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Xie Lian grasped at time like a lifeline. If he could forget his disastrous years as a young god, then maybe he could heal. Maybe time could smooth out the torn and jagged edges of him.
He needed time to feel out the shape of his humanity again.
But just as the years dissolved Xie Lian's wounds into fossil imprints, so too did they smooth clean the lines of his history that he treasured.
Time washed away everything. The rich culture of Xian Le and the brightness of its people all eroded away until there was only the lonely wailing of wind over sand dunes.
#1
Xie Lian had never been much of a musician. He'd learned the basics, of course, because someone of his long-gone status was required to. But he'd preferred to spend most of his time practicing sword techniques, meditating, and looking around for more priceless weapons to add to his collection.
Now, all of those skills he’d honed were mostly useless. Occasionally, he could fight off some monsters and have a warm meal and a place to stay for the night. But most of the time, it was his other talents that earned him enough coin to avoid starvation for just one more day.
His voice rose in a mellow tenor, singing a song that’d often been played during banquets back when Xian Le was still a kingdom. It’d been long enough that the distinctive style was simply considered exotic, rather than a signpost that screamed "criminal." Those who viewed Xian Le as their oppressors were long gone, replaced by the younger generations.
The pipa strings vibrated under his fingers, a cheerful, slightly off-tune accompaniment to his voice. He was surrounded by the hustle and bustle of the marketplace, of children running around and stirring up dust and sand.
There were just a few pitiful coins in his douli laid out on the ground. He paused in between this song and the next and sighed with a self-deprecating smile. He’d invested a little bit of money into buying and fixing the rundown instrument a few days ago. Bards and musicians on the streets seemed to earn so much money, especially recently as the Kingdom of Yong’An became more prosperous and the arts flourished. But Xie Lian should’ve known his voice wasn’t good enough to earn much money.
He'd been tempted anyway because he missed the joyful music that he’d grown up with as a child. He missed hearing those lyrics that he’d known how to sing along with. He thought maybe he could share the old music and revitalize it a bit.
But if it was Xie Lian’s terrible voice singing these songs, Xian Le music was going to be hated again, rather than just disappear quietly.
As luck would have it, one of the children running around tripped into Xie Lian, knocked the pipa straight out of his hands. It shattered against the ground.
“Sorry!” the child yelled over his shoulder as he ran off to chase his friends.
Xie Lian sighed and gathered up the wood. He’d use it for a fire, or maybe make a box to store fragile things. He knew his fanciful wish was futile, anyway. Some things couldn’t be brought back by any power, let alone his.
#2
Xie Lian tried to capture his mother in the memory of her food. Flavors were sometimes so much more real than faint remembrances of smiles and words and touches. Centuries later, his strongest connection with his long-dead mother was the memorized tidbits of recipes she’d told him about, and that he imagined he was making along with her.
What he couldn’t capture, though, was the flavors of Xian Le. He’d been a pampered prince and had never once stepped foot in a kitchen. So he didn’t know how to make any of what had once been his favorite foods. He only knew fleeting sensations: spicy and chewy, fragrant and fresh. He couldn’t capture any of them.
Food was important to cultures, he’d learned as he wandered his way through an endless number of kingdoms and small tribes. Food brought people together, bound them under one common tongue. He alone wasn’t enough to sustain this part of his kingdom’s history.
#3
Xie Lian circled around the courtyard and then turned to face the river. Where was the tree he'd climbed often as a child? Yes, there was the strange, elongated S-shaped bend. There was the boulder split in three.
He turned around, hands on his hips. But no enormous tree, gnarled and strong.
There was, though, a younger tree near the place the old tree might've been before. It might've even been the same species.
Xie Lian smiled and sat down, leaning against the trunk, and looked out at the scenery. If he focused hard, he could almost see Feng Xin next to the river bend, shouting that they needed to hurry back for dinner.
#4
The nobles of Yong'an wore clothing that was completely different from the fashion of Xian Le. They still were designed to represent status, just like the court attire of any country. But where Xie Lian turned and expected to see court officials in vibrant purple and blue fabrics, he saw dignified blacks and muted earthy tones.
Lang Qianqiu hand-delivered a gift of robes from the King of the highest quality. Xie Lian stared at the many layers laying on his bed. He unfolded one piece, held it up in the air.
