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There’s so much straw.
It’s all Ding Rong can think as two guards work on distributing more straw along the perimeter of the brothel. The heat of the sun beats upon them as they add another row, a field of gold. Sweat beads along Ding Rong’s brow. Meanwhile, all is quiet inside.
How long has it been since the thieves first showed-off Wang Zhi on the balcony? Minutes? Hours? Time slips through his fingers like sand. Every failed attempt to negotiate deepens the cracks; he buys Wang Zhi time but he can’t buy him salvation, and soon, he fears, they will have neither.
Darkness swallows the sky.
They’re running out of time.
Tang Fan’s appearance is grating, and he feels himself scowl behind Tang Fan’s back. Ding Rong has stood here for hours, has thrown his body in front of a dozen archers, but it’s Tang Fan, the poisoned scholar, who can freely walk inside. He bites his tongue, reminds himself that the goal is to save Wang Zhi; if Tang Fan can do what Ding Rong cannot, then that is the way it will have to be.
The night grows chillier. There’s still no sound from inside.
And then Wan Tong is lighting the torch.
Ding Rong sucks in a breath, stares at the dancing flames and smug look on the Commander’s face as he prowls forward.
“Wan-daren, don’t!”
Another failed attempt. His words fall uselessly to the ground, trampled beneath the feet of a callous man who wants to watch the world burn.
Commander Wan doesn’t say a word when he lowers the torch to the bundle of straw just outside the brothel doors. The straw catches flame easily, burning slow but steady. That’s fine, Ding Rong thinks; this gives Wang Zhi time to see the smoke and make it outside before the whole place is up in flames. But then Commander Wan is walking, all but dragging the lit torch against the wall of straw, and suddenly the fire’s crackling, growing, wheezing heavy smoke through the door and windows.
There’s a scream inside, followed by guttural yelling - and then all Ding Rong can hear is the roar of the flames, which devour the straw and then turn their destruction to the brothel itself. Ding Rong has no attachment to the brothel, but Wang Zhi does; he’ll hate to see the destruction when he comes out.
(Because it’s when, not if.)
“Seize the kidnappers! Shoot them if you must!” Wan Tong yells. “Don’t let them escape.”
Ding Rong’s jaw tics. He wants to warn the archers against shooting the others (Wang Zhi), but the sight of the fire ties his tongue.
Smoke’s billowing out the open brothel door (how much of the inside has already been burned?) when the first group of people rush out. Courtesans, their bright clothing smudged with ash, covering their mouths and coughing. More and more, and then there’s Madam Cui at the end. She’s hacking hard, eyes squinting as she checks on her girls.
There’s no sign of Wang Zhi.
One kidnapper, two. Arrows pierce their sorry hides, sending them crumpling to the ground. Another roars out, wielding a sword dripping in fresh blood. He too is struck down, but all Ding Rong can think is that none of the women appear injured - whose blood has been shed?
Fists clench at his side, slick with sweat. It’s fine. Wang Zhi will appear any moment. Jia Kui is with him, after all.
Each second feels like a lifetime. The fire climbs the brothel, floor after floor catching alight, and Ding Rong knows that once it reaches the roof, it’s all but over. A flash of movement at the door sends his heart to his throat (Wang Zhi?) but it’s only Sui Zhou, carrying a limp bundle of Tang Fan in his arms. There’s blood dripping from Tang Fan’s lips, but as Sui Zhou carefully lowers Tang Fan to the ground, Ding Rong can’t detect any wound, nor does Sui Zhou make a move to stop any bleeding. And then their doctor swoops in, blocking Ding Rong’s view, and his heart goes cold.
Wang Zhi is -
There’s a crash inside the brothel, a beam succumbing to the flame, and Ding Rong propels himself forward without thought. He’s dimly aware of Commander Wan yelling at him, slightly cognizant of the kidnapper who nearly runs into Ding Rong in his hurry to get out, and then he disappears in the plumes of black smoke.
Tears flood his half-narrowed eyes as he lifts a sleeve to his face, trying to manage his breath as he looks around to the best of his ability. It’s hard to see, even as he ducks down and starts moving as quickly as he can. He nearly stumbles over something soft (a body, but not the one he’s looking for). Smoke and ash, luxury devoured to flame, bodies left to become dust with the building, and Ding Rong will sooner die than allow Wang Zhi to become one of them.
