Chapter Text
The city didn't hold up at all to the ‘barbarians’ of the east. After all, the city is a center of arts and knowledge, a hub of culture and literati. There was barely a single fighter in the city, and those who did know how to wield the blade fell quickly and permanently to arrows and spears. There never was a fight.
The city has been seized in a single night, swift and sure, and the thundering hoofbeats of a hundred warhorses was the one that woke up the slumbering citizens. The drums in the watchtowers never had the chance to be sounded. After all, every single guard has been eliminated.
So everything leads to this moment, Qingming in rope bonds, dragged into the city's central square by the ‘barbarians’ that broke into his house and seized him. He could, in theory, fight. But he wouldn't.
Not yet. Not now.
The rest of the citizens are there in the square, and just like them, Qingming is made to kneel on the dirt, clad only in his house robes. It was a good thing the raiders brought fire, Qingming thinks with grim amusement, as all the torches have kept the air warm and the chill at bay.
Qingming turns his head slightly, in case his captors disliked that, and he checks on his fellows, trying to see if any were unharmed. It's not everyone - the square is too small to hold everyone in the city - but it's obvious that the citizens gathered here are scholars. Qingming's brothers in the pursuit and preservation of knowledge. This made Qingming smile grimly; most people have called the eastern raiders ‘barbaric, uncouth and unlearned’.
This clearly disproves their claims, because this attack on the city is very much a planned attack.
Qingming wants to yell, to scream: 'The ones you call barbaric and uncouth are just as capable and just as smart as you are!' but he also knows that was a futile endeavor. People, especially the ones living in the safety of the Imperial City, have their noses pointed toward the sky; arrogant, holier than thou, and oh so willing to drive out ones that don't fit their standards.
Qingming would know. Oh, he knows so well. It's exactly why he finds his current situation a little bit humorous; the urge to gloat, that the pampered city people are wrong. So, so wrong.
But he can't do all of that right now. He hears it, over the crackling of the torches, over the terrified breathing of his fellows. Footsteps. Soft, barely audible against the dust of the city square. Qingming tracks the sound, strains his ears, until he sees them. Worn boots, made from supple but strong animal hide, stop before him.
The cold length of a blade presses against the underside of his jaw, and Qingming grits his teeth, suppressing the urge to flinch. The slightest pressure against his yielding flesh, and Qingming looks up-
The raiding leader, the warlord, is a vision. Beautiful in his furs and leathers, long hair kept away from his divine face with complex braids and the elaborate beadwork of his hair piece. The sharp brows, the lips begging to be kissed. Even the dark paint streaked across his face, from one temple to the other, only highlights his sharp gaze, captivating and intense. This warlord, this ‘barbarian’, is devastatingly beautiful, savage in his magnificence in the same way you can't help but be awed and terrified of a storm.
Qingming swallows carefully, testing his tongue. "What is your name, my lord?" He tries, in the language of the eastern raiders, and he catches the spark in the warlord's eyes.
After the thunderous rush of their attack has run its course, the rhythm of adrenaline and pumping heartbeats calmed down and their injured are being seen to, after their victory, the city is quiet.
Boya walks through the dark streets to the city square. The scholars, the wise men and women this town is famed for, are being gathered in the square on his orders. It was Baihu's Longye who came up with this plan: to learn more about their enemies, they should find the books these people read, and talk to those the empire considers wise. It’s not a bad plan, though Boya doubts the cowering lines of kneeling people will have anything useful to say.
Longye-jie is securing the gates for their return to camp, so it falls to Boya to decide which of the simpering masses he wants to take to talk to. If he's even going to find any sensible ones Boya doubts any of them would be willing to betray the Emperor like that, capital-educated as most of them no doubt are.
His warriors salute when he enters the square and the scholars in immediate vicinity start snivelling, and do whatever they can to make themselves look smaller in the vain hope that Boya won't notice them. It has the opposite effect, and only makes Boya walk on in disgust; how can any of these cowards help the Jingyun in their march to the capital?
Row by row the same cowering meets him as he passes by, until he's almost at the back of the square, and ready to order his warriors to just pick a few that look like they may survive the coming winter in an army camp.
Until...
The man is still a scholar, there can be no doubt. But while his neighbours attempt to fold themselves in half at Boya's approach the man barely reacts at all. Stalking towards the man, Boya steps close and draws his dagger, resting it underneath the scholar's chin. He sees eyes widen but notices no flinching, as Boya tilts the man's head to face him using the blade.
"What is your name, my husband ?"
