Chapter Text
Wu Ji blinks rapidly to avoid the gust of sand and dirt from hitting his tired eyes. The past few months have been particularly blistering with harsher winds than he has ever experienced out here in the vastness of the Mongolian desert. He has been traveling alone with only his horse as his sole companion for the past two and a half years. Wu Ji is suddenly grateful for Ping An 平安.
“I had originally wanted to sew the words 平安 on there, but your wu gong is so highly skilled that probably for you, staying safe will not be difficult.”
平安.
Her words still ring in his mind, and Wu Ji sighs as he tightens his hands around the silk handkerchief and Ping An’s harness. He digs his feet into the horse’s sides to move them both along a little quicker. The sun is setting soon.
Wu Ji cannot remember the last time he felt at peace.
--
Night falls and Wu Ji luckily finds a small abandoned house on the outskirts of the Mongolian desert.
“Hello, is anyone inside?”
He hears no response and approaches with his stead. From the outside, Wu Ji can tell the house has seen its fair share of history, but it is surprisingly kempt. He finally notices how stiff his fingers have gotten from the cold as he ties Ping An to the fence out front. Wu Ji slowly pushes open the gate and calls out one more time to see if anyone is there.
He does not receive a response and proceeds further inside. Through the darkness, he can see that it is a rather old house, but is thankful to find a bed of sorts. On top of it sits a pillow and blanket folded neatly. There is a brief moment where Wu Ji wonders what made someone move out so fast that they did not even collect their bedding, but that thought is suddenly blown away by a swift gust of wind.
He quickly heads back outside to collect some twigs and tree branches to start a small fire.
Lying down on the first bed he has had in months, Wu Ji wonders if he has brought enough water for both him and Ping An during this part of the journey. There is no food tonight for either of them. They have mostly lived off of the land for months on end, and it was sustainable while they were still within the Central Plains’ borders, but it was not as easy once he crossed into Mongolia.
He has had to resort to seeking shelter and food from local residents in exchange for his labor, and to his surprise, the Mongolian people warmed easily to him. He hopes that maybe now that the war is over, both sides can go back to living their peaceful lives again without hate and prejudice.
Wu Ji knows what he looks like. His plain Hanfu differentiates him and its simplicity leaves much to be desired in terms of first impressions, but he figures his sincerity and exchange for labor can help win them over. Besides, comfort is the most important thing when traveling and in these plain garbs, Wu Ji finally feels comfortable. He feels like himself again. The young man who entered Lu Liu Shan Zhang with his hair simply pulled into a bun, messy bangs in his face, and wearing humbled clothes is the man Wu Ji is happiest being.
Though he has had some luck with seeking help from kind strangers on his search, the biggest obstacle Wu Ji currently faces is the unpredictability of the Mongolian deserts. Its climate has proven to be more challenging than Wu Ji had thought.
The desert in a sense consists of endless days and endless nights filled with a void that is irreplaceable. It’s a different type of loneliness, one that stretches far beyond his reach, and all Wu Ji can grasp at, all that is tangible, are tiny specks of sand and dust. They cling to him like unwanted memories.
Yet everything else slips between his fingers.
He thinks about how the days here are scorching and nights are contrastingly cold. The heat of the desert is long gone, and nighttime brings an iciness that Wu Ji has never felt before, yet brings familiarity and a strange sense of comfort.
Wu Ji has always liked the cold.
It reminds him of soft hands stroking his cheeks while a warm voice lulls him into deep slumber. He thinks of strong hands that hoisted him up on sturdy shoulders, and golden hair that pressed against his cheeks as he burrowed deeper into the embrace.
But this cold is different. The desert’s coldness chills him to the bone, more than distant Northern Islands that once housed his small family ever could.
It is sterile and endless and empty. Aside from Ping An, Wu Ji has no one.
He has learned from a young age that people leave. They can love him and still leave and never come back.
His parents. Xiao Zhao. Zhi Ruo. His grandfather. His Yi Fu.
