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800 years is a long time.
800 years can see the rise and fall of entire kingdoms. 800 years can see beginnings and ends of mortal lives and their entire line. 800 years can see legends being born, their tales and stories being told for generations after generations.
General Xuan Zhen has the luxury (the blessing, the curse) to say that he has been alive for more than 800 years. He has, quite literally, seen all of these things.
(Mu Qing has seen his home fall to ashes in the flames of war. He has seen his mother slowly fall deeper into the reaching arms of death, before finally succumbing and entering that eternal slumber. He has seen Xie Lian ascend to Heaven three times, each time appearing changed, different, but still somehow himself.)
800 years is a long time to live. A long time to think about what he's done with the life granted to him. To wonder, to regret, to look at the moon reflected in the calm waters at his feet and think, what could I have done differently? What would have happened if I worked harder? Stayed longer? Said something? Would anything have changed at all?
Or to stare at his own reflection, look back to the person that the name 'Mu Qing' belongs to. Look at his sharp features, the stony glare in his eyes, the stand-offish expression his face falls into naturally. How his followers, his worshippers, his believers, continue to pray for him, to him. How he does not give off the aura of a martial god, according to legend - no, to the ink that is set onto paper, he looks more the part of a civil god, with his cutting, smart words and his refined, elegant appearance.
They would not have viewed him like that if they saw him at his beginning, though. They would have kicked that skinny child to the ground, caring not if the rough rocks ripped his clothes to shreds. They would have no qualms throwing a broom in his hands, ordering him to sweep. Or to dump robes on him that have somehow become ribbons, and expect it to be returned in perfect condition. They would have him on his hands and knees, at their beck and call, expecting him to do their bidding, no questions asked.
And he didn't ask questions. He followed orders. He nurtured the plant that started growing inside him, a plant that sprouted from the seed of indignance, watered by helplessness and lit by the pale sun of resignation.
He knows, that if he were a hero in those bedtime stories his mother used to tell him, he would have "exacted his revenge on those who had wronged him in the past". Chopped their heads off, or something of the like. Made them serve him for once, a taste of their own medicine. Their own poison.
Xuan Zhen may be a god, yes - but he is no hero.
He knows the real stories told about him. General Xuan Zhen, the Sweeping General. He ascended because he was cleaning the remnants of the resentful spirits in the wreckage of Xianle. He ascended, because he was sweeping up the bits and pieces of his past.
Ironic, isn't it? Ascending to Heaven, because he was cleaning. Ascending to Heaven, doing the one thing that haunted him wherever he went. No matter how hard the ghosts were to fight, no matter how hard Mu Qing worked - he was simply doing his duty, was he not? Doing what was expected of him? Isn't that what -
A presence, at the edge of his senses, nagging and insistent.
Mu Qing thinks about ignoring it. He should get to have some time to wallow in his own self-pity and have a small existential crisis without being disturbed, shouldn't he?
(He raises two fingers to his temple, a small sigh escaping his lips.)
Most people usually refrain from trying to contact someone at unreasonable hours of the morning, Mu Qing says smoothly, watching as his reflection keeps a blank face. Nothing betrays his annoyance, nothing at all. Perhaps, General Nan Yang, you would be accomodating enough to -
Cut the shit, I'm not in the mood for one of your moods, Feng Xin snaps, his voice clear and ringing through Mu Qing's mind and much too loud for what time it is. Besides, you're awake, aren't you?
Mu Qing raises his eyes to the sky, bristling. You've missed the point.
So you've told me, multiple times, Feng Xin says crossly. Mu Qing's vaguely impressed by the fact that he hasn't just cut off from the array with an angry swear. Anyways. We should probably visit Dianxia tomorrow, we're due for a visit.
You mean today, Mu Qing snipes.
I said quit the attitude already, Feng Xin retorts. Look, I'm being fucking nice and reminding you, aren't I? Ugh, fuck - I don't wanna deal with you right now. Get some fucking rest, alright? Like, you're a pain in the ass to work with, but even more so when you get mad at literally everything. 'Night.
Mu Qing doesn't have the chance to reply before Feng Xin's presence suddenly disappears, abruptly leaves, vanishes - and Mu Qing is, once again, alone.
He snorts lightly. Get rest? Since when does Feng Xin even bother to pretend to care about him? Besides, gods have no need for rest. Mu Qing will be fine.
Gods have no real need for sleep, yes, that's true. But many do it anyways; Quan Yizhen being a prime example. Mu Qing usually does, too, a habit that he never dropped from his mortal life. But recently, he's been finding it harder and harder to fall into that limbo, where time and space simply vanish, and his senses, his self, he is put on hold.
(It is strange, how similar sleep is to death.)
His inability to fall asleep is exactly why he's out here now, absolutely not sulking as he switches between looking at the moon above and his own reflection in the water. Memories from the past, thoughts of the present, and wonderings of the future mix together into a great big pile that only continues to increase in size every time sleep evades him, every night Mu Qing spends with nothing to distract him from his mind.
(Every night Mu Qing spends alone.)
But in his silence - he remembers things. He remembers what could always lull him to rest. He remembers a time, when he wasn't as strong as now, when he could still find refuge in the arms of a loving parent, when he could still curl up in someone else's lap and be enveloped in the warmth that only a mother can give. She would hum, a gentle song with a tune that barely brushed his ears. She didn't need lyrics to let the little boy in her lap know that she loved him, she didn't need to say a word. He knew he was safe in her arms.
(That boy grew up, in time. Soon, he felt the responsibility of taking care of his mother. Eventually, he felt the pain of losing her.)
Mu Qing could bring that song to his lips right now, if he wanted. Start humming softly, a secret melody just for him, and him alone. But the thing is - he hasn't done that for years. Literal centuries. Ever since she closed her eyes for the last time, he has never heard the song, never opened the last gift she gave to him.
(He's being stupid. Stupid and sentimental, words that he would never use to describe himself. But, for this - he thinks it's okay.)
Mu Qing sighs, turning on his heel and beginning to make his way back to his chambers. He still doesn't really have any intention of sleeping, but Feng Xin has the unfortunate habit of disturbing the peace at Xuan Zhen Palace; he barges through the halls, completely ignoring Mu Qing's deputy officials, bursting into Mu Qing's chambers unannounced, complaining about this and that and taking up Mu Qing's time. And, in the same way that Feng Xin doesn't want to "deal" with Mu Qing when he's "mad" (whatever that means), Mu Qing doesn't want to be yelled at in the early hours of morning by an angry god who doesn't know when to mind his own business.
Mu Qing scoffs. He can take care of himself. He has, for over 800 years. He doesn't need to change that.
(800 years, though, is a very long time.)