The words are a shock, but not more so than the man who uttered them. Even on his knees he is proud, his back straight and his eyes never wavering from Boya's. Eyes that are deep as oceans, and filled with something Boya thinks might be curiosity, or perhaps mischief. His robes tell Boya this man is a Scholar, but if this man had been born in the tribe Boya suspects he would have made a fine warrior. The man seems too young to be a scholar, but also too bold to have only just left the academy.
It's exactly what he's been looking for, without even knowing it, Boya realises. A scholar who isn't afraid of the tribe, who doesn't cower the moment enemies step close. Someone who knows the empire and might be able to tell them what the tribe doesn't know.
And then there’s that question. He's clearly not used to the words, to the language, judging by the slowness of his speech and the misplaced emphasis. And the ‘my husband’ thing. That must be a mistake, the word resembles the phrase my lord enough that it could be an honest mistake. But when he looks into those deep eyes Boya is less certain. Perhaps the man does mean it. Perhaps Boya would like this to mean his words honestly, and to kiss the lips that called him husband, and–
And Boya has to get himself under control. The city has only just been secured, they're not safe here out in the open, and he's on a mission. Grip tight, Boya sheaths his blade.
"We're taking only this one," Boya tells the warriors behind him, as he turns on his heel and walks to the front of the square. He doesn’t stay to see how the man responds. The other fools can stay here and fret until the tribes are done combing through their libraries and have safely left the city. Compared to Boya's scholar they're all useless.
Oh no. I might've made a mistake .
The very same men that took Qingming from his house grab him by the arms once more, hauling him up to his feet, and Qingming hisses at the rough treatment. Just because he's used to it doesn't mean it gets comfortable, and these means are quite heavy handed, indeed! They march, Qingming being dragged between them, and he realizes he's being taken away.
This warlord is going to take him away. Like some sort of item to be stolen. A war prize.
Qingming's gut churns with indignance, worry and anger. All three emotions warring in his mind and testing Qingming's composure to the limit, making Qingming bite the inside of his cheek just so he wouldn't do something regrettable. Like, oh, maybe grab that raider's sword? The man's grip on his left is a little loose, and if Qingming is fast enough, he can steal it...
... And do what, exactly? He's a prisoner, and not only is he the captive of this beautiful warlord, but the entire city is. There doesn't seem to be casualties amongst the scholars - as far as Qingming can tell, anyways - but they are surrounded by armed men and women. If Qingming makes a wrong move, and the raiders attack...
The ground will run red.
"I must say, this is quite the... Visit," Qingming says aloud, going back to the common language. "Although I'm afraid the usual courtesies haven't been met. Do you not mind our lack of hospitality?"
The grips on his arm tighten, and Qingming smothers a wince. These men are strong. No wonder the city guards didn't stand a chance. And Qingming couldn't fight his way out of this predicament; what can one man, a scholar to boot, do against what seems to be a whole army of raiders? Not that he really knows how to fight.
"You should've come to the city during daylight. It's not much, but I guarantee that the city is much more charming during the day, with the shops open, people milling about, and even some theatres and storyhouses open!" Do they even understand him? Qingming wonders. Oh well. If they do, then good. If they don't, oh well, a pity. No conversation to be had here. "The market is filled with fresh produce and even some snack vendors, plenty to eat and satisfy your palate with."
There is no denying it. Qingming is in quite the problematic situation. And there seems to be no easy way out.
The man seems to have stopped attempting to speak the Jingyun language as soon as Boya left, though he hears him babbling in the Empire's common tongue from across the square as Boya's soldiers march him to the gates.
Boya casts one last glance at the gathered scholars. They've seen one of their own dragged off, and not one of them has so much as raised a finger to object. One or two seem to have raised their eyebrows, however, at whatever nonsense Boya's chosen is still talking. Boya scoffs before turning to the gates as well. Useless, the lot of them. This one man will have to do, there is no way they'll get anything coherent out of the people left behind.
At the gates he finds Longye-jie, ordering the carts her men have filled with books and scrolls they deemed might be useful through the gates. Slow as they are, their burden of books piled high, the carts need as much of a head start as they can be given before the Jingyun army retreats from the city. Mad Painter is there as well, saddle bags filled with scrolls and tubes, his specific mission to find maps clearly a success. And then there is Boya's scholar.
Longye-jie approaches him, the twinkling in her eyes visible from across the street, even in the night-dark. She claps a hand to his shoulder and draws him close, two leaders conferring in the field: "You just had to pick the most handsome one, didn't you?"
Boya huffs a "Shameless," in response as Longye steps back. "They're all cowards: it's a miracle they didn't all faint the moment they saw me. He alone managed to look me in the eye."
"Hmm, and very nice eyes they are, as well. Come, we're all packed up, let us give the guard their orders and move out."
