Chapter Text
At first Xie Lian doesn’t notice the ghost fire.
It’s the dead of winter, and he’s walking a traveler’s path that meanders through a frozen marsh. The old snow beneath him is packed firm, and yields to the weight of his footsteps with a dense crunch. Brittle reeds and bare branches brush against one another in the wind. It hasn’t yet snowed today, but Xie Lian can tell by the dense clouds that crowd the late afternoon sky that it’s only a matter of time. He’s a god, of course, hardly at any real risk of frostbite or catching a chill, but instinct born of centuries spent wandering proves stronger than his divinity, and he pulls his heavy cloak closer.
Xie Lian is alone and eager to return home. These days he rarely makes his rounds through the mortal realm without his husband, but Hua Cheng had his own business to attend to within Ghost City. Not even a full day has passed, but Xie Lian already misses his company, his gentle teasing, his uncanny ability to render even the most mundane activities tender and intimate moments. Somehow his absence seems keener in the wintry silence that swallows this remote corner of the country.
A gust of wind drives snow from the nearby trees, catching his cloak and blowing it back. Xie Lian pauses in the trail as he hastens to draw it back around him. It’s only then that he notices a sharp sustained chill against his ankle, as if a chunk of ice were pressed against his skin. He pulls his cloak aside and looks down, sees what he at first thinks to be merely snow kicked up by the wind. The snow, however, settles. This doesn’t.
It’s a translucent white wisp against his boot, floating only inches above the ground, appearing very much like a breath made visible in the cold. Only the dimmest of lights emanates from its center. Even by ghost fire standards it’d be considered remarkably weak, barely the last gasp of a soul. Xie Lian has seen quite a lot over the centuries, but it’s been some time since he last saw something quite as pitiful as this. He bends down to get a closer look.
“Well, hello!” He offers a soft smile and speaks in a near whisper, careful not to frighten the little remnant of spirit. It might just be the wind, but the ghost fire appears to bob gently in response.
“Where did you come from, little one?” He’s not expecting an answer, but he pauses to see if the little wisp will do something in response—perhaps it will lead him to a corpse that needs final rites. The ghost fire, however, does nothing. Xie Lian chews thoughtfully on his bottom lip, glancing around the marsh. He’s not sure what he should be looking for; he sees nothing besides frozen water and dormant earth.
Another rush of wind and the feeble ghost fire shudders. It seems to struggle to keep together. Xie Lian takes the edge of his cloak in one hand to form a shield against the elements, inanely murmuring to ease the spirit’s apparent distress.
“Would you like to come with me?” He asks. “It’s quite cold out today.” Xie Lian scoops an open palm beneath the ghost fire as he stands, carrying it against his chest within the safety of his cloak. There is no weight to it, only the sensation of a chill so biting as to almost burn. Xie Lian could swear that he feels the little spirit settle in his hand, like a child in the arms of a parent. Ruoye shifts against his wrist as it tries to get a better look at the near-nothingness he holds so close to his heart.
A few errant snowflakes fall fresh from the sky, an indicator of the storm soon to come. Xie Lian continues down the path.
---
Xie Lian returns to Paradise Manor in the evening, hurrying through the heavy doors that lead to the main hall. The distance-shortening dice he’d thrown clatter to the lacquered floor. Xie Lian hastens to the private wing he shares with his husband, slush from his boots marking his course through the empty halls lit by bronze braziers.
When he reaches the bed chamber he undoes the clasp at his throat with one hand and unceremoniously abandons his fur lined cloak on the floor. He’s distracted, anxious. The ghost fire hasn’t moved in some time; it somehow feels even weaker than when he first found it. On the far side of the chamber is a large fireplace of deep green marble, and with the feeble spirit clutched to his chest Xie Lian hurries towards it. From atop the mantle he grabs a gilded urn filled with enchanted fire starters and places it on the floor with his free hand, kneeling beside it. He takes one of the small orbs wrapped in gold leaf and casts it on the hearth. With a loud pop a roaring fire blossoms to fill the space, and Xie Lian settles on the floor before it.
He pulls the wisp of near-invisible light from his chest and holds it out to the flames. To his delight, the ghost fire expands and contracts ever so slightly, as if it were taking the weakest of breaths.
“There we go!” Xie Lian murmurs, smiling at the spirit in his palms. Snowmelt drips from his hair, pools beneath him, soaks into the luxurious carpet. “You’re safe now. Do you feel better, little one?”
“Gege, who are you talking to?”
Xie Lian starts at the sound of Hua Cheng’s voice—he hadn’t even noticed that he came in the room. Xie Lian turns his head to catch a glimpse of his husband but remains hunched over the spirit, holding it close to the light and heat contained within the hearth. “San Lang! You surprised me.” He turns his gaze back towards the slip of soul. “I found a little ghost fire while I was out today. I’m trying to warm it up.”