He couldn't remember how Xian Le clothes had been worn. Mu Qing had always been the one to do it for him, and before him, it'd been palace maids, or even his mother when he'd been very small and she wanted to dote on him. He'd watched them do it, of course, but hadn't done it himself often enough for the movements to be ingrained in him.
He stared at the clothes for a long time. He wished he'd asked to learn the art of formal wear from Mu Qing. Maybe then, he could've figured this out, even with all the changes.
In the end, he had to call for a servant, acutely aware of how much of a stranger he was to this kingdom, to this century.
#5
His mother was gone. Her embrace had been the only indulgence he'd allowed himself for all those years alone. It was morbid, he knew, to lay in a coffin with a dead body. But it wasn't just a body—it was his mother. The only person who'd ever unconditionally loved him.
Their lives were a grotesque reversal.
He, who was a cursed relic, was alive.
And she, who had been a beacon of hope, was dust.
To endure was to be ground slowly under the wheels of time and still survive—out of all the things Xie Lian had been called exceptional for as a prince, this was the only one that had proven true.
He only wished it didn’t have to mean being so lonely.
+1
Xie Lian knew Hua Cheng's love seemed excessive to some. Obsessive.
But Xie Lian of all people had an inkling of the cruelty Hua Cheng had faced as a child. And to counter all of that hatred, Hua Cheng had only had Xie Lian's words to cling onto. Was it so wrong that Hua Cheng had repeated them over and over to himself, cemented words of kindness into the pillars that held him up? After all that he'd endured, didn't the world owe Hua Cheng whatever goodness that helped him smile as he did now in their shared home?
Hua Cheng had done what he needed to survive, and Xie Lian would never stop being grateful for that.
Hua Cheng was skilled at standing strong against the passage of time in a way that Xie Lian had never been able to. Xie Lian had needed to cast off everything he’d had as the Prince of Xian Le—his longing, his pride, and his memories—leaving nothing but this tired, old body.
But Hua Cheng still had everything important to him stored away in his heart. He had paintings of the popular riverside plazas that no one remembered anymore, and old maps of Xian Le geography and architecture. He recited poems that were anachronisms to everyone else, but private treasures from the past to Xie Lian. He knew how to make all of Xie Lian’s favorite Xian Le foods. He was a jack of all trades—a legend, a chef, and an artist; and the most wonderful husband in the world.
Xie Lian had thought he’d long lost all preferences for food, but that first bite of a dish from the past brought him to tears. It’d been embarrassing, but it’d also been acceptable because Hua Cheng had been the only one to see it.
Hua Cheng had never known the queen, only seen her from a distance at ceremonies or heard her voice from inside an infirmary. But nonetheless, he’d known of her, remembered her in a way no one else in the world did anymore (except for Feng Xin and Mu Qing, but they were not people who Xie Lian wanted to expose the soft insides of his weathered shell to).
Hua Cheng listened when Xie Lian spoke of her, and hugged him in her place.
Hua Cheng even helped Xie Lian make her recipes, never deviating from the instructions Xie Lian quietly recited, no matter how appalled other people became.
The disgust and dislike that followed Xie Lian around like a brand never seemed to make Hua Cheng falter. Against all odds, it seemed that Hua Cheng wanted to stay with Xie Lian, and so that’s what he did.
Hua Cheng even sang songs from Xian Le for Xie Lian before bed sometimes, his voice deep and husky. Like Xie Lian’s singing voice, it wasn’t anything suited for a performance on a big stage. But in the private space of their home, it was perfect.
The first time, Xie Lian’s breath had hitched without him even realizing why.
“Gege,” Hua Cheng said softly. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong, I just—I think I’ve heard this song before?”
Hua Cheng smiled. “It was a popular lullaby in Xian Le. I heard parents sing it to their children sometimes.”
Xie Lian cleared his throat and picked up the song where Hua Cheng left off, chasing after the faint memory of the melody. Hua Cheng held Xie Lian close and sang, too, filling in the words. Their voices wrapped together, resonating like the imperfect strings of an old pipa.
It’d been an entire century since they were married—a whole lifetime and more. Xie Lian was beginning to think that some things could last.