And so they do, but when Boya is about to mount his horse he notices a problem. The carts have all left, led by Longye, their precious information safely on its way. There are now no more carts left to carry any prisoners. The prisoner has stopped talking, apparently finally trying to be ignored, but his guards are looking at Boya.
Boya contains a sigh and rides up to them. The men salute him, and explain what Boya already knows. Longye has filled the prison cart with books as well, and there's decent carts to be found in the city, only increasingly fancy and unwieldy carriages, which the tribes have no use for. They have no way to transport the prisoner.
Boya knuckles his forehead as he looks around the small square around the gates. His warriors are busy leaving, filing out of the city in orderly fashion. Then he looks back at his own horse. He can't be sure Longye-jie planned this. But it definitely feels like she did.
"I'll take him," he tells the men. Stepping close, he draws his knife again, and this time the scholar does flinch a little. Finally the man seems to have found a reason to be concerned, Boya thinks, unreasonably satisfied at the knowledge. He strikes, quick as a snake, and the scholar steps back in reflex, raising bound hands in an attempt at protection.
One of his overly long sleeves flutters to the ground, and Boya snatches it up, and ties it as a blindfold around the scholar's eyes. No sense in allowing the man to see where the Jingyun camp is located, or how to find his way back to the city.
Qingming thought that was the end for him. He hadn't expected for the warlord to come striding back towards him, eyes deadly in their focus and face set in a stony expression. Most of all, Qingming didn't expect - or maybe he really should have - the warlord to draw his blade. He raises his arms in reflex-
Sshink!
That wasn't the sound of flesh being torn open. Qingming opens his eyes, just a little peek, and finds that he's not cut open, nor missing anything. Oh. He sighs subtly, relaxing-
"..."
He then notices the state of his clothes, and gapes.
While they were not expensive, his clothes were still well made and tailored for his comfort. He owns plenty of robes just like this, as he is a creature of habit and comfort, and now... And now the warlord just goes... Just goes and cuts at it?!
And cuts off one of the sleeves, no less!
(In the back of Qingming's head, the part where absolutely no fear manages to reach, thinks that there must be some kind of joke in this whole situation. Oh, Qingming has long known he... Appreciates more than one side, and this warlord is very, very much pleasing to the eye. So for the warlord, to go and cut Qingming's sleeve…
Indeed, there must be a joke in this situation. A poorly made one, yes, but a joke nonetheless. Qingming seems to be the butt of it, which is very much not appreciated, thank you.)
But before Qingming can make his indignance known, the warlord moves, snatching up the blindfold, and he ties the cloth around Qingming's eyes with deft, sure movements.
Qingming chokes back a yelp of alarm, going rigid in the hands of his captors. The makeshift blindfold is secure around his head, taking his sight away, and he finally feels the cold fingers of dread reach in and squeeze his heart, his breath hiking up in slowly mounting terror.
He's vulnerable, like this, bound and blindfolded. The need to escape fights with the need to stay calm, and it's doing a number on Qingming's composure. His composure is slowly but surely leaving his person, whether he wants to or not.
They move again, and Qingming almost trips at the sudden movement, the lack of sight disorienting him. Smart, he grudgingly thinks; uncouth and unlearned? Barbarians who know nothing else but bloodshed and violence?
Qingming wonders if it's treasonous to entertain the thought of the Imperial City being attacked by these raiders, and then he remembers that he really couldn't care much about the Imperial City.
Qingming is then led somewhere and he can only stumble along, making sure he doesn't fall on his face, and soon enough they stop once more. In the quiet, Qingming hears the stamping of a horse's hooves. It's deep huffs.
Are they... Going to make him ride a horse while blindfolded?!
The scholar freezes up behind him as Boya's horse stamps it's feet. Boya brushes a hand down its neck to calm it; tonight has been a long night for everyone.
He climbs on, and uncaring if the scholar would understand his words he tells the men: "Help him on behind me."
Blindfolded as his scholar is, it takes some time to get him situated properly behind Boya. They could perhaps have waited with the blindfold until after they got him on the horse, Boya thinks. But then he would have had to deal with those deep, dark eyes up close. Boya isn't sure he would have been able to contain himself.
The men salute him as he gives the last orders to prepare for the retreat and rides out the gate. As he leaves the walls the sky and fields open up before him and he takes a deep breath. Tonight really has been too long. It's time to return home.
Behind him his scholar twists his head as though looking for something, his hands still bound but staying mostly balanced. It seems the man has at least been on a horse before, instead being dragged everywhere in carriages. Boya looks back at him to check if the blindfold is still in place, when inspiration strikes.
He sits up straight, and waits one moment, two moments for the man behind him to notice. Then he spurs his horse into a quick canter. A yelp sounds behind him as his chosen scholar no doubt feels his world shift. Clumsy hands grab onto Boya's clothes, desperately seeking some handhold to balance him against the unseen burst of speed.