“Ding-daren!”
Voices of soldiers, Wang Zhi’s men, who have followed him in. Ding Rong doesn’t respond, trusts them to follow him in deeper and conduct their own search. They go the opposite way, a path which proves fruitful; they bellow not even a minute later.
“Ding-daren, we’ve found Jia Kui!”
Ding Rong’s heart leaps to his throat then sinks to his stomach in the span of seconds. Not Wang Zhi. He’s tempted to tell the men to leave him; Wang Zhi is the priority. But Jia Kui may be able to provide information on the situation - and he owes Ding Rong an explanation for how this happened. He can’t die yet; Ding Rong will not allow it.
“Get him and get out!” Ding Rong barks, though it ends in a coughing fit.
The footsteps fall back just as quickly as they arrived, and he is alone again.
He wants to scream, wants to call Wang Zhi’s name until his lungs give out, but he cannot risk inhaling more smoke than he already is, and so he only coughs, trudging forward further. There’s so many bodies.
He nearly misses him.
Ding Rong is debating climbing the stairs and calculating his survival odds when he hazards a glance to the left, and there, there - beside a burning beam, a familiar form in once-pale robes, curled up face-down.
He doesn’t remember the next few seconds. There’s smoldering debris in his way, blocking the body, and he rips it away with his hands, ignoring the smell of burned flesh as his heart pounds because Wang Zhi.
Wang Zhi’s back is a mess of fiery robe, burnt skin, and crusted blood, and Ding Rong doesn’t even know if he’s alive, just knows he has to get him out. He lifts his Commander in his arms (Wang Zhi feels so much lighter), adrenaline soothing over his own burns as he steadies Wang Zhi and turns toward the door.
It’s growing harder to see, and not just because of the smoke. The world blurs, tears and dizziness, and Ding Rong nearly topples over at one point. But adrenaline keeps him upright, loyalty drives him to the entrance, until he bursts from the brothel and gulps for air like a drowning man.
*
It’s a blur from there on out. Later, Ding Rong will recall screaming for assistance as he desperately searches for a sign of life in his Commander. He will remember the force of relief when he finds Wang Zhi’s pulse, soft but undeniable, and the way his arms and legs shake when he gets them both in the carriage. He’ll remember touching Wang Zhi’s face with his burnt fingers, murmuring his name like a prayer, bidding him to wake up.
The depot. The rush of imperial doctors who cart Wang Zhi away, and the one who nearly hauls Ding Rong to his own recovery room to be treated. Ding Rong barely remembers this: the cleaning of his burns, the bandages wrapped around each hand. His mind replays a single fear, a plea of but what if I lose him for good this time, now that he’s out of my sight?
*
He ignores the doctor’s advice to rest, shrugs off the cups of water the depot servants offer him. The audacity of these men, thinking Ding Rong will rest when Wang Zhi is a few rooms down, in an unknown condition.
There’s other work to be done, of course. Reports to write. Interrogations to be had. But the administrative logistics that Ding Rong mastered over the years don’t feel so important now, the instinctive efficiency washed away by something frightening.
Frightening. Yes, Ding Rong thinks, the realization startling. He is afraid.
He pushes past the servants who implore him to wait, because waiting is the only thing he’s done this whole damn day and it’s yielded him nothing. He finds Wang Zhi’s room guarded, the trio’s faces stony and impassive, and Ding Rong nearly commands them to move aside.
It’s the urgent murmuring of the doctors that keeps him still.
You’ll only be in the way.
And so he clenches his jaw and paces, paces, paces.
*
Wang Zhi’s scream rattles the walls, and something in Ding Rong shatters.
*
It’s the middle of the night when the guards finally part, allowing the doctors to leave. Ding Rong is in front of them in the blink of an eye. One of the doctors exhales a heavy breath, the wrinkles near his eyes deepening. Ding Rong swallows hard and it feels like knives.
The doctors deliver facts with the kind of efficiency Ding Rong has lost. Each word hits him like a punch.
Resting. Minor stab wound to the shoulder, bruises to his face. Back burned; it will scar.
