Chapter Text
She’ll definitely come back on her own in a couple of days.
I’m embarrassed just standing beside her.
She shook off the echoing voices of her fellow cultivators – her former fellow cultivators, she reminded herself – and moved quickly. No longer weighed down by her sect’s crested robe.
She found herself heading North.
She hadn’t turned around, not even for one last look.
The cultivation world had finally shown itself for what it was. Or, rather, she had finally let herself see it for what it was.
Were their hasty decisions, their eagerness to fall in line with the majority really new? Luo Qingyang of all people knew that wasn’t true.
The whispers the first time she, a servant’s daughter, had dared to let her gaze linger on a sword. The self-satisfied laughter as her seniors had concluded that she was not interested in cultivation for its own sake, or the opportunity to help people, or the inherent excitement of a night hunt in itself. No, she must, of course, have truly only been interested in the chance to spend more time with the higher-born members of the sect. And as she grew older, especially as she grew stronger and was approved to join her sect as a full disciple, as she made friends in other sects, the whispering only grew more fervent, more convinced, that maybe what she was looking for was a husband. A wealthy man from another family to raise her and her family from their lives as mere servants.
So it was no surprise, really, that the straw had been when she had taken a stand for one much like herself – granted access to highly exclusive places, through friendships with and recognition by those in power. But they didn’t see that potential for a shared perspective of their corrupted ideologies. An outsider’s perspective. No. They believed she did so simply because he had flirted with her once.
And from the friend that had been the first subject of whispers about her, years ago? The man she thought of as a dear friend? Not a word. Of course, not a word from Jin Zixuan. That fool.
She was done. She had worked hard to be a part of a world that was nothing like she had hoped it was. A world that was bearable at war, when there was at least some certainty in who the enemy was, even if it was now clearer than ever that her sect’s alliance with the new Four Great Sects in the Sunshot Campaign had been nothing but strategic, nothing to do with the moralizing spouted before an attack. Wen Ruohan had deserved to be on the losing side. But she wasn’t sure she could say the same about the winning side, seeing how they acted with their newfound power.
So now, now as she walked away from their laughter, their jeers. Now, without the symbols of her sect that tied her to actions she wanted no part of. Now, without the weight of their judgment, their stares, their constant weighing of whether she merited their time or respect. Now, she felt energized. Lighter.
She had come to a crossroads not long after descending the steps of Jinlintai for the last time. No longer a formal disciple, still a cultivator. Burdened by nothing but her sword, no direction set for her.
Would she miss them?
She wondered, for the first time in a long time, who she was without her sect. No longer a servant – certainly not going back only to cater to the people who thought so little of her. She could go anywhere. Do anything. So what did she want?
For a moment, she caught a fleeting scent of spring – something floral, something sweet.
She turned north.
The moon was rising before she realized where she was going. A vision, from long ago. Pink robes fluttering before her. Gold and purple on her periphery but falling quickly behind, not quite able to keep up. Four sets of giggles blending into one another’s, though Luo Qingyang could always pick out the cadence, the pitch coming from the girl that ran ahead. That same sweet floral scent carried back by the wind.
Luo Qingyang followed the voice now. Towards the one person who might understand, who would know, but had not engaged in, the horrors of politics.
She went north. And hoped Qin Su had not forgotten her.
--
“Luo-guniang, can I braid your hair next?”
“Mianmian. You should call me Mianmian, a-Su.”
Qin Su blushed and looked over to Jiang Yanli, who sat giggling to the side, hair already braided by the eager Qin Su, “I’m not going to get involved, I’ve only just gotten it through a-Xian’s head that he can call me Shijie. You two can figure this one out yourselves.”
Qin Su turned back to the smirking Luo Qingyang, who shrugged and was about to say something sure to be incredibly charming and witty when she was interrupted by a knock at the door.
“Come in!” Qin Su called – it was her family’s guest rooms at Jinlintai, after all, where the two other girls stayed during this visit.
A panting Jin Zixuan slid the door open, his little cousin just barely visible from behind him.
Mianmian squinted questioningly at him, noticing as his gaze lingered over Yanli just a moment too long before he whipped his head instead towards where Qin Su stood, just behind Mianmian.
“Qin-guniang!” he said emphatically, though his eyes wavered back, “Just so you know, I like you. Let me know whenever that you like me too.” And with that, he swept away, reddening fiercely. Jin Zixun managed to stick his tongue out at the three young disciples before hurrying after his cousin.
Even at the age of 12, without understanding the full context, Mianmian could only close her eyes and sigh as one of her friends professed his admiration to another, despite the feelings he had revealed to Mianmian only days before about the third.
Years later, whenever she thought of this moment, of Zixuan’s jeering, Yanli’s sudden quiet, of Qin Su’s sudden disappearance back to her sect not long afterwards, she inevitably mirrored her original reaction, finding herself again whispering, “You fool.”
In those moments, she yearned for the times when it was so easy to dismiss all of that as childish nonsense, instead of the early reflections of their parents’ politicking. Ached for the time when the awkward moments Jin Zixuan’s family pushed him into could be quickly set aside, when Qin Su would step in carefully, break the tension, and, with her quiet, tentative voice, offer, “So, can I braid your hair now, Mianmian?”