The grasses pass quickly underneath the horse's hooves, and stars pass overhead, and Boya is enjoying himself, the scholar's presence a warm weight behind him, and the wind ruffling the horse's manes and his furs before him.
That is, until he hears the man speak: "My husband, please–"
His accent is still awful, and really, really the man must know what he's saying. He simply must, it cannot be an accident that he is calling Boya husband while they're sharing this horse ride. He does not immediately finish his plea, either lost for words or not knowing the words he needs, but it's enough to make Boya slow down his horse.
If being on the ground blindfolded was disorienting enough, being hauled atop a horse and said horse moving was outright dizzying and made panic flare in Qingming's head, bright and vicious. If not for the saddle beneath him, and the heat of someone - the warlord? Qingming thinks faintly - in front of him, Qingming feels like he's suspended in midair, nothingness all around him, and that was a new kind of fear that he discovers for himself.
By instinct, he turns his head, trying to place himself and only to hiss in frustration when he remembers the blindfold over his eyes. This is going to be a very miserable ride, Qingming already knows. It would've been fine if they just tossed him in a carriage... But no. They had to put him on a horse. Blindfolded.
Is this heaven's punishment? The beginning of heaven's punishment? Qingming is already miserable.
As if heaven hears his thoughts, the horse bursts into a quick canter, and Qingming wasn't able to bite back the terrified yelp that escapes him, hands grabbing the nearest thing he could and not caring what it was, only that he needs something to hold on to.
"My lord, please-" His voice might've cracked in the middle, tongue tripping over itself at the unfamiliar language, but Qingming forgives himself because that was quite the rude surprise. Unpleasant and horrible.
Thankfully the horse slows down into a much gentler canter, still steady and purposeful, and Qingming gathers his scattered wits. He's normally much more composed than this, but...
There's nothing normal about the situation. At all.
"My lord, please, slow." Qingming pleads in the eastern tongue. His knowledge of the language was born of books and accounts of scholars before him, but he knows that his knowledge is flawed. Extremely so. Even his accent sounds horrible to his ears. "Slow, please."
If he falls off the horse and cracks his head open on the ground below - horses aren't short, far from it - then Qingming isn't sure if he can face his mother in the afterlife.
"If this is your idea of a prank, then it's a terrible, terrible one..." Qingming mutters in his own language, fingers flexing over leather. "I quite like horse-riding, but this experience is quickly making me reconsider everything I like about it."
Boya sits on his horse as though frozen, his scholar now mumbling in his own language while the horse carries them both back to the Jingyun camp. Boya has no idea what his passenger is muttering about at this moment. Gold Spirit knew the Empire's language best out of all their scholars, except maybe Zhongxing. But Gold Spirit is with Aunt Fangyue, in the capital and though they seem well from the few messages they've been able to smuggle out of the palace, they want nothing more than to be freed.
Longye-jie knows the language as well, though she prefers her weapons over her studies most days. Regardless, they'll be able to communicate properly when they get back to camp.
It's not the scholar grabbing onto Boya, that froze him. Nor is it the fact that he's chattering about Heavens only knows what at the moment. It's what he tried to ask Boya that has him frozen, train of thought halted as suddenly as if he'd run into a tree.
my husband, please, be gentle
Of course Boya is no fool. He understands that the man is asking him to ride slower, or more calmly. Of course he knows this. But the knowledge hasn't yet stopped his heart racing at the plea of husband and be gentle.
Perhaps he is a fool, after all. A fool for choosing this blasted handsome man, who speaks just barely enough of his language to derail Boya's every thought. Or a fool for taking the prisoner with him himself, when he could have, should have made one of his warriors do it.
He releases the reins, controlling his horse only with his legs for the moment. They've trained for this often enough, though usually that was as a preparation for battle, and not for… this. Whatever this is.
Twisting around, Boya reaches behind him and untangles the man's bound hands from his leathers. For a moment they sit close enough that their noses could touch, Boya's arms now the only thing keeping the man balanced. Then Boya makes the executive decision to just ignore all that , as he raises the man's hands over his own head and across his shoulders in a strange almost-hug. He firmly ignores that too. It wouldn’t do to lose their precious prisoner to a fall of his horse, after all.
All thought ceases to be within Qingming's mind. Or rather, Qingming feels like he himself ceased to be. This wasn't something he had expected - especially not in this situation - but yet it undeniably happened. In a series of events that Qingming never thought he'll live through, this one is the straw that broke the camel's back.
Or rather, broke Qingming's ability to think coherently.