Wu Ji learned that he, too, could love someone and leave.
He could catch her in his arms and close his eyes and move closer inch by heart-pounding inch, merely centimeters apart from perfectly bowed lips and still recede back into the vastness of his heart like waves in the ocean.
He could stand there and hopelessly watch as she struggles to push a wooden boat almost as immovable as his heart; he says nothing when she pleads for them to stay and never go back to the Central Plains.
He could leave a farewell note and sneak off in the early mornings as to not have to confront a princess who continues to risk her life for him no matter the opponent; not a terrifying clan of Persians nor a band of beggars nor a group of righteous Wu Dang warriors could intimidate her.
He could let his arms dangle lifelessly as she wraps her delicate frame around his, push her off of him and gently set her small hands down, letting go of all the yearnings in his heart for the sake of loyalty and patriotism.
“Zhang Wu Ji! I can let go of everything for you. Why can’t you let go of everything for me? Why? Why?”
No, he couldn’t sacrifice the bigger picture for her. He had made promises to a fiancée and a Ming Sect and the whole goddamn Wu Lin and millions of Chinese civilians that could not be broken.
It did not matter that her words and her touch and her laughter and her tears could shake him to his core. It did not matter that for the first time in his life, the red he saw while crimson blossomed on her dress could make him want to tear apart a person with his bare hands. It did not matter that the thought of her drowning beneath icy waters and drifting all alone to shore twisted and shredded the knots inside his stomach. It did not matter.
He had needed to walk away for all of them. It was supposed to be less painful for everyone in the end.
Wu Ji interrupts his own thoughts with a short, bitter chuckle.
Promises. He had made so many of them, and in order to keep them, he had let her leave. Wu Ji tries not to think about what could have or would have happened had he left with her. As often as that thought comes to his mind, Wu Ji just as quickly buries it under the choices he cannot change.
In the end, he doesn’t even know what is less painful or more painful anymore. He just knows pain.
Sometimes, on the most discouraging of nights when the endless roads and vast horizons tire him to his core, Wu Ji wonders if the pain will ever end. He wonders if two years or even two more years or even two more years after that will yield anything at all.
Then he remembers his Tai Shi Fu’s words, and he optimistically bargains that he is young, that he has many years and even decades ahead of him to find her. Just the slightest anticipation of seeing her again wills him forward onto a path of renewed hope because that is how Wu Ji will always be. The fear of giving up and living with regret scares him more than an endless journey without hope. Without her.
He promised he was going to find her no matter what or how long it takes. He had made this promise to himself and to her.
Wu Ji, for better or for worse, always keeps his promises.
He closes his eyes and clutches firmly to the blue fabric as he pulls it close to his chest.
“In this current war-ridden world we live in, your responsibilities are substantial. The people around you are constantly talking, strategizing. If you want to stay on this righteous path, then you will have to be clear-minded 清明.”
“I understand.”
Wu Ji had not understood. Not fully.
Not until he saw his Ming Sect soldiers burst out of the ground with their bows and weapons, piercing Ru Yang Wong’s once seemingly indestructible armor with arrows after arrows. Not until she clutched her father’s lifeless body and profusely (futilely) cried out apology after apology.
No, it wasn’t until he heard Fan Yao admit to knowing beforehand, to plotting with the men he called his blood brothers behind his back that he understood. They had all planned this in secret without him, a betrayal far more terrifying than he could have imagined. They had hurt him, yes. But Wu Ji’s pain was immaterial in the face of a daughter who had just lost one of the three people she loved most in this entire world.
By the time he understood, it was too late. He could only shoulder the blame for his people, could only watch her eyes full of rage and her shaking hands falter as he stepped in front of her sword. As the metal pierced through aged wood high above the Ming Sect, Wu Ji finally, truly understood. There was no going back.
He was going to have to watch her walk away this time. How ironic that when he finally realized how much she meant to him, he lost her.
His lashes have suddenly dampened.
He raises the hand on his chest to cover his eyes and thinks: this is going to be another long night.