Hua Cheng saunters across the room, his jewelry jingling. “You’re trying to warm up…a fire?”
Xie Lian blushes. He doesn’t need to see Hua Cheng’s face to know he has an eyebrow raised. He clears his throat. “Well, yes. It felt so cold. I think the fire is helping, though. It’s starting to move again.”
Hua Cheng settles on the velvet divan behind Xie Lian, taking in the curious sight of the barely-there life that pulses within his husband’s hands. “That’s a pretty poor excuse for a ghost fire.”
“San Lang, there’s no reason to be rude.” Xie Lian is staring intensely at the spirit, as if he could will it into a firmer being by virtue of concentration alone.
Hua Cheng chuckles, leans in to get a better look. “Gege is, as always, correct. I apologize to our esteemed guest. Should I have Yin Yu prepare a room?” Xie Lian grins at the joke and glances at him out of the corner of his eye. Hua Cheng brushes a strand of damp hair behind his husband’s ear with a pale finger. “What do you plan to do with it?”
Xie Lian hums thoughtfully. “I’m not sure. It didn’t lead me anywhere or ask for anything. It hasn’t done much of anything at all, actually.” He sighs. “Hopefully it’ll gain some strength and I’ll be able to figure out what it needs to move on.”
“Well, if it’s strength it needs…” Hua Cheng drops to the floor behind Xie Lian and stretches his long legs on either side of his husband. He rests his chin, sharp and cool, on Xie Lian’s shoulder, wraps a slender arm around his chest. With his other arm he reaches towards the ghost fire, his silver vambrace gleaming in the glow of the hearth.
He taps the spirit and the light within it sparks. Delicate tendrils of white flame blow up and out above Xie Lian’s hands, reflect in his eyes. He gasps. “What did you do?”
Hua Cheng places a feather light kiss on his cheek. “Just gave it a bit of a helping hand. I can’t lend something that delicate too much power, or else it might implode, but that should keep it stable enough to start cultivating its own energy.”
“Ah, thank you!”
“No reason to thank me,” Hua Cheng chuckles. “I’m being selfish. The sooner gege is able to figure out what this spirit needs to move on, the sooner he and I can go to bed.”
Xie Lian blushes again, watching the ghost fire—brighter now, denser—roil in his open palms.
---
To Hua Cheng’s slight annoyance, the ghost fire spends that night in their bedchamber. Xie Lian declines to relinquish the little spirit, refuses so much as to move from his position before the fireplace, so they pass the rest of the night on the floor. Xie Lian falls asleep in Hua Cheng’s embrace, his hands resting in his lap, the ghost fire pulsing over his fingertips. Hua Cheng watches it with a guarded eye.
Over the following days Hua Cheng’s quiet irritation grows into outright dismay as the ghost fire becomes a fixture in Paradise Manor. It’s still small, retains its biting chill, but it seems to be in greater control over itself. There’s a clearer sense of sentience and purpose in its movements. Nevertheless the spirit is still unable—or unwilling—to speak.
Xie Lian doesn’t seem to mind. Instead he seems to grow quite fond of the ghost fire. It takes to following him through the halls like an adoring and faithful pet, sticking close to his ankles and nearly tripping him on several occasions. Xie Lian holds it in his lap when he writes out characters for Hua Cheng to copy, indulging in one-sided conversations with the silent spirit as he works. He allows it on the table when he dines.
Most upsetting for Hua Cheng, the ghost fire spends its nights on Xie Lian’s silk pillow, tucked under his chin or nestled in his hair. The spirit emits no dangerous aura, makes no move to harm his husband. Hua Cheng tolerates its presence for the sake of Xie Lian’s apparent delight and affection for the ghost fire, but he quietly seethes at sharing the comfort of his bed—and the attentions of his lover—with an unknown soul. Hua Cheng refuses the luxury of sleep in response. He passes the dark hours glaring at the lick of spirit flame, willing it to reveal its identity and intentions under the influence of his hostile stare. The little ghost only pushes itself closer to Xie Lian in answer.
---
A fortnight after the arrival of the ghost fire, Xie Lian is called to the Heavenly Capital. Silent as it is, it’s evident that the spirit is upset to be left behind. It streaks through the halls of Paradise Manor, a white flame flying close to the floor, eliciting yelps of surprise from startled servants.
The ghost fire is obviously looking for Xie Lian. It seeks out the halls and chambers it now knows the god to frequent—the bed chamber, the dining hall, the study, the armory. When its search proves fruitless the spirit begins anew, returning to the same rooms as if caught in an increasingly desperate loop.
Hua Cheng knows the limits of his own patience, and decides to leave Paradise Manor for the distraction of the Gambler’s Den. Yin Yu is already attending to another errand on Hua Cheng’s behalf, so he calls two minor attendants as he prepares to leave. They appear before him as mirror images of one another, dressed in the dark robes of manor servants. Their glamour evokes the idea of youth, sexless and abstract, attractive in the most generic of ways.
