gaze on Xie Lian’s masked face, and Xie Lian can’t help it if he leans forward. There’s ten feet or so between them, and the smooth bars of the cell in addition, but Xie Lian would be overjoyed if only the prince would break his neck. Get it over with, he thinks furiously, just do it and get it over with already!
But that doesn’t happen. Instead, the prince leaves just as quickly as he came, and Xie Lian is left alone once more.
-*-
Xie Lian contemplates, briefly, the durability of the wooden beams at the top of the cell. They’re mysteriously easy to reach if one jumps high enough, and Xin Lian has to wonder—do most prisons want their captives to commit suicide? Or are they typically confident enough in superstition to believe the prisoners won’t risk the dishonor of it?
Either way, Xie Lian only considers the possibility for a moment before giving up on that option. Sure, it would be quick, but the idea of it disgusts him. That way of dying, that specific way…it’s lost to him, now. He could not use Ruoye in that way ever again, and logistically it wouldn’t work out well anyway. He heals too quickly, and the guards come too rarely. And then, he might lose Ruoye in the aftermath if his captors carelessly throw the bandage away, and who’s to say he wouldn’t accidentally reveal his shackles in the process?
There are simply too many variables that Xie Lian doesn’t have the patience to contend with.
Another week passes, and then another. He gets a single meal once a day, but it’s always from the same guard, so Xie Lian doesn’t even get a bit of variety in the faces he sees. At the very least, this guard—also the same one who stands at the end of the hallway during the day—is sympathetic. There’s no way he doesn’t know who Xie Lian is or what he’s been accused of, but the man is careful when he slides the day’s meal through a slat at the bottom of the door, and keeps a cup filled with water within Xie Lian’s reach, periodically filling it up throughout the day to compensate for the thick humidity of the dungeon.
The guard himself clearly works here because it’s the best he can offer. He’s middle-aged and limps when he walks, favoring his right side. A former soldier simply working to keep bread on the table, coughing silently into closed fists and making sure the enemy of the kingdom doesn’t get dehydrated…Xie Lian falls in love with this human in the same way he has always fallen in love with humans, ever since that third rainy day at Lang-er Bay.
(He loved the King, because he loved his son. He loved the Queen, because she loved her son, and still loves her, because she didn’t try to have innocent people slaughtered as her last decree.)
One day, when the guard approaches his cell, Xie Lian seats himself a little closer to the bars. The guard isn’t worried about his proximity. He slides the plate through the slat and pours water into Xie Lian’s cup through the bars. The jar he uses has a long spout that fits through easily. “Sir?” Xie Lian begins, and doesn’t need to fake his polite tone. He’s genuinely sorry for being a bother. “Sir, can I ask you something?”
The guard doesn’t look at him but pauses. He’s standing upright again, with the jar cradled in his rough hands. When he doesn’t immediately walk away, Xie Lian takes it as permission to continue. “Sir, it’s okay if you don’t know, or if you don’t want to tell me, or can’t tell me. But I’m not a very patient person—“ usually, that would be a lie, but right now, it is the honest truth, “—and the suspense is driving me insane. Do you happen to know what His Highness is…planning to do with me?”
At the guard’s blank look, Xie Lian clarifies further. “I guess what I’m asking is, will I be killed? I imagine I will be, only I guess I’d want to know how beforehand. Then, I could prepare. Be ready for it. Death.”
For Xie Lian, this statement is a simple one. It’s logistical. He realizes a little too late that for the guard, who is mortal and believes he is speaking to a man much younger than himself, it might be a heartbreaking statement. Please don’t look so aggrieved, Xie Lian begs as the older man purses his lips and scrunches his eyes. He must have children, either out there still or gone forever, to look as though he’s been punched in the gut. Xie Lian already regrets asking. Please don’t look like that! I’ve killed your king in cold blood, and done horrible, horrible things to survive, so please don’t look at me like that!
When the guard finally speaks, his voice is like gravel. “I can…inquire,” he says, simply, and then limps away faster than usual. The food is mediocre and tastes worse for the regret Xie Lian feels.
-*-
When the guard comes back to retrieve the plate and refill the cup, he obviously has no news. This isn’t surprising, and Xie Lian doesn’t try to talk to him. When a few more days pass and he still says nothing, Xie Lian doesn’t mind it either. If the man never has news, never even makes that inquiry, Xie Lian won’t blame him. How foolish of Xie Lian, to put such grief into a man who was already clearly a bleeding heart. If he is ever able, Xie Lian thinks he’ll beseech the Heavenly Emperor on the man’s behalf. Make sure this man never goes hungry! Make sure this man’s family never has to fight another war!