His hands were pried loose from leathers moments earlier, and for a moment, Qingming feared he'll be tossed off of the horse, but-
But the man, the warlord, had taken Qingming's bound hands, lifted them up overhead, before lowering them. Around the warlord's shoulders. Lowered them around his shoulders, like an awkward but undeniable embrace. As if it was a normal thing to do, judging from the lack of hesitation in the man's movements.
Close, too close . Qingming thinks deliriously, frozen like a fox spotted by a hunter. We're too close.
With his arms around the warlord - the confusing, impossible, dangerously fascinating warlord - it was so easy to take note of the broad shoulders. The strong back Qingming is pressed up against. Like this, so close to him, the pretty face has hidden the scent of leather, of sweat and blood. The scent of a man who had killed and has killed. But the man is warm, unbearably yet uncomfortably so, and between the night air and this source of warmth, Qingming knows which one he's picking. But he should shy away, Qingming knows, and yet-
His arms tighten where they rest, mind and body of differing opinions.
"Just don't drop me," Qingming mutters in his own language, bowing his head both in exhaustion and surrender and letting his forehead touch cool leather, the fur of the man's clothes brushing against the top of his head and his ear. "And if you don't want me to choke you like this, don't pull a prank like that again. I don't want to die, thank you very much, and with all the trouble you went to take me away, I'm sure you also don't want me to die."
No reply from the warlord, just the return of the horse's movements, and Qingming remembers the lack of common language between them. He rolls his eyes at himself, behind the cover of his blindfold.
"My lord, slow. Please," Qingming murmurs into the man's back, loud enough to be heard over the hoofbeats.
Qingming feels like that particular phrase will be something he'll be uttering often. Who knew his paltry knowledge of the eastern people would come in handy for his kidnapping?
Joy.
Please
His passenger continues to mumble those accursed words every so often as they ride on. It's driving Boya absolutely mad.
My husband
The man's presence at his back is a welcome source of warmth in the cold night. It shouldn't be.
Be gentle
The words become harder and harder to ignore.
They've almost caught up with Longye and the carts by the time they reach the Jingyun army camp, and Boya has never been so glad to not be alone anymore. Until he realises what this will look like, to those who know him.
Most of their warriors won't care, of course. He's done his job, fulfilled tonight's missions with success and brought home everyone– everything they need to continue their march to the capital. But he can already predict the spark in Longye-jie's eyes. The raised eyebrows of Mad Painter and Snow Hound. Honey Bug's quiet questions. And he hates the fact that he cannot bring himself to regret his actions even so.
The scholar's arms are still around his shoulders as they ride past the guards and into the camp. He wilfully ignores Longye at the head of her caravan and rides further into the camp, to the command tents.
Soon. Soon this weird night will be over, and he can go back to his life, to the plan, and not have to worry about what people think, or what his scholar says. Boya halts his horse, and lifts those warm arms from his furs and over his head. He dismounts first, then helps the scholar down. He is perhaps less gentle than he could have been, but when the man loses his balance before finding his feet he catches him, supporting his weight until he stands on his own.
They have dismounted near his own tent, and though the temptation to reunite with his bed is strong, Boya heads to the main command tent first. He knows Xuanwu's Zhongxing will be waiting on his report there, and to meet the scholars he was supposed to bring. The scholars he did not bring.
Zhongxing knows some of the Empire's language at least. Hopefully he'll be able to get some sense out of Boya's scholar. Or perhaps talk some sense into the man, heavens willing, Boya thinks as he steps into the tent, towing his scholar behind him.
Several ways to cause headaches that Qingming has found; riding a horse without visual orientation, sudden onslaught of noise (have they arrived?) and slipping off of the horse and straight into the arms of the warlord, who was the reason why Qingming fell in the first place. And for the record, he didn't think about how easily the man had caught Qingming, no. He didn't think of it. Why would he?
... Well, maybe he did think of it, but just a little. Qingming isn't a small and slim maiden - he's a fully grown man, thank you! - and for someone to catch him with nary a waver in their arms...
There must be fire nearby, with the sudden heat in Qingming's face. Yes, that must be it.
Qingming feels unsteady, despite standing on solid ground, and the sudden tug on his bonds doesn't help. He stumbles and manages to catch himself, getting his feet and legs to work once more and helping him walk somewhat normally. The noise was a little overwhelming, like the sound of a busy marketplace at midday. Do these people stay up until the moon is high in the sky, or is this a special occasion?
Of course, if a raiding can be considered a special occasion for the eastern people.
A slightly insistent tug on his bound hands, and Qingming purses his lips and picks up the pace. He twists his hands as best as he could in his bonds, and grabs onto the wrist of the hand tugging him along. The words 'please, slow' itch behind his teeth, and Qingming already feels like he's overused that word in just an hour. The wrist in his grip tenses for a moment, before going lax.