“You two are to keep watch over our…guest while I’m gone. You are not to allow it to leave the Manor.”
“Understood Chengzhu,” the attendants respond in unison as they bow deeply at the waist. Before they have a chance to rise Hua Cheng turns on his heel, dice in hand.
---
The Gambler’s Den proves only a fleeting diversion. It is as lively and riotous as ever, and Hua Cheng’s unexpected presence further excites the already chaotic crowd. Men, ghouls, and all manner of monsters throng around the betting tables, yelling over one another to make their wagers, hollering when they win and crying foul when their luck inevitably runs out. The croupiers work quickly and proficiently to divest hapless gamblers of their fates and fortunes while bouncers keep careful watch for cheaters and brawlers.
Hua Cheng watches the bedlam from his shrouded dais with an unfocused eye.
For some time now his visits to the Gambler’s Den have been few and far between. He prefers to spend his time with his beloved husband, accompanying him on the absurd errands apportioned by the Heavenly Court or the chores Xie Lian assigns himself—assisting with the harvest in Puqi Village, tending the maples and flowering cherry trees on Mount Taicang.
The layers of crimson curtains muffle the sounds of the Gambler’s Den, abstracting the surrounding chaos until it is only a tableau of blurred color and movement. Hua Cheng finds it almost meditative—like watching carp swim in a murky pond. In comparison to the near-constant drama of the heavens and the intrigues of the mortal world, the unrestrained and unpretentious pandemonium of the Ghost Realm is pure and predictable, occasionally even dull.
The dead and damned have few rules and little to lose, after all; it is the living and the divine who find reason to scheme.
Twin figures appear abruptly before the dais, catching Hua Cheng’s attention. He lifts a finger and allows them to pass through the outermost shroud. Though the inner layers of silk partially obscure their forms, he recognizes the two attendants from Paradise Manor. They bow deeply, heads bent and eyes firmly affixed to the floor.
Though carefully selected and trained for their roles, they cannot conceal their trepidation.
“Chengzhu,” one begins, “please forgive these humble servants for the interruption.”
The other attendant continues, “These humble servants sincerely apologize. Our lord’s esteemed guest is…no longer at Paradise Manor.”
Hua Cheng regards the two in silence for a long moment before he finally speaks. “I didn’t realize my staff was so incompetent.”
The attendants remain bowed and quiet—they know better than to offer excuses.
Hua Cheng taps a single dark nail against the ornate armrest. Feeling irascible, he decides to prolong their suffering. “So, why did you come to me?”
The figures before him exchange the briefest of glances. “Chengzhu, these humble servants are ashamed to report that we have been unable to find our lord’s esteemed guest.”
“These humble servants believe our lord’s esteemed guest to be somewhere in the city.”
“Chengzhu’s ability is unquestioned, and his knowledge of the city is unparalleled. These humble servants must respectfully request our lord’s aid and guidance.”
Another moment of silence passes as Hua Cheng fixes the pair with a haughty stare. He idly considers seizing this opportunity to be free of the nuisance ghost fire, but banishes the thought almost as quickly as it comes. After all, he doesn’t trust the spirit, nor does he know its origins or motivations. To allow it to escape would create a blind spot in Hua Cheng’s unrivaled knowledge of the three realms that he simply cannot accept. Centuries of non-living have taught him well the dangers posed by carelessness, the pitfalls of casual negligence. Any risk to the peace he now has is too great a risk to tolerate.
Besides, Hua Cheng knows too well that Xie Lian would surely take up the task of finding the little ghost fire on his own.
He stands and the curtains part with dramatic flair, startling the attendants. Hua Cheng slowly makes his way from the raised dais, his aura both fearsome and oppressive. “I will find it myself.” He steps between the two servants. “Don’t let me see you again.”
---
Hua Cheng makes long strides through the busy streets, simmering with irritation. Word quickly spreads of his presence—and his foul mood—and the churning crowd makes haste to allow him to pass.
There is no true day or night here, only a perpetual twilight sky brushed with auroras and studded with stars. The city dwells beyond the decree of time—the sprawling market never closes, the lanterns remain forever lit. Bawdy music drifts out from the open windows of brothels and bath houses, mingling with the echoing calls of street merchants. Smoke and steam from vendor stalls, the back kitchens of restaurants and tea houses, carries with it a heady blend of unidentifiable scents. Here beings of all sorts go about the business and pleasure of their after-lives.
Silver butterflies streak through and over the crowded streets, and it’s only a matter of moments before the missing ghost fire is located. The spirit is some distance away, darting down side streets at random, doubling back before hurrying forward with no apparent design. It weaves frantically between distracted pedestrians and clattering carts, only narrowly avoiding being trampled underfoot. Nevertheless the butterflies easily keep pace with the little desperate flame. Hua Cheng knows this city as well as he knows himself. There is no place for the ghost fire to hide.