Ding Rong’s blood has started heating up when the doctor finishes, “He has a long road ahead of him.”
Ding Rong can read between the lines. Wang Zhi may need weeks, maybe months of recovery. And even then, he’ll never fully heal.
There’s another question Ding Rong wants to ask. Maybe the doctors can see it in his eyes, because one finally speaks up, “You may see him, but he’s heavily sedated and should stay that way for a while.”
His brow furrows a fraction; there’s something they aren’t telling him.
Again, the doctors are one step ahead of him. They look at Ding Rong with something close to pity.
“He woke up in the middle of treatment and thought he was still burning in the brothel.”
The world in front of him blurs, colors melding together as he struggles to stay on his feet.
Wang Zhi was panicking and Ding Rong wasn’t there for him.
He’s barely aware of thanking the doctors, who bow and take their leave, and he is once again alone.
He takes a deep breath, braces himself, and walks into the room.
There’s a low, desolate moan; it takes Ding Rong a second before he realizes it’s coming from his own throat.
Wang Zhi is lying on his side, facing away from Ding Rong - leaving Ding Rong with the perfect view of his bruised, bandaged back. Ding Rong draws closer, barely cognizant of his own actions; he dimly registers pain in his knees as he all but collapses at Wang Zhi’s side. Now that he’s closer, he can see the extent of the damage: the scratches, the already purpling bruises, the gnarled flesh that peeks out from the confines of the bandages’ edes. The sedative must be working, Ding Rong notes, because Wang Zhi’s breathing is steady and even as he sleeps.
The relief Ding Rong first felt when learning Wang Zhi was alive has dwindled, overshadowed by a burning, gnawing anger. As a habit, Ding Rong doesn’t humor the idea of regrets; living in the past impedes the efficiency of the present. But here, curled up beside the small, injured body of his Commander, Ding Rong permits himself remorse for this transgression. Such an utter abysmal failure in duty, such an unacceptable, avoidable cost. If he could transfer those injuries to his own body, he would do so without hesitation.
But such are the fantasies of the fortunate and the foolish. Ding Rong compartmentalizes the regret just as quickly as it initially sparked, a stone to drown himself with later when Wang Zhi is on the mend.
He refocuses on Wang Zhi, watches the rise and fall of his side as he sleeps, just to anchor himself, remind himself Wang Zhi is alive. He’d stay here all night if he could, keeping watch the way he could not before.
Mostly, he wishes he could touch him.
“Wang Zhi,” Ding Rong murmurs, calling his name like an apology, like a prayer, more emotion than syllable.
The Commander doesn’t stir. Ding Rong knew he wouldn’t, but still feels the sting of disappointment.
Ding Rong’s not sure how long he sits before he finally pulls himself to his feet. He brings his burned, bandaged hands together and bows, back bent in both contrition and purpose.
(He may have failed Wang Zhi at the brothel, but he won’t fail him now.)
Ding Rong straightens, and after a final long look, briskly takes his leave.
He has work to do.
*
The next morning, Ding Rong visits Jia Kui.
The man looks worse for the wear, sitting on a bed with his arm in a splint and breaths tinted with a wheeze. Ding Rong strides up to his bedside with no preamble, no pleasantries.
“What happened?” he barks.
Jia Kui gives Ding Rong a look, one that initially seems affronted by the clipped tone, but then quickly softens to something more complicated.
“Tang Fan was succeeding in de-escalating the situation. But once the fire lit and spread,” Jia Kui says, pausing to cough, “they attacked.”
Ding Rong’s jaw tightens as he sends a silent curse to Wan Tong. “Where were you?”
“In the shadows. Wang-daren directed me to stay hidden,” Jia Kui explains. “I did, until they attacked. Managed to kill two of them and get Wang-daren before they could hurt him. By then the room filled with smoke and the thieves were trying to kill as many as they could on their way out.”
“Surely you were not outclassed by a few rogue men,” Ding Rong says with a sneer.
Jia Kui’s laugh is gritty and hollow, followed by another cough.
“Have you ever fought in pure smoke, Ding-daren?” Jia Kui’s slight smile is unpleasant and humorless. “In a burning building, tripping over bodies, all while trying to protect someone?”
