Chapter Text
Mo Xuanyu shakes the rain from his hair at the decrepit steps of what is left of the once glorious JinLinTai.
“Here,” his saviour calls out from behind him, and hands him a handkerchief he pulls out of his inner robes, “we wouldn't want you to catch the flu here - it’s half a day’s journey to the nearest village.”
“And they don’t exactly like me.” Xuanyu murmurs, hurriedly wiping the rain water from his face and neck, trying not to blush as he feels the body warmth still lingering on Young Master Nie’s handkerchief.
“Don’t take it to heart.” The other man says, giving him a kindly pat. “It’s not you. They are a superstitious bunch. They don’t like any newcomers.”
“Young Master Nie-”
“Please, just call me Huaisang.”
“Huai- Huaisang laoshi,” Xuanyu settles on, knowing his cheeks must be flaming, “thank you so much- for saving me back at the village and for taking me here in your carriage. I don’t know what I would have done without you-”
“Na li, na li.” Nie Huaisang waves away his babbled words with a laugh - his face really opens beautifully with merriment, Xuanyu thinks absentmindedly, “I wish to see JinLinTai appraised as much as you. You might say this was a trip for my own self interest.”
“Oh? Is Huaisang laoshi a shareholder? Or perhaps a landowner nearby?” Xuanyu asks as they begin to move into the deserted estates.
“Really! Just call me Huaisang! Laoshi makes me feel so old.” Huaisang laughs again, and this time, Xuanyu chuckles with him. Nie Huaisang has a way of making joy contagious, even in such gloomy, somber surroundings. “No to both - I used to be friends with the last lord here- we have lost touch before his death, but I would be glad that his estates are settled so he might go into the next life without regrets.”
“You were friends with cousin Yao?” Xuanyu gasps, and then immediately slaps a hand over his mouth in horror.
In his fear, the chill of the abandoned estate finally pierces through the warmth of Nie Huaisang’s presence, and fingers of unnatural cold sink into his skin.
Nie Huaisang gently takes his wrist, still planted over his lips in his fear, and lowers them with a kindly smile.
“Don’t worry, I already know. Zixuan xiong told me about your lineage”
The flood of relief is almost staggering.
“Ah - I apologize - I am not supposed to let anyone know who my father was- and … but …“
Staring down at where Nie Huaisang’s pretty fingers are still rubbing warm and comforting over his wrist, Xuanyu whispers “- but this one was too comfortable in Young Master Nie’s presence - this lowly one did not meant to disgrace the Jin family name with -”
“Shh- none of that.” Nie Huaisang admonished gently. “And no more of that Young Master business either, alright?”
Grinning, he leads Xuanyu further into the Jin’s estates.
By the time Mo Xuanyu is ready to retire for the night, he has finished appraising five rooms. He allows himself a moment of shy pride - he has done fast work, spurred by the amount of trust Master Zixuan placed in him to do the final appraisal of the Jin estates.
He makes his way to the sleeping quarters, picks a room that is not too dusty at random, and unrolls the bedding he brought with him.
The estates are large and imposing, and clearly incredibly wealthy - but over the past decades, it has fallen into disrepair - and the surrounding marshes and the rumours of ghosts certainly will not help the pricing of the estate once Master Zixuan finally puts it onto the market. That is what makes Xuanyu’s job so critical. Not only is this his first solo trip on behalf of the Master Zixuan, his appraisal of the furniture and ornaments that still adorn the Jin estates will be the main driving force of JinLinTai’s price on the market.
The golden walls and once airy rooms are now filled with cobwebs and an almost unnatural gloom. What must have once been shining walls of gold are now frosted with neglect, and they reflect Xuanyu’s movement in strange terrifying twists - he has started at his own disjointed reflection more than once.
No wonder rumours of ghosts have cropped up since the flood that turned the village at the feet of JinLinTai to marshland fifteen years ago. Xuanyu vaguely wonders what Master Zixuan would say if he was to see the state of his childhood home now. As far as Xuanyu knows, Jin ZIxuan has not set foot in Lanling since marrying Mistress Yanli seventeen years ago.
