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there are few things that jing qi has not dreamed of, but here are the common ones:
flitting around with tiny, buzzing wings, flying closer to a warm and loving light, then all at once being enveloped in darkness and feeling his small body be crushed to paste. scampering around on four legs, wagging his tail with unwavering loyalty and being repaid with the removal of his internal organs. budding and flowering under someone's gentle care and then being left to wither and shrivel in death. dashing through a snowy landscape then being brought before a man who seemed eternally pleased with him, then-- a blade, blood, his skin and fur, the pain, the pain , crying out, and then-- nothing.
laying on that battlefield by the river, staring up at the obscured sky while he forces himself through shaky, shallow breaths. his front feeling incredibly exposed and cold. closing his eyes and falling asleep, because there are no footsteps, no sound of approaching horses, and there is no one coming to save him. closing his eyes and falling asleep and waiting for there to be nothing at all, again. waiting for that void he wishes to be held in for eternity sometimes.
those ones, he thinks, he hates the most. those ones are the worst, because, you see, it's simply because, just--
yet when he wakes to the real world again, not in an endless loop of rousing over and over to find that everyone in the world has disappeared, he does not tremble. his breathing is steady from his deep slumber, the bed is warm with furs that cover his body wrapped only in a light sleeping robe, the window has been left open since morning to let in the balmy spring air and sunlight that drips down the walls and spills over onto jing qi's face, and yet; all he feels is nothing at all. it's as if his nightmares have wrung his humanity from him like water from a wet rag-- like wine from an empty jar, like blood from a cooling body. he refuses to leave his room before he feels some semblance of feeling seep back into him through his skin, settling sticky back around his bones like it always does. The same bones that morph to different shapes when he is asleep and endlessly broken.
jing qi purposely has tried to give the impression that the reason he only leaves his and wu xi's bedroom in late morning when it's nearly afternoon is because he's lazy, or he's napping, or both. it has worked, too; nobody disturbs him until the day is just past halfway over if he hasn't stepped outside yet. it still bothers him though, that even with consciousness guiding him through the waking world, sometimes he has to force his eyes away from anyone else, casually, when he wanders through the courtyard and the hallways. sometimes nobody who walks past him with a short, courteous greeting looks human at all. sometimes they're holding knives, sometimes powdered poison, sometimes lanterns, sometimes; an iron pot, for stew. jing qi feels faintly sick as he watches a servant stride towards the kitchen with one with nothing inside. there will be. everyone needs to eat; whoever gets eaten, well. that isn't anyone else's problem, is it?
when wu xi tracks him down later, he smiles lightly and takes the hand offered to him to stand. in a way, he hates it, loathes it more than anything else that somehow his ability to camouflage himself has decayed since coming to nanjiang. it means that wu xi's gaze on him holds more weight than usual when it rests on the side of his visage, not looking back at him. it means he has developed a sixth sense for jing qi's moods, and, well; it's just plain embarrassing to be known that well by anyone, much less someone he cares about more than anyone. he discreetly digs his nails into one of his palms and lets wu xi lead him out of the courtyard towards the dining area for an afternoon meal.
as always, he fills the silence with mindless words, flowery language weaved together with lines of poetry that have absolutely zero meaning to them at all. it feels a bit like a lie, because jing qi knows that wu xi holds tight to whatever comes out of his mouth, whether it be real or untruthful, sincere or feigned. it feels like a lie and it draws the image of the servant hauling that large pot towards the kitchen back to the forefront of his mind. he pauses and places his chopsticks down for a moment, playing at being full even though he's only taken four bites to downplay the nausea. his fingers twitch minutely with the idea to fill his stomach with tea instead, but-- there are so many poisons, so many drugs that are odorless and scentless and easily hidden within a simple beverage. wu xi has told him about enough to last him a lifetime. so he keeps his hands folded in his lap, continuing on this one-sided conversation like it means anything to him.
halfway through an utterly false recollection of some novel he recalls reading back in the great qing, wu xi sets his bowl down and his chopsticks too then turns his heavy gaze to jing qi. his words die on his tongue, tasting so much bitterer than before, and bile coats the back of his throat. "beiyuan," he starts, and hesitates, seemingly still groping around for what he wants to say, "are you alright?"
jing qi blinks dumbly at him for a moment and says nothing before he composes himself again and smiles faintly. "have i given reason for you to believe i'm not?" his tone is conversational, light, like they're discussing the changing of the seasons, or what to have for breakfast tomorrow. dread balls itself into an ugly and slimy mass in the pit of his stomach.