He doesn’t know if Jun Wu would listen to his miserable little prayers, because he’s never really tried. The emperor told him to keep in touch, but Xie Lian could never quite work up the nerve to pray. But even if it was just delirium fueling his passion, now, Xie Lian would remember this man, and he’d finally send a prayer just for him!
It was good to have goals! It kept you sane!
Time keeps passing, and Xie Lian contemplates a hobby that would both be possible within the confines of the cell, and not involve drawing dangerous attention. He ends up settling for pushups and handstands, even if the ground is too moist to make it easy. Enough time has passed that Xie Lian doesn’t have to break his fingers, but he’s frustrated enough that he wouldn’t keep the charade up even if he had to. The silence is what gets to him the most, he thinks. The kind guard isn’t an option, because Xie Lian doesn’t want to be one of that man’s sad memories, and the night guard is younger with a mean furrow in his brow that says, “I would like very much to kill you.” It’s fortunate that he only walks down the hall on occasion to verify Xie Lian is still there and alive, or else Xie Lian might have been tempted to provoke the young guard further and expedite his execution.
It's most likely the middle of the night when Lang Qianqiu visits his cell again, because the night guard has only just completed his second stroll down the hall. Xie Lian, who can never sleep when he’s supposed to anymore, is hand-walking back and forth within the tight confines of the cell. He doesn’t notice Lang Qianqiu approach, nor does he notice it when Lang Qianqiu enters the cell itself.
Ruoye does, though, and tightens around Xie Lian in warning before Lang Qianqiu can throw his first punch. Xie Lian dodges easily despite having just come back up. When he sees his attacker is the prince, though, he stops moving and lets the next hit land.
Xie Lian’s cheek stings from the hit, but it’s not as strong as he would have liked. Useless, Xie Lian immediately chastises, as though he’s still a teacher trying to ensure his student will never lose a battle. The weak hit makes since, though, when Lang Qianqiu moves in closer. Xie Lian refuses to take a step back and lets the prince’s face come into clear view in the dark confines of the cell. The prince is flushed, hazy-eyed. The prince stumbles closer—maybe a little too much closer—until Xie Lian can smell his breath. He wrinkles his nose.
“…did I raise a drunkard?” Xie Lian wonders aloud, and Lang Qianqiu doesn’t respond, still standing too close and breathing too deep. The prince’s eyes are focused on Xie Lian’s collarbones, which are out on display thanks to Xie Lian’s new exercise regimen. When Xie Lian pointedly corrects his robe and hides them away again, the prince whimpers pitifully.
“Guoshi,” the prince whispers, like a scared little boy, “Guoshi, I’m a god.”
...
Oh. Hm.
Xie Lian blinks, and then blinks again. That’s not…unexpected. What was the point of all that cultivation training, after all, if not to ascend? But maybe it was just easy to forget, considering that Xie Lian wasn’t actually very involved in that part of the prince’s training. He had spent the last almost-decade masquerading as a master swordsman, after all, and not necessarily as a cultivator. Plus, really, everyone who learned cultivation was trying to ascend, but so few ever actually managed the feat. Princes, especially, were just expected to cultivate some close approximation of immortality—for a crown prince to actually ascend was a political nightmare.
(It’s better not to think about hypotheticals, but it was the simple truth that had Xian Le not fallen, it was Qi Rong whose progeny would have been expected to take the throne in Xie Lian’s stead. What a horror!)
It takes Xie Lian another second to realize what ascension means in Lang Qianqiu’s case. The issue even manages to distract Xie Lian from his plan to continue antagonizing the prince. “You’ll never be king, then,” Xie Lian notes, and Lang Qianqiu nods. “You have no extended family,” Xie Lian continues, and Lang Qianqiu nods again. That Lang Qianqiu did previously have extended family, who had all been massacred along with his parents, goes unsaid. “…Your advisors must be excited.”