Qingming's grip wasn't shaken off, so he leaves his own hand wrapped around that leather-clad wrist. If he's not moved, then he won't move.
After a rapid walk across what is definitely a settlement, Qingming feels the air change, like how the air feels when someone opens and closes a door. The muffled sound, the warmer atmosphere. The feeling like they're... Somewhere inside? Are they in a structure of some sort?
The urge to take the blindfold off is strong, and luckily for Qingming's impulse, someone takes it off for him. Qingming takes a moment to slowly blink, wincing at the sensitivity of his eyes. He gently dabs at his eyes with his other sleeve, the uncut one, and when his eyes are done hurting, he glances up.
And looks upon an aged man, who exudes both agelessness and youth. Long haired with thicker braids woven into them, tied near the end with a simple ribbon. Laugh lines aplenty on the kind face, and warm eyes that makes Qingming relax as he meets that gentle gaze. He was dressed in simple yet thick robes, lending an air of someone important, someone to be respected.
The aged man smiles, and the smile is so, so kind.
"Welcome, fellow," he says, in heavily accented common, and Qingming gapes. Someone here speaks the same language as Qingming? "Travel went well?"
Whatever Zhongxing says to the man seems to come as a shock, Boya thinks, still holding the blindfold. Did the man honestly expect that there would be no tribesmen who spoke the Imperial language? Boya contains the scoff, more for Zhongxing’s sake than the scholar’s.
Zhongxing turns to Boya when the scholar doesn’t answer, still smiling that same kind smile. He switches to Jingyun to address Boya: “Is this the leader of the scholars?” He peers at the man: “Seems rather young, doesn’t he?”
Boya doesn’t even try to fight the scoff this time, and immediately feels the scholar’s eyes burning on his face, keeping a close eye on him. “ Tch . That whole city was filled with cowards. Not one of them could form a coherent thought in any language when they saw our warriors. I brought this man alone, as he was the only fool brave enough to even look me in the eye.”
Zhongxing continues to smile, no doubt for their guest’s benefit, and only quirks an eyebrow. Boya knows what it means well enough, however. It means: This wasn’t the mission . They had agreed to find several scholars, in hopes of getting a better spread of knowledge from them and not accidentally getting one who wasted his days studying dead poets.
It also means we will talk about this later, Boya knows, as Zhongxing turns back to their guest-and-prisoner. Zhongxing speaks to him again in the Imperial tongue, something that may or may not be the same question. It sounds similar, but it would have been hard keeping track even when he hasn’t just ridden through the night, raided an entire city, and ridden all the way back with the fool standing next to him hanging on to Boya too close for comfort.
The scholar still doesn’t respond, blinking owlishly at Zhongxing, at Boya, and at the tent in general. Boya rolls his eyes. One would think the man has never seen a tent in his life.
Zhongxing remarks out loud: “Still, there is something familiar about his eyes. You may have picked right after all…” he trails off as though Boya is supposed to understand what he means. And though Boya knows the scholar’s eyes are special, like magnets drawing his own eyes every time the man turns to look at him, Boya doubts that that is what Zhongxing means.
A thought strikes Boya: “He has some knowledge of our language, though deeply flawed. Perhaps we can teach him?” The thought of being able to understand this maddening creature lights a hope in Boya, but sniffs it out again as quickly. If the man learns the Jingyun language properly, he won’t call Boya my husband again.
Not that Boya cares about that.
While the warlord and the aged man converse between themselves in their own tongue, Qingming sits there reeling in shock. Never had he considered the possibility of meeting the eastern people, and more so the idea of the eastern people understanding Qingming's mother tongue. The books he had read, while informative, were clearly... Limited in the knowledge they hold. Most likely even biased, heavily polluted by personal opinion and impartial thoughts. But nonetheless, Qingming had devoured those books all the same, desperate for knowledge, starving for it like a man without meals for a month.
But right now, within the settlement of the eastern people, presented with a man who can speak with Qingming...
Qingming's mind hungers.
His hands itch for a brush and ink, for some paper. He wants to ask, to know, to talk with someone who intimately knows the people of the east. Is one of the people of the east. Qingming's hunger for knowledge is a starved beast, and the longer he stays here, the more he wants to know, to study, and grows stronger.
Ah, but he's not here for completely innocent reasons, is he? Moreover, he never decided to go here with his free will, as he was taken. Brought back and presented like a well-hunted game.
So Qingming bites back the scholar's urge, pushing it down and saving it for later. He has other things to deal with, for the moment.
