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Jiang Cheng is dying.
The knowledge settles over him more peacefully than he anticipated. Because of course he’d thought about it, his death. How could he not, when cultivators fell in droves around him, cut down by resentful energy, by spells, by swords and arrows? He accepted far too easily the truth that no one was promised a tomorrow, and here it came to pass that he would have no more.
He is, well, pleased isn’t the right word. He’s grateful that his end came at the point of a sword, that one of his disciples wouldn’t have to dispel his fierce corpse. He’s grateful that reports of ghouls were wrong, that the murdered farmers met their end at the hands of simple bandits, who had been dispatched with relative ease, except for the whole getting stabbed himself part. And he is grateful that this fight has bought Jin Ling at least one more tomorrow.
He does regret convincing Huaisang to stay behind with the villagers so he could set up a basic defense ring with talismans the untrained residents could replace on their own, should no cultivators be nearby. He regrets that he’s dying in a field and not in bed, by Huaisang’s side. He regrets dying without a final kiss.
Jiang Cheng closes his eyes and concentrates, not on the pain but on the shape of Huaisang, the weight of him in his arms, the press of Huaisang’s lips on his, and he can feel it. He is grateful his imagination gives him this one thing, this final thought, as he sinks into oblivion.
I’m going to break his legs. Both of them.
Please don’t. I’m very fond of his legs.
I’m going to break something! He promised! Jiujiu promised he wouldn’t leave!
He promised me, too, A-Ling, and I intend to make him keep that promise, alright?
Jiang Cheng thought about dying often enough, but he realizes now, as he floats in a warm, blue space, he never thought about what happened after. If pressed, he might have said something about his qi releasing, spreading out and joining the energy that binds the world together, the way a river empties into a lake. He might have said that death, a normal death, brought respite for the dying. But he hears voices. He feels heat, searing, somewhere he might vaguely call his side, and he feels cold in his hands and feet. He didn’t expect that.
He doesn’t expect the bright spark of pain in his shoulder, and he is rather cross about it. He’s dead. He should be beyond all that.
Another needle of pain lances his hand, his neck. Needling pain everywhere.
Give him an hour or so before trying to wake him, and then make him drink this. All of it.
Jiang Cheng doesn’t expect to taste anything, and he’s annoyed when his mouth fills with bitter liquid. He chokes on it, coughs, and he’s sitting, and his eyes are open, and he’s —
He’s not dead.
When his vision clears, the first thing he sees, the first moment of clarity he has, is the face of his beloved, ashen cheeks and shadowed eyes and a smile bright enough to burn away everything else. And then those beloved lips are on his, despite the bitterness still clinging to his mouth, and this, this kiss is the only thing he needs.
It ends, of course, because Jiang Cheng is alive and needs rest and food and water and more of the bitter liquid Wen Qing left behind, and then there is another kiss, and another.
“I’m going to let your nephew break your legs,” Huaisang whispers as he wipes the sweat from Jiang Cheng’s face, “just as soon as you’ve healed. I’m going to take you home and let him break your damn legs.”
“Tomorrow?” Jiang Cheng rasps.
“Tomorrow,” Huaisang agrees. “I will see you through, and tomorrow I will take you home.”
“Oh. Good.”
Huaisang barks a laugh. “Good. And if you ever let yourself be stabbed again, I will let Jin Ling break your arms, too, and I will never kiss you again.”
“No,” Jiang Cheng says, “no, I won’t let that happen. I want to kiss you again. Tomorrow.”