Work Text:
The sun is bright over Xianle’s capital as Mu Qing hauls out a basket of dirty clothing to wash. Taizi Dianxia is deeply meditating, which is his cue to leave him alone to focus on the many, many duties he has to accomplish. He settles down to wash His Highness’s clothes, already planning in his head when he can next visit his mother in between cultivation and chores. He isn’t bothered, necessarily, by the workload on his shoulders; but he has noticed how different he is from the others. He hardly has a break for leisure, with all that Dianxia relies upon him for.
His fingers slip over the fine fabric, smooth and silky. He imagines, briefly, how it would feel to be clothed in it, to wear riches and finery as easily and as carelessly as His Highness does. He imagines his mother in clean, comfortable clothes, her hands growing soft from easy days without labor. And yet, as always, his mind quickly conjures up the image of the other children in the slums, grubby yet radiant as they call to him, “Gege, gege!” They will never have a place in this fantasy of wealth. He works for a good life for himself, and for his mother; yet they deserve comfort as well. If he were to become like the stuck-up nobles around him, he would leave them behind, and he can’t accept that. Mu Qing has seen the poorest neighborhoods and the finest palaces; he knows that the wealthy have a sense of entitlement that stamps out their empathy for the ones they’re meant to protect.
It sickens him.
“Hey! You’re not fucking those up, are you?”
Mu Qing sighs, rolling his eyes. Incredible; now the devil can appear without him even thinking of him.
“I know how to wash Dianxia’s clothing,” he says scathingly as Feng Xin squats down to inspect his work, his eyes narrowed. Just the sight of him makes Mu Qing bristle. “Last I checked, he didn’t have any complaints about my work.”
Feng Xin scoffs. “He’s just too kind to you.” Mu Qing bites down hard on his lip to stop himself from cussing him out, or throwing a punch. What a bastard .
“Either way, you don’t need to watch me. Unless you’re going to make yourself useful and wash them yourself.”
Feng Xin crosses his arms. “Of course I need to watch you. I can’t be sure that you won’t try to slip one of His Highness’s garments away.”
Mu Qing’s fists clench in the delicate fabric. In his rage, he doesn’t have the self control to prevent himself from snapping, “As if I’d want any of this anyway.”
That, at least, throws Feng Xin. He rears back a bit, his eyes wide. “What?” he says, shocked, but his surprise quickly turns to anger. “Don’t fucking insult Dianxia’s wardrobe!”
Mu Qing rolls his eyes. “The clothes are fine,” he says, “but I don’t want to be like those rich idiots. So stuck-up and full of themselves – as if they’ve actually earned any of their wealth.”
Feng Xin looks like he’s on the verge of popping a blood vessel. His face is beet red, and he practically shouts, “Are you saying Dianxia hasn’t worked hard?!”
Ironically, the more upset Feng Xin gets, the calmer Mu Qing feels. He turns back to his washing with a satisfied smirk. “I never said I was talking about His Highness,” he says coolly.
As expected, the reassurance of his loyalty does nothing to soothe Feng Xin. So, then, despite how he tries to act so above it all, so selflessly concerned for His Highness, he’s as proud and self-important as the rest of them. Mu Qing isn’t surprised, but he finds himself oddly disappointed in him. “What are you trying to say, bastard?” he squawks. “I’ve trained hard in the service of–”
“Congratulations,” Mu Qing says coldly. Suddenly, he finds he can’t stomach this conversation anymore. He gathers up the laundry and stands, glaring down at Feng Xin. “Now, I’ll be going. I have better things to do.” He doesn’t give him a chance to respond before storming off. It’s so irritating; Feng Xin, even Xie Lian can work hard to earn the positions that have been thrust upon them, but they will never understand. Mu Qing has had to work every day of his life for even a fraction of what they were born with, and he fights tooth and nail, every day, just to keep it.
No, he thinks. He appreciates the finery that surrounds him, but he’d sooner die than be like them.
