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Every year, there comes prayers. Among many, of course, but there’s always a bundle of wayward little wishes that catch Feng Xin’s eyes whenever he’s gazing upon flickering lanterns at the dim closing of a day.
Each flame burns bright, touching down in his well worn hands as he looks to read the words in scripture. Some legible, some not. But each and every year, there’s a handful that read the same. Words hold a haunting call that he is not equipped to understand, but has been graced with the chance to try to understand anyway.
Some of them are sad, reminding him of his time wandering the mortal realm in search of… something. Xie Lian? Maybe. Jian Lan? Even less likely than some would think if they knew, considering how they ended. He hasn’t forgotten her, of course, a burden on his heart is twice as heavy as any other.
Feng Xin sifts through each and every little lantern blessed enough to have winds carry it straight to him; a pointless task for someone as tall as him. The weakness of the people is his own, though, and he wears their prayers like a badge at dusk.
“I want to be strong, please make me strong, then no one will bully me at school.”
“My wife is having a hard time, please protect us.”
“My friend is sick, I pray you imbue him with your power!”
“I am pretty thin! This little worshiper would like to be big!”
“Two of the border states of the East and West may start warring again, ensure our victory.”
Each time he finds a lantern, a palm fire bequeaths it the sky above his head. Feng Xin knows, rather unfortunately, that not all of these requests could be honored. He’s seen from experience that there is only so much a God can do.
A heavenly official is still a person, they still are a being of flesh and blood though caked in divine light. He’s not much for the pretty armors he wears on his back, mostly there for protection so he can best serve others.
Responsibility and maybe an ounce of courage, now these, he wears with pride.
He’s setting fire to each little beacon, from ones wanting a cure for their loneliness to those seeking something much more out of the realm of his expertise. Feng Xin blames these on Ju Yang.
One lone paper lantern caught on the ends of dying branches catches his eye and he reaches up then brings it down, reading the pretty calligraphy slowly. Instead of a prayer for him, much to Feng Xin’s surprise, it holds a question.
“Just what is the source of your strength?”
He examines this one carefully, finding no name or place of origin. It’s puzzling, to say the least. Among the myriad of lanterns, their ashes now with the gentle breeze across a twilight sky, this is not a question he’s read once. Feng Xin feels he would’ve remembered words like these.
He would’ve remembered the writing, at least. Pretty and stylized, like the person was some kind of artist. On top of being pretty, it’s legible and precise.
Feng Xin, for some reason he can’t readily pinpoint, takes this lantern to a nearby rock formation. The sun ebbs away in front of him, and with it, the autumn glow dies.
He is not a man of foresight, nor is he particularly contemplative. All his life has been spent just running to and from things. Running from the occasional hard fight during Xian Le battles, running from Xie Lian when he screamed at him all those years ago. His hand not reaching for Jian Lan upon his ascension, running to Mu Qing to kick him in the jaw for half the things he says.
A life of extinguished promises much like these lanterns. Bull headed and strong, but never in the way he needs to be. His passion just a touch short, his desires always just out of reach.
Frustration leaves him feeling rubbed raw, the echo of the question warming his palms makes him think too much. It gives him a headache, makes him ill. Makes him wish he hadn’t —
Hadn’t what?
He’s caught in uncharacteristic thought when he feels someone coming before he sees them. He whips his head around, catching the dark outline of Mu Qing’s figure walking over to the base of the ledge Feng Xin is perched on.
“His highness is looking for you.”
Feng Xin’s eyebrows furrow, the way they tend to when dealing with how bored Mu Qing sounds. “Can’t he just call me? Or I don’t know, send anyone but you?”
Mu Qing seems unperturbed, looking off to the side. “Whatever. We agreed we’d all go with him to the Ghost City, remember? Stop moping, let’s go.”
He has half a mind to find the nearest rock and beat him with it, but the subtle pulsing of the lantern in his hands keeps him steady. “Shut it! I wasn’t moping! I was busy.”
Dark, studious eyes make him feel watched, leaving Feng Xin bristling underneath their observation. “Pff. You don’t look busy.”
“Get new eyes then! I don’t need to tell you shit.” He barks, frowning as he turns back to read the pretty calligraphy under his thumb. It occurs to him belatedly, the more he stares at the curvature of neat lines, that he has seen this writing once before.
He’s just unsure where.
Mu Qing’s voice smacks him upside the head. “You can bring your toy if you want, you know his highness doesn’t stick around long.”
“Quit it with the nagging, doesn’t your throat get sore?” He seethes, pausing for a moment before actually bothering to spare Mu Qing a glance.
His head is craned slightly, eyes narrowed. And though Feng Xin doesn’t care, the words leave his mouth before he has a chance to consider what asking Mu Qing anything might do.
“Mu Qing?”
He’s wordless, so Feng Xin takes it as an opportunity to keep going.
“Where do you think strength comes from?”
Mu Qing snorts loudly. “What kind of stupid question is that?”
A vein bulges on his forehead. “I should’ve known better than to ask you, prick.”
Deciding there’s no point thinking about it when his headache is getting even worse, he’s about to incinerate the lantern when Mu Qing’s voice cuts through the night.
“When you stand above all, despite all trials.” He says, firm and resolute.
That’s the one thing he’ll give the bastard, Feng Xin thinks amusedly, he’s the spitting image of what pride would look like if it had a form.
A flare ignites in his heart, mimicking the bright flames now in his palm as the lantern burns and joins every other wish he’s sent to the sky. Ashes intermingle with the wind again and he’s left looking up across the stars, head clear.
“Straightforward. For once.” He says as he hops down, meeting Mu Qing’s angry gaze.
“Hmph! If you’re done moping, let’s go.” Turning away, he doesn’t give Feng Xin a chance to speak.
Not that he wants to.
He’s too busy thinking on the question, taking in Mu Qing’s words, oddly enough.
Even if he lays among a bed of misplaced words and unfulfilled dreams, that doesn’t mean it’s too late for him, does it? He just needs to rekindle that passion, match the ghosts of embers that blanket the space over him.
He’ll carve a path for himself, through perseverance, build himself a new home in the ashes of his old one. He’s not one for thinking ahead, unsure of where he’s going, but there is an end goal in mind at least.
That’s all he needs, in the end. Willpower will carry the rest.