He clears his throat softly, and eyes land on him, making him fluster for a moment before he gets his wits back. Addressing the aged man - a tribe elder? Qingming can't help but wonder - Qingming speaks: "You speak the Central Plains language?" He begins. "How?"
The man smiles, amused. "The same way you know our language," he replies in kind, and Qingming flushes. "You are a surprise to me, just as I surely am a surprise to you."
Qingming's eyes flicker to the warlord, who had fallen quiet off to the side. "Does... Does he understand?"
The aged man shakes his head, the trinkets in his hair clicking together softly. "Few of my children do," he murmurs. "Only one other knows, aside from me. Baihu Longye."
There was a strange way when he said the words 'Baihu Longye', as if it's both a name and a title. And Baihu? The White Tiger? They know of the White Tiger as well? Qingming files away that fact for now, as well as the name 'Baihu Longye'. If there are two people who can speak common here, then there is twice the opportunity for Qingming to learn about the eastern raiders. The eastern people.
(Should he be concerned that he's no longer too bothered at being taken away from what was his home for the past several years? Maybe, but Qingming also ushers that thought to the side for now.)
"Why did you take me?" Qingming finally asks. His hands, bound as they are, curl into the cloth of his robes. "I don't think this is a simple cultural exchange."
The man smiles, and now it's both sad and helpless. Like a man driven into a corner, and pushed to take the last resort.
"Help," the aged man murmurs. "We need help."
Cold creeps within Qingming's blood: "... Help with what?"
"Taking back something precious from the Imperial City."
Zhongxing has stopped smiling, Boya notes with surprise, his face gone serious and his tone soft. It's frustrating, not knowing what the two of them are talking about. Zhongxing will tell him soon enough, he's not worried about that. It's just that Boya would like to know , would like to be able to keep up. Perhaps he should ask Longye-jie to teach him the language after all, he thinks.
...or perhaps not. He can just about imagine her smirking response: so you refuse my offers to teach you all these years but the moment you find yourself a handsome scholar suddenly you want to know? He couldn’t even blame her, either. It is rather ridiculous, this urge he feels to find out more about the strange man who was willing to look an enemy in the eye. Who was unafraid, even curious.
'What is your name, my husband?' he'd asked, hours and hours ago, on his knees in the cold night, with Boya's knife pressed to his throat. Like that information might be worth the danger the man was in. Like knowing Boya's name was worth dying for.
It's aggravating. Boya finds he would like to know this man's name as well. Just to make things easier. Only thinking of him as "scholar" or "prisoner" is getting old fast.
Whatever turn the conversation has taken, both Zhongxing and Boya's scholar now wear serious expressions. Zhongxing seems to be considering something, and the scholar's attention is wholly absorbed. It gives Boya a better chance to study the man, now that they're safely out of the city, and out of the dark night.
Here in the warmly lit tent his white robes look, quite frankly, a mess. Never intended for travel, Boya doubts if they're even warm enough to keep out the cold of night. Dirt stains the front and bottom edge of the robes, no doubt a combination of travelling by horse, and being left to kneel on the ground. The one sleeve that hasn't been cut in half has not managed to escape the road dust. His broad shoulders are only softened by the scholarly robe he wears, dignified despite its state.
They were, however, once quite nice, Boya thinks. The fabric was not chosen for warmth, but for its softness. His hair is windblown, worn impractically loose, with only the front parts tied back to keep his sharp face clear. Boya wonders what the man would look like with braids, then quickly discards the dangerous image. Braids would suit him , a traitorous part of his mind whispers even so.
Boya drags his eyes away from the scholar, to the roof of the tent. He can't afford to be distracted. They have no time to make friends. Winter is looming ever closer, and they are on a mission. He has an army to lead. He cannot afford to be distracted.
"It would help if we knew his name, Uncle," Boya states, careful not to phrase it as a question. They've got to keep moving. It's not that Boya wants to know. It's just that it would be useful.
The warlord interrupts softly, pulling Qingming's eyes and attention onto the man. The aged man pauses briefly, blinking almost owlishly at the warlord. The aged man then lets out a soft huff, amused, before turning back to face Qingming. The grimness and exhaustion on the aged man's face receded somewhat with the genuine smile on his face. Qingming wonders once more if the stolen item is that important that this venerable man before him is driven to such a sad state.
"Forgive me for my lack of manners," the aged man begins, before pressing both hands to his chest, one hand under each collarbone. "I am named Zhongxing, of Xuanwu," the aged man, Zhongxing of Xuanwu - such an odd pattern of words - says with a dip of his head.
Qingming's hand twitches for the fan that is not there, so he settles for the usual salutation of the jianghu, bowing his head for added formality. He surely looks quite the mess from the ordeal he just went through, but that shouldn't stop him from being polite. "My name is Qingming, elder Zhongxing," Qingming replies.