Ding Rong wants to snap, to scream that it doesn’t matter, he was supposed to protect Wang Zhi at all cost. He shoves the irrationality down and reminds himself he’s here for information, not simply to vent his anger.
“So they attacked you,” Ding Rong continues, more a statement than a question.
Jia Kui nods, and he heaves a long, regretful breath. “Wang-daren and I were separated. I was knocked unconscious. Next thing I knew, I woke up here.”
Silence fills the space between them as Ding Rong digests this story. Wang Zhi was unharmed when Jia Kui rescued him, so any damages must have come when Wang Zhi was alone, disoriented in smoke.
Cowards, Ding Rong seethes. He clenches his hands, ignores the agonizing ache of his own injuries. Their deaths came far too swiftly.
Ding Rong turns without so much as a goodbye. He’s taken five steps forward when he hears Jia Kui say, “Ding-daren, there’s something else you should know.”
He pauses, sends a glance over his shoulder to the wounded guard. Jia Kui’s expression is born of shadows.
“One of them is still alive.”
*
The days go by. Ding Rong maintains order at the Western Depot, managing daily operations and fending off the presence of Shang Ming, whose questions about Wang Zhi’s conditions are far from innocent.
Every night after work, he visits Wang Zhi.
The doctors assure Ding Rong that Wang Zhi is doing as well as one could expect, given the severity of the injuries. They’ve been successful in staving off infection so far, which will be crucial for his healing going forward.
Sometimes Ding Rong recaps the day to Wang Zhi’s sleeping form, complaining about the nuisance of Shang Ming and commending the diligence of some of the workers. Other days, he sits beside him in silence, content just to be at his side.
Please wake up.
*
Days later, Wang Zhi does just that.
Ding Rong is sitting in a chair at his side, mind wandering, when he catches movement out of the corner of his eye. Wang Zhi’s face scrunches, his head lifting up as he stirs from his slumber. Ding Rong all but leaps forward, the chair tipping backward, forgotten, as he crouches at the bedside. His heart pounds, vision blurring - and when Wang Zhi opens his eyes and meets Ding Rong’s gaze, Ding Rong huffs a short, choppy breath in disbelief and hope.
“Du-gong?” he asks, soft and tentative in a way he would be ashamed of in any other circumstance.
Wang Zhi groans, runs his tongue along his dry, cracked lips.
“Rong’er,” Wang Zhi croaks, and something in Ding Rong that’s been dammed up bursts forward, flooding his entire being, body and soul.
Before he can drown in it, Wang Zhi’s expression shifts, as if he remembers where he is and what happened. Ding Rong aches to see fear replace confusion; he has never seen him look so small.
“You weren’t there,” Wang Zhi whispers, voice trembling.
Three little words, three little knives that go straight to Ding Rong’s heart. He isn’t sure which of them makes a mournful little sound as he shuffles closer, murmurs urgently, “I’m here now, Wang du-dong.”
Wang Zhi snuffles against the pillow, face softening, appeased. Ding Rong direly wishes to be struck down for ever instilling this fear in his Commander.
Ding Rong bows low, forehead touching the floor. He keeps his breathing steady as he confesses, “I failed you and deserve to die for it.”
From somewhere above him, Wang Zhi makes a displeased, tired sound. “No, you don’t.”
Ding Rong remains motionless, eyes shut tight. It’s not true, of course, and Ding Rong is halfway convinced Wang Zhi is simply saying this because he’s still under the effects of the sedatives. He won’t fight Wang Zhi about this, however - not with words, anyway. His body posture conveys the only rebuttal he needs.
A few seconds pass, and Wang Zhi exhales a breathy little sound. “C’mere. Ding Rong.”
Ding Rong rises to his knees and then to his feet, keeping his eyes downcast as he shuffles closer. He kneels again, this time at Wang Zhi’s side.
“Ding Rong,” Wang Zhi repeats, a note of surprise coloring his name. Ding Rong lifts his gaze to meet Wang Zhi’s wounded one, and it’s only then does he notice the tears dribbling down his cheeks. He’d feel embarrassed if he didn’t feel so raw.