Hua Cheng catches up to the spirit just in time to see it dart into the entry of a small restaurant, his butterflies trailing behind it. He follows through the beaded curtains. The restaurant is full of rowdy customers seated at cheap low tables, lit by dim lanterns scattered throughout. The air is thick with pipe smoke and the smell of burning oil. Hua Cheng stands seething in the entry way, his hands clasped tightly behind his back.
There’s the sound of a sharp gasp as he’s noticed, and the entire restaurant goes still and silent with shock. The proprietor—the yellowed ghost of a stout man with bug eyes and a head that lolls on a broken neck—nearly trips over himself to move to the front of the overcrowded restaurant to greet Hua Cheng.
“Chengzhu!” he rasps, “To what—”
Hua Cheng spares him a chilling glance before leveling a sharp eye on the awed crowd. “Scram.”
In a sudden flurry of movement patrons and staff scramble through the narrow entryway to get to the street, some of those with more nerve grabbing their dishes and holding them aloft as they exit. The beaded curtain settles behind the last to leave and emptiness sinks into the space left behind. Hua Cheng takes measured steps over the straw mats strewn across the floor.
The kitchen is in the back of the building, cramped and dimly lit. The cooking fires still burn, pots of fatty broth bubbling away on the low stoves. A chunk of some unidentifiable cut of meat, as thick as a fist, has begun to burn in its abandoned pan, quickly filling the small room with the choking scent of smoldering flesh. Several heads’ worth of human hair, long and sleek, hang limply from suspended wooden dowels, a grim imitation of noodles hanging to dry.
In the far corner of the room, softly lit by several fluttering wraith butterflies, is not a ghost fire, but a ghost.
It’s the ghost of a girl child, translucent, pale, and naked. Her hair is like streaks of spilled ink where it clings to her cheeks and chest. She’s crouched low to the ground, staring at the Ghost King with wide eyes, punctuating the quiet with panicked breaths—she doesn’t seem to know that she no longer needs the air. She looks so, so small. This is the form of a six year old, perhaps that of a particularly malnourished eight year old.
Hua Cheng knows immediately that this is the same spirit he’s stalked through the city in fresh possession of a corporal form. He takes a step forward, and the little ghost covers her face with her forearms, though her translucence renders the exercise moot. His irritation immediately dissipates as he’s suddenly aware of the frightening figure he must cut—too tall, all angles and sharp edges, his aura roiling with hostility.
He pauses, then lets his features shift, smoothly adopting the glamour of the teenager he favored when he first met Xie Lian on that ox cart to Puqi Village. It’s a softer, more genial look, one he had meticulously designed to be as nonthreatening as possible. Hua Cheng settles back on his haunches, resting his elbows on his knees with a casual air. The sounds of bubbling broth, hissing steam, and the muffled conversations drifting in from the street fill the silence between them. The little ghost’s chest heaves with obvious fear.
“Hey,” Hua Cheng finally says. The little ghost flinches in response. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” he tries again, quieter this time. A moment passes without a response.
“Do you have a name?”
And another moment.
“Do you know where you are?”
And another.
“Do you want to see Dianxia? The daozhang who dresses in white?”
At this the ghost peeks at Hua Cheng through her arms. Her breathing has slowed, and after a beat she gives the most hesitant of nods. Hua Cheng chuckles. “So you do understand me.”
He moves to remove his outermost tunic, and the little ghost curls in on herself again at the action. Hua Cheng pauses. “Don’t worry; I’m not going to hurt you.” He takes off the tunic, slower this time, revealing his white undershirt. “Put this on,” he encourages, holding the scarlet robe out in front of him. “I’ll take you back to Dianxia. I want to see him too, you know.”
At this the ghost peeks out at him again before suddenly grabbing at the maple red cloth and cloaking it tightly around her tiny frame like a blanket. Hua Cheng leaves his now-empty hand out. “Will you trust me?” he asks.
The lanterns and cooking fires throw splotches of orange light about the room, cast shadows that shift with the flickering flames and fall through the ghost’s translucent form. The combined effect makes her difficult to see, but her eyes stand out—dark and deep, swallowing what little light reaches them like a shaded pool. She takes another unnecessary breath, gives another hesitant nod.
Hua Cheng nods in return, and then moves forward to take the child ghost, burrowed in his tunic, into his arms. The wraith butterflies that had followed her through the city to this dingy kitchen flutter around her. One lands serenely on her nose, its shimmering light captured in her wide eyes. Suddenly Hua Cheng is struck by the memory of the first time Xie Lian encountered one of his butterflies and had let it rest on his finger without a thought.
Then, in a burst of silver wings, they disappear.