Xuanyu had been in the office when news of Madam Jin’s death, and the passing of JinLinTai into Master Zixuan’s name came - and he was able to bare witness to Master Zixuan’s stricken expression as he read the missives, but even so, there was more conflict than sorrow. Master ZIxuan’s falling out with the Jin’s main family had been public and messy - but all sons must find it difficult to shake the grip of a mother’s love.
Xuanyu shakes his head to clear himself of such somber and ultimately useless thoughts. Despite who his father was, Mo Xuanyu is very definitively not part of the Jin’s, and his opinions are most definitely not of any importance.
So, he yawns, laying out the scrolls he has completed and the ones he has not in careful neat piles, and blows out the candle. Immediately, darkness invades all his senses and Xuanyu suppresses a shudder. But, he would simply die of shame if JinLinTai accidentally burns down because he is too scared to sleep without the comfort of light, so he snuggles deeper into his bedding instead.
It’s alright. Tomorrow morning, Young Master Nie- Huaisang - Xuanyu smiles to himself slightly as he savours the name in his mind, will be back with his bright smiles and soft words. Huaisang had made sure Xuanyu was comfortable before he left Xuanyu to his work, and had promised to bring him ‘proper food everyday! No ifs or buts!’ while Xuanyu is stuck at the estate for the next fortnight.
Xuanyu closes his eyes, it is so dark that it makes no difference on what he sees, and he has time only to wonder if Huaisang would perhaps take breakfast with him tomorrow as well, before sleep claims him.
Something is wrong.
Mo Xuanyu is so cold, and something is wrong.
He’s so cold - freezing - the tips of fingers loses sensation - surely if he even tries to flex them they will simply fall off like icicles.
Something is pressing on his legs.
Something wet.
Something wet and moving - a hand. Two hands - four - more than he is able to make out - grabbing at his calves -
He still can’t see - are his eyes open? He cannot tell - and - suddenly
He is falling -
Or rather, like his innards are being dropped through the ground, like a shard of terrifying backwards momentum in a nightmare right before awakening - except this is constant, suspending him in a petrifying fall that he cannot wake from and still hands are grabbing at him -
Wet, slimy, tiny hands -
Another impact - creeping over his body like the advancement of unshakable dread - submerging him from the feet up - crushing his torso, filling his mouth as he opens it in a scream that refuses to sound, he’s being dragged into thick liquid - dirty, earthy water that is foul in his mouth, going into his nose, and still the hands pull at him -
And sudden a shape is melting out of the unrelenting darkness - a barely there shade of grey, condensing, shaping itself uncaringly as he gulps swamp water into his lungs -
A grey skinned child, covered in mud, eyes vacant. Dead. Crawling his way up his torso until he is sitting on Xuanyu’s chest. He watches Xuanyu gasp and cry with expressionless eyes, and just as Xuanyu is sure he is going to die either from the lack of air or his heart trying to beat out of his chest in fear- the child suddenly reaches out - and caresses his cheek with a small, muddy hand.
“Shushu.” The dead boy whispers, and Mo Xuanyu gasps awake.
Dawn’s light is streaming weakly into the room Xuanyu has taken as his bedroom. Xuanyu closes his eyes and tries to moderate his breathing and calm his heart.
It’s just a dream - Xuanyu thinks to himself. Just a dream, triggered by the ghost stories from the hissing villagers, no doubt.
He almost achieves some semblance of calm - but as physical discomforts starts to make themselves known, Xuanyu feels the debilitating spike of fear stab through him again.
Under his covers, he is - wet.
He flings his bedding aside, and can’t help the short ragged scream that rips from his throat.
Under his covers, his sleeping robes are covered with wet mud from torso to ankles. And, over sternum, two tiny muddy handprints greets him like a threat.