Wang Zhi extends a hand until it’s dangling off the bedside, reaching for Ding Rong - who can only clasp that small hand in one of his own, careful to keep his grip loose enough not to hurt, but tight enough to channel everything he wants to say into it. Wang Zhi’s lips twitch in a smile for a brief second. I’m glad I can still see your smile.
The smile quickly fades, and Wang Zhi releases his hand. Ding Rong mourns its absence already.
“You’re hurt,” Wang Zhi says, sounding accusatory, annoyed that Ding Rong didn’t tell him sooner.
Ding Rong shakes his head, both in disagreement and disbelief that Wang Zhi could find these wounds comparable to what he’s sustained. He takes Wang Zhi’s hand, ignores the pain, and holds on tight.
“It’s nothing.”
Wang Zhi doesn’t seem to buy it, his gaze skeptical, but his need for comfort must outweigh the annoyance. He doesn’t let go of his hand this time.
“It all happened so fast,” Wang Zhi mumbles.
Ding Rong gently squeezes Wang Zhi’s hand. “You don’t have to talk about it, du-gong.”
Wang Zhi hums, a tired, dazed sound like he didn’t hear Ding Rong. “I don’t remember some of it. The smoke. Jia Kui grabbing me.”
“Jia Kui,” Ding Rong spits, allowing venom to seep in his tone so Wang Zhi can know just what he presently thinks of the guard.
There’s a flash of Wang Zhi’s smile again, though it appears sadder than before, worn at the edges.
“It wasn’t Jia Kui’s fault,” Wang Zhi murmurs, running his fingers against Ding Rong’s hand as if Ding Rong is the one in need of soothing and reassurance. “If it weren’t for him, I’d be dead.”
Ding Rong pauses at that, surprised at the leniency. Had this happened a few months ago, Wang Zhi would’ve had Jia Kui executed immediately. But, he supposes, Wang Zhi isn’t the same person he was a few months ago; maybe neither of them are.
“Sir,” he murmurs in acknowledgement of Wang Zhi’s decision.
Wang Zhi shuffles, trying to get more comfortable. He hisses, bares his teeth in pain from moving. Ding Rong is about to fetch the doctors to apply more medicine when Wang Zhi’s expression yet again drops, painted in hues of fear and apprehension, as if the memories hit him with physical force.
“I couldn’t see them when they snatched me from Jia Kui. They took me and I think they stabbed me and then I -”
Wang Zhi cuts off there, an unpleasant shiver racking down his spine, which makes him groan again. Ding Rong gently hushes him, trying to soothe him. “It’s alright, du-gong. It’s over now.”
Through the pain and anxiety, curiosity shines like a light in Wang Zhi’s eyes.
He opens the prison chamber room and shuts the door behind him. The thief is already tied up to the post, and he eyes Ding Rong warily as he approaches the side table. Ding Rong says nothing, doesn’t even look at the scum. He takes out a pouch, and unrolls the fabric to reveal knives and other jagged tools.
The sound of the thief’s sharp inhale makes Ding Rong smile in sadistic satisfaction.
The apprehension on Wang Zhi’s face lingers, like he doesn’t quite believe it. Ding Rong squeezes Wang Zhi’s hand, gentle and reassuring.
“You’re - you’re Ding-daren, right? Look, I already told your assistants what happened! My brother, the one who hurt Wang-daren - he’s dead! They’re all dead. I didn’t touch him, Ding-daren, I swear -”
Ding Rong holds up a knife, inspects the way the torch’s flame gleams in the silver.
Knife in hand, he turns to the thief in one slow, fluid motion.
“I took care of it,” Ding Rong says.
“I don’t care.”
Another tiny smile twists the corners of Wang Zhi’s lips, soft and dreamy. Ding Rong finds himself mirroring the expression.
(The screams echoed down the halls. It took hours for his assistants to clean up all the blood and flesh.)
Assured, Wang Zhi falls back asleep, still clutching Ding Rong’s hand.
Ding Rong lifts their joined hands, presses his lips to the back of Wang Zhi’s fingers.
Later, he will clean his knives and tools, one by one, and think of the fire.
You set fire to cities
you drowned armies
in the red sea of your rage
you mortgaged precious lands
to be at my side