wu xi doesn't answer immediately, a beat of time passing until he opens his mouth again. "you look troubled." he settles on. "upset." he adds, driving the nail deeper into jing qi's carefully concocted defenses, the ones he's built up and depended on for hundreds of years. all of it crumbling into dust with four simple words. and jing qi can't even blame wu xi for it.
he's about to say something in response, but the reaction knocks into him all at once; he immediately throws his head to the side and vomits all over the floor, then tips forward into it and passes out. he slips into unconsciousness so quickly he doesn't hear wu xi call his name and rush to his side, nor does he feel the ache of when his head hits the wood.
in the pale, misty fog, jing qi wanders. his hair trails behind him on the ground, a shock of unceasingly bright white in this grey space. his loose, green robes from when he sat by the three life rock for six decades and some change drag along around his feet, his hands obscured by wide and empty sleeves. he doesn't have a destination nor a goal or desire floating through his mind, but he continues moving forward in the unchanging, empty scenery. perhaps there isn't a destination for him to reach. perhaps he's doomed to wander around here aimlessly forever. strangely, it doesn't sound unappealing at all; even this light like early winter mornings is more comforting than that gentle blackness he hungers for. he keeps walking and inhales the moist air.
yet as if rewarding him for his cooperation, a blurry figure comes into his field of vision, and he stops just a stone's throw away from it when he gets closer. the edges are undefined, like an animal nimble in motion, unable to be captured by a single glance. it holds a staff in its hand, but not the same kind that wu xi does; even in its haziness, jing qi recognizes it as the same ones underworld emissaries carry in paintings, its paper decorations fluttering noiselessly in a nonexistent breeze. "you shouldn't be here." the figure says to him, its voice a mild baritone, tone low and almost too quiet to hear. jing qi cocks his head at it. "where would that be, exactly?" he asks.
the figure dips its head, looking almost reverent in some inexplicable way. "it is not yet time." it explains, which explains nothing at all. "this one will last the longest."
jing qi has a thousand questions sprouting up in his head, but he settles for just one: "the bridge must be nearby, then?" the ghostly emissary lowers its head in a nod. "that's nothing new, why should i wait longer when i'm already here?"
the figure shakes its head vehemently. "it is not yet time." it repeats, sounding more urgent than before, and raises its face again. "i have caused you unimaginable suffering, only for you to return here every time without the ability to be cleansed of my sin." jing qi is struck by a sudden sense of deja vu as it speaks. "it seems i couldn't even keep your hair black, this time." its tone is resigned, yet laced with bottomless sorrow that jing qi feels inexplicably so very familiar with. he steps forward and reaches out to touch this figure, to make sure what he's seeing is real, that this isn't just another damn dream, but his hands go right through as if it's a mirage. frustration wells up in him, surprising him, because-- emotion is foreign in slumber, and sometimes even in consciousness. yet in this in-between world, jing qi feels everything, feels so much it's all he can do not to cry out and collapse to the ground and scream.
"you must return, now." the figure says somberly, and the edges of jing qi's vision begin to dim. before he fades completely, he manages to ask, "what is your name?"-- grasping at sand slipping through his fingers, pleading with fate to grant his wish just this once. the figure doesn't speak, not until jing qi cannot pick it out of the darkness any longer, and tells him, "you may already know." and jing qi is gone, back in that void, and for the first time in any life he's lived-- he wants to claw his way out back to someplace bright.
he comes to in bits and pieces, first regaining feeling in his fingers and toes and then sensation returning to his body from there until he's able to pry his eyes open, blinking groggily at the room that has yet to come into focus. the day has waned into nighttime, but countless stars are visible through the window, gleaming and dancing below the guiding light of the waxing moon. fleetingly, something flashes through his chest, something almost akin to gratefulness. it does not feel fake. and when he draws his gaze down to the bed he lays upon, he is met with wu xi; holding tight to his hand, even in the rhythmic rise and fall of his back that is indicative of sleep. jing qi brings his other hand to place it upon his head, lightly smoothing it over his inky black locks not even freed of their ornaments and beads yet. he's even still in his daytime robes, the ones he wears while attending to his duties as the great shaman. the thankful feeling in his chest melts into something jing qi can only describe as pure affection.
wu xi stirs just barely in his slumber, his mind returning to his body as if jing qi's return had pulled him back too. jing qi's hand rests upon his head, his other clasped with wu xi's own and their fingers intertwined, and the room smells vaguely of lavender.
he decides then that when wu xi wakes up, he'll tell him everything, not sparing a single detail. and wu xi will listen, because he always has, and he always will. wu xi will listen, and jing qi will allow himself to live again, just this once.