A hand raises. "Grand-Uncle will be fine," the man, Grand-Uncle Zhongxing, says: "It is what I am called here, and it is what I like to be called."
Qingming nods, filing that note for later: "Then, Grand-Uncle, why did your... children, ride through the night and raid a city of scholars?" It's a pity that Qingming doesn't have a fan to hide most of his face with. He feels quite naked without a fan. "You say, you need my help to take back something the Imperial City has stolen. Wouldn't I be useless? I am a scholar, after all; neither a thief…," Eyes flicker over to the warlord standing to the side. "Nor a warrior." Qingming fixes a smile on his face, hoping the sound of his frenzied heartbeat isn't heard, betraying his nervousness and fear. "As much as I'd like to help Grand-Uncle, as he had asked, Qingming is afraid he cannot be of much help."
Here, Grand-Uncle Zhongxing lets out a hearty laugh, full and coming from deep within his chest. It was so sudden, that laughter, that Qingming is sure he's gaping, mouth open and eyes wide.
Qingming is sure he didn't make a joke. Why did Grand-Uncle laugh?
"One never sees his own face with his own eyes..." Grand-Uncle murmurs, huffing in amusement, before fixing Qingming with a look. It was still the same kind look, the same warm gaze... But there's something lurking behind the gentle facade, something... dangerous just hiding beyond what Qingming can see.
"Qingming... Have you ever had something you held dear taken away?"
Qingming goes still. The silence in his head is deafening.
He watches Grand-Uncle Zhongxing turn to the warlord, murmuring softly to the man for a moment, before he turns back to Qingming. The kind, aged man is back.
"It is late, and the sun moves ever closer. Rest, tonight, and we will talk later," Grand-Uncle Zhongxing declares. A clear dismissal. "None of us here wish to hurt you, Qingming. I hope that will put you at ease, even here at our home."
A very nice way to say behave. But, Qingming has to say he's... Fine, so far. Untouched and unharmed. Emotional distress caused by the captivating warlord aside, of course.
Qingming salutes towards the eastern tribe elder once more.
"Then... Qingming will hand himself over quietly."
He wonders where they will detain him for the night.
Qingming.
Uncle Zhongxing says the scholar's name is Qingming . When Uncle says the name Boya has to fight the urge to do a double take. With how softly Uncle is speaking, for a moment it almost sounded like the man said Qinglong. One of their own tribes. Then the rest of Zhongxing’s words carry themselves to his ears, and Boya realizes he only misheard.
It's good to have a name. It's a start, an opening, and Zhongxing seems to get along well enough with the scholar, Qingming's behaviour polite even by empire standards. Perhaps Boya chose the right man after all, neither a coward nor a rude fool when one speaks the same language. And it's good to have a name for the man whose eyes draw his own so very easily.
Besides, the man – Qingming, he reminds himself – will have to do. They have no time for other raids. The empire will hear of their actions soon, messenger pigeons possibly already on their way to Imperial army outposts even now. Soon the camp will have to be moved, and with winter's approach they cannot wait forever to cross the mountains that still lay between them and the capital, their goal.
In his head Boya is already going over all the things that need to be done. The new books and scrolls they obtained from Qingming's city will barely get a chance to be unpacked, and a place to store them will have to be arranged, with as much protection against the autumn's fickle weather as they can manage. Longye-jie will no doubt put herself in charge of it all, and Boya is more than happy to let her, and take care of the usual practicalities himself. Their people are well organised, and used to a life on the road, and in tents, but never with this many people at once. Never before now, at least. It has never been necessary for all the Jingyun to join together like this, and Boya hopes that after this it will not be needed ever again.
Qingming bows to Uncle again, and whatever he says, Uncle seems pleased. Zhongxing turns to Boya and says out loud, not with the murmur of a translator: "The scholar Qingming has agreed to hand himself over to our care." Boya nods, accepting this surrender. Then Zhongxing turns to Qingming, and says something Boya does not understand, but in which he hears his own name, Zhuque Boya, mentioned, as well as Jingyun. Judging by Uncle's gesture at him, he is introducing Boya as the Jingyun's leader. Boya does his best to look like he fits that title.
As soon as Zhongxing falls silent Qingming turns to face Boya, and raising his hands in the empire style Jianghu greeting, he speaks, his tone formal and very serious: "My husband and Jingyun leader Boya, this one is called Qingming "
The silence from Zhongxing is deafening, as Boya freezes in front of Qingming's respectful bow. ‘What am I supposed to do with this?’ flies through his mind, immediately followed by ‘I chose wrong. So wrong’.