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He endured for only one person. He would adore, cherish and worship him. That was his purpose. In his mind’s eye, he saw one face. 10 000 statues were nothing but an inkling of the extent of his feelings.
It was as if his god was there with him at certain times. He could stroll the empty corridors and see his eidolon around every turn. He would imagine what they might say to one another as they came closer and closer. Many conversations were had within those walls of his imaginings. They spoke of the change of the season, the return of birds, glossing a veneer over the cracks, making it shine like the lacquered cabinets that adorned the halls of his residence. He could fill his mind with happy falseness.
His god had been his salvation, his will to toil on, his obsession. However, on occasion, when the leaves had dried and fallen and the cold permeated the land; he was his torment.
He didn’t cry; just melted the falling snow.
His doubts would stir, rearing up to show all their viciousness. There was no certainty that the face behind his eyelids was indeed anything but a figment of his imagination. A conjuring, brought on by the years in that infernal kiln.
A fabrication.
And then what? Why was he here? The ring on its chain almost begged to shatter.
Fortune was fickle. Though, it was claimed by many about the city that their lord had mastered it. It would slip through his fingers whenever he got close to seeing his god again. He could get close enough that he felt as if his fingertips were about to touch the soft, dirty robes that his dear god wore on his back; but he disappeared again. Leaving nothing but a pseudonym; a deceased identity.
Enough time had passed in this feverish state of longing, that never seemed to end, that he began to believe it wouldn’t. He would chase him forever. Have to watch him go through trial after tribulation. The wound getting deeper and deeper. The infection would fester and corrode the bone.
800 years could reduce bone to ash. It smouldered inside him, did the passage of time. Burning incense stick after incense stick. And he was choking on the smoke.
On the arched bridge above the still waters of the pond below, within which he would look at himself. That farce of a manor glowered behind him and his glassy reflection mocked him; the ugly red thing. How could he possibly think he was worthy of trying to reach his god, when so many times he had failed. He was a failure. The battle was lost. Two arrows through the heart and a mouthful of dirt. Just a nameless dead soldier.
It was a joke he thought, seeing his face with that Paradise Manor reflected behind him. There was no paradise without his god, only parody. In fits of frenzied determination after finding traces of his god’s footsteps, he would find that the manor wasn’t nearly up to standard, the impression wrong, the tiles on the roof out of alignment. Everything was far too ugly.
So, he burned the manor down again. The flames would engulf the inadequacy. Bend the scene in waves of heat until it fit. The charred remains of joists and gables, like blackened thorns; they poked the heavens, the cruel antagonist. A large supporting beam crumbled as it was shifted; the ashes rising like a cloud. He watched some little ghosts clumsily attempt to drag a doorframe out of the rubble.
He would manipulate himself to match; a new form, prettier than the previous. Though he could never rid himself of the ugliness within. His past could not be incinerated.
∞
The residents of Ghost city took interest in the ministrations of their lord but ultimately never questioned him or criticised him. They would complement and revere him. Meanwhile, he would stand on the bridge above the pool, gathering the cracked vermillion under his finger nails, feeling the new mask fall and hide the blotches that marred his soul. He was alone. He had no equal there.
It’s been a long time. You must be moping again.
Yeah.
I’ll come over.
He Xuan understood the loneliness, the fanaticism, what it meant to tread water; it came with their shared nature. Such features were the corner stones of a devastation.
Neither would admit to being a friend to the other. No statement was made and communication was sparse at times. But they had a requited understanding. And that was significant on their respective islands; a real voice to differentiate from the apparitions and fancies.
Until hope was no longer so distant. Then the normalcy of his infatuation would return and he could stand to wait a little longer.
Bide the time. His god was out there too, biding his time.
∞
The heavens shook again.
Hua Cheng felt the rush of air, his lungs mimicking taking it in like a vital breath. He might have believed he was breathing again. Life was brought back to him. Xie Lian; his life.
Through him he was alive again, it was not mere illusion.
And he would willingly die again for him.