Lang Qianqiu makes a noise that sounds mysteriously like a sob, and Xie Lian…genuinely struggles. He’s not a monster. He’s not some unfeeling, uncaring god, nor is he a cold, strict Guoshi. He has always only been himself, wearing a stupid mask in Yong’An out of paranoia and then continuing to wear a mask because it was easier to become someone else than to allow himself to be Xie Lian of Xian Le, teaching and raising his conquerors’ legacy. It was hard for Xie Lian to be someone who didn’t laugh and didn’t coddle or cuddle. He hated hiding his face, even though he hated being seen, and hating being so lonely that it physically ached. He wants to hold his student in his arms and run his fingers through his hair; he wants to hum a silly song that makes it easier to breathe and hide this new little god away from the world before it can destroy him.
Lang Qianqiu is drunk. Xie Lian could probably do all of that and get away with it. But Xie Lian has been hidden away for an ungodly amount of time and is tired of waiting for Lang Qianqiu to make his move.
So, Xie Lian reaches out a hand and grabs Lang Qianqiu by the chin. His grip is firm and bruising, and he shakes that face side-to-side like he’s chiding a child. He is, really. In fact, he’s the same age Xie Lian was when he ascended—and now forever, for eternity, they’ll almost be peers. Two Crown Princes, two teenagers. The only difference is that Lang Qianqiu is a god, a real one, and Xie Lian is the Laughingstock of the Three Realms.
Lang Qianqiu leans into the touch, and Xie Lian smiles. He lets go, takes the hand Lang Qianqiu had used to punch him and guides it to his throat, where Ruoye hides his shackle. “Squeeze,” Xie Lian orders, and clenches his own fingers over Lang Qianqiu’s to prompt him. His voice is soft and supportive, as if they’ve gone back in time to when Xie Lian first saved him from those bandits and gently guided the prince to safety. Ruoye refuses to help, too, but that’s okay. As if Xie Lian could blame his companion for something like that.
Lang Qianqiu resists too, though, even if he leaves his fingers planted where Xie Lian wants them. “Do it,” Xie Lian insists, “Do it now, and get it over with.”
Lang Qianqiu shakes his head and makes a brief attempt to pull his hand out of Xie Lian’s grip. Xie Lian refuses to let go. He uses his other hand as well, trying to force Lang Qianqiu’s fingers to close tighter around his neck. “Do it,” Xie Lian keeps whispering, “Do it, do it, do it, do it.” Maybe he’s actually gone a little insane; maybe his mind has cracked a little too much. He wants this death to happen so badly that his heart is like a jackrabbit in his chest—he’s excited for it, even. “Kill me, Lang Qianqiu,” Xie Lian begs, “Take your justice, and kill me—”
He's a fool, and so obsessed with this one goal that he doesn’t notice it when Lang Qianqiu’s other hand shoots out like a viper and yanks the jade mask off Xie Lian. He feels the snap of the fine silk ribbon that held it in place and hears it when it falls to the ground and breaks into a million tiny fragments.
Xie Lian cannot even begin to fathom what Lang Qianqiu sees when he looks at him—really looks at him—for the very first time. The young man appears as though his brain has snapped along with the mask’s ribbon and fallen to pieces along with the jade. His right hand is still wrapped around Xie Lian’s throat, and stays there for a moment, trembling.
Xie Lian isn’t mad. But he does feel naked, exposed, in a way he wasn’t prepared for.
After they’ve stood in silence for long enough, Xie Lian looks into Lang Qianqiu’s still-wide eyes and sighs. “..Does it make you feel better?” he mutters, glaring at his student and surely no longer looking like he has any right to do so. “Will it help…speed up the process?” His hand is still resting over Lang Qianqiu’s, and he tries to get the prince to choke him once more, but Lang Qianqiu yanks his hand out of Xie Lian’s grip just as quickly as he had torn off the mask.
The prince mutters something, and then keeps muttering as he pulls away from Xie Lian completely and runs from the cell. He doesn’t even remember to close the door.
Xie Lian leaves it open. He spares a single glance for the jade fragments scattered on the ground, before encouraging Ruoye to wrap securely over his nose and mouth, leaving only the smallest space for him to breathe. The coverage makes him feel safe.
He strolls over to the cup near the door and takes a few sips before putting it back down and taking his spot back in the far corner of the cell. He has no bed, nor any approximation of a bed, but that’s the spot he’s long-since decided is for sleep. Usually, he just meditates, because he never manages to fall asleep. Tonight, he slumps down like a log and pets Ruoye as though he’s a pet. The silk is soft and kind. The beams have once again become enticing.