“Here,” Xie Lian says, his voice low and toneless. “See what this sells for.”
Feng Xin gapes. “But-Your Highness–” Mu Qing turns away, unable to listen anymore. Xie Lian – not Dianxia, not anymore – sells relic after relic, treasure after treasure, and still they starve. At some point, perhaps that idiot will stop protesting and see the way Mu Qing sees, the way Xie Lian must as well; the money will serve them far better than old, spiritual swords and fine jewels.
And yet, none of it is enough.
It grates on him, knowing they’re barely scraping by. Once, he admired Xie Lian’s work ethic, the way he trained and cultivated ceaselessly even though he could skate by on his title alone. Once his determination was endearing; it inspired loyalty, and even a sense in Mu Qing that he should do more to save their country.
Now he sees more clearly than ever the difference between them. Xie Lian, Feng Xin, the king and queen, what do they know of working to survive, of pushing yourself beyond your limits, of sacrifice? They live as though they will one day regain the comfort and ease of their memories; but that is impossible. They need to learn what work truly means, or they’ll die. All that idealism has gotten them nothing – less than nothing.
(And to think, for a brief, shining moment, the three of them – Xie Lian, Mu Qing, Feng Xin – had had everything they could ever need. For a time, Mu Qing had finally felt secure, like his hard work had paid off, like he could breathe a little easier and know that he could care for his mother. Now, she’s rotting away somewhere very far from him, and he’s caring for a group of overgrown children, and can it really be a surprise when he leaves? How can he possibly stay?)
“Sell it,” he finally says shortly. He feels both their gazes on him, and he turns back, his gaze sharp as he looks Feng Xin in the eye. “His Highness has made his choice. Besides, we don’t need it now.”
Finery – he doubts he’ll ever have it again, and he’s sickened with himself for craving it at all. What use does he have for beauty? He’ll put his focus into finding their next meal and try not to wonder what his mother eats these days.
Mu Qing remains composed as he stomps away from the cottage, but it only lasts so long. As soon as he’s sure he’s out of sight, he leans heavily against a tree, letting himself feel the stinging pain of the bruises on his skin and the shallow gash on his cheek. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.
They don’t understand. They really couldn’t understand. His fists clench. He’d worked to get a position in the middle court, he’d risked that position to bring them food and medicine–
He shakes his head, nearly trembling with rage. Pride, he thinks. It’s that idiotic noble pride that makes them unable to see the way forward. They couldn’t understand sacrifice, when that’s all Mu Qing has done since the beginning, sacrificing his time, energy, and dignity to care for the people he–
Nevermind it now. He can take care of his mother, and he can leave that selfish fallen prince and his foolish bodyguard to starve, if they choose. His heart aches – Xie Lian was almost unrecognizable in there. But no – no. It doesn’t matter anymore. Mu Qing has proven that he can work hard and get what he needs without help or pity. Give them the same chance, then.
Mu Qing makes it, and of course he does. He becomes a grand martial god (is it any wonder, with how hard he’s trained with a saber?) with serious responsibilities (as if he hasn’t been responsible his entire life). His temples are beautiful, and every depiction of him is a work of art.
He holds his head high, proud with the knowledge that he took no shortcuts. He earned everything he got with tireless labor and deep-seated determination.
And when a face from 800 years ago reappears, beaten-down and humbled, something in Mu Qing stirs to give him a second chance. Maybe because old habits die hard, but maybe, he thinks, he sees that telltale exhaustion, the stooped posture of someone who has fought to survive. And despite it all, he hardly seems resentful; he is utterly polite, even to Feng Xin, even to him.
Mu Qing doesn’t need to help Xie Lian anymore. But maybe, if he believes in being different from the rest, he should. Maybe that’s how he sets himself apart from the nobles and princes who were handed their power – he shows compassion and uses it for someone who has so much less. And maybe this time, Xie Lian won’t reject him.