Work Text:
[Où est ton papa,]
Mu Qing had a father once.
He’s a shadow of a memory now. A cloud of dust in his mind, a pair of rough, calloused hands; Mu Qing could no longer put a face to his name, nor could he really provide a name. He only remembered him as Bàba.
It made him feel guilty. He mourned his father’s death every year without fail, and yet, he could barely remember who his father was, what he looked like, whether he loved him or not.
Even after eight hundred years, Mu Qing could remember his mother’s name (Wen Xiaodan), what he called her (Māma) and what she looked like (an almost-exact copy of Mu Qing, only a lot happier and a little bit shorter); lord, he even vaguely remembered his elder siblings, who up and left their family before he was eight years old, but not his father.
His father’s touch was warm, soft. His voice a deep, soothing baritone, his chest warm and safe. He remembered aspects, parts of the person but not the whole.
Mu Qing longed to remember the whole.
[dis-moi où est ton papa,]
There had been reports of a wandering spirit scaring the inhabitants of a far distant village. It was wailing, screaming in the dead of night, calling out for someone, his bǎo bèi.
Some villagers thought the spirit was calling out for a long lost lover, that he died as a result of a love affair gone wrong and he was searching for his other half, but others suggested he was looking for his lost child, as bǎo bèi can refer to both a lover and a small child.
Whatever the reason, the wandering spirit was causing enough of a ruckus that the villagers had begun to pray to Xie Lian for its’ dispersal. My children are too scared to go out, one prayer said; it’s disrupting my business, no one will come until the spirit is gone, another said.
Please, a small child said, hands clasped at Xie Lian’s altar, please make him happy again. At night, all I can hear is its’ cries. I don’t know why he’s sad, but please Diànxià, make him happy again.
[sans même devoir lui parler,]
Hua Cheng had his arms wrapped around Xia Lian’s waist, his face buried in the crook of his neck, soft breaths blowing against his neck.
“So what does gēge want to do?” He asked, eyes closed.
“What else is there to do?” Xie Lian said softly, leaning into Hua Cheng’s touch before inevitably having to let go. “The spirit is disturbing the village’s peace.”
“Then I will come with gēge. The spirit could be dangerous.”
Xie Lian smiled. “I wouldn’t want to waste your time; Ghost City needs you.”
Hua Cheng shook his head. “Helping gēge is not a waste of time.” He picked up E-Ming, who had been propped up against the faraway wall. “Let’s go. The sooner we get rid of this spirit, the sooner we can come back.”
He rolled the dice.
[il sait ce qui ne va pas,]
Xie Lian first spoke to the owner of an inn, an old woman by the name of Sung Yawen. She was dressed casually, her long grey hair done up messily, and always with something in her hands, be it a tray of food or a basket of washing.
“You’re askin’ about the ghost?” She said, setting the tray of tea down on the table. “Thank the heavens!” She laughed. “He’s been drivin’ away my customers with his wailin’, you know. You gonna get rid of him?”
“That’s the plan.” Hua Cheng replied, pouring a cup of tea for Xie Lian, who nodded at Sung Yawen in thanks.
“Where might we find him, this ghost?” Xie Lian asked.
Sung Yawen gestured with her head in a vague direction. “There’s a clearin’ not too far from ‘ere, usually you can find him there, but sometimes he’ll wander into the village and scream the damn house down lookin’ for his ‘bǎo bèi’.” She shook her head. “Only comes out at night, hasn’t hurt anyone yet but I wouldn’t rule it out.”
Xie Lian smiled. “Thank you, we’ll do our best to stop this ghost before it hurts anyone.”
“Y’know, it might help if you find out who his bǎo bèi is. Maybe you could find ‘em, stop him worryin’ so.”
Hua Cheng nodded, his face its’ usual deadpan. “We’ll keep that in mind.”
Sung Yawen looked between the two of them, seemingly wanting to say more, but she said nothing. She simply nodded in confirmation and left to tend to other visitors. Hua Cheng waited until she was out of earshot before speaking.
“So, what does gēge want to do?”
Xie Lian shrugged. “I’m not sure. Maybe if we find him, find out who his bǎo bèi is, then maybe we could get him to move on peacefully.” He rested his head on his hand. “I would like to do this peacefully, if possible.”
Hua Cheng pulled a face that told Xie Lian he disapproved. “We don’t know how strong he is gēge,” He said. “And finding out who his bǎo bèi is, it might take time. They might not even be alive anymore.”
“Yes, I know San Lang,” Xie Lian frowned. “But I at least want to try.”
“Okay,” He nodded. “Whatever gēge wants. We’ll figure this out.”
They spent most of the day in the inn, coordinating a plan of (not) attack and speaking to anyone who came in, asking if they knew anything of the ghost, anything that they didn’t already know. ‘He’s got a cut around his neck,’ one villager said, ‘Like someone tried to cut his throat’. ‘He’s not from around here,’ another said, ‘He’s got a different accent. I don’t recognise it’. ‘He just...wanders,’ an old man told them, ‘appears sometime around midnight, every night without fail, walks until daylight, then he disappears. He doesn’t seem dangerous, we only want him gone because he wakes us up when we try to sleep’.
By early evening, Xie Lian felt as if he had a clear picture of who this ghost was, for the most part; he still didn’t know who the ghost’s dear bǎo bèi was, he’d have to ask the ghost himself that, but it was easy for him to determine that they must’ve been important to the ghost in life, if he was still looking for them in death. Xie Lian wondered where they went.
“So we need to wait until midnight. Then, we can talk to the ghost, figure out who his bǎo bèi is, and peacefully put him to rest.” He explained out loud, partially to himself and partially to Hua Cheng, who was listening intently.
He hummed in agreement.
“Is there something wrong San Lang?”
Hua Cheng shook his head. “No gēge, you’ve come up with a good plan. I just wonder who this ghost is, how long it’s been hanging around. I don’t want gēge to get his hopes up about finding this bǎo bèi figure.”
Xie Lian smiled and wrapped his hands around Hua Cheng’s fist. He ran his fingers over his knuckles comfortingly. “I know; I just hope we’ll be able to find them. I won’t be torn up if we can’t.”
Hua Cheng nodded.
“Excuse me sirs?” A small child said, voice wavering. They stood at the head of their table, wringing their hands together, too nervous to meet the gaze of either Xie Lian or Hua Cheng. “Are you the cultivators who are looking for the ghost?”
Xie Lian smiled again, though this time a little bit softer; he also bent down to the child’s level. “We are.” He said. “Do you have some information for us?”
The child nodded and produced a small rattle drum from their sleeve before placing it on the table. It was simple, rudimentary, it had probably been cheap to purchase, or easy to make. There were small juts on the handle, were smaller twigs had been snapped off, and there was a wooden ball missing from one of the dangling strings.
For a second, Xie Lian thought it was the child’s, but then he realised.
“Did this belong to the ghost?” He asked.
The child nodded. “He dropped it, in the clearing. I want to give it back, but my mum won’t let me. She says the ghost is dangerous.”
“But you don’t think he is?”
They shook their head. “I just think he’s sad. He just wants his bǎo bèi back.”
Xie Lian ruffled the child’s hair affectionately, still smiling. “Thank you. We’ll make sure to give the rattle back.”
“Will you find his bǎo bèi?”
Xie Lian paused. “We’ll do our best.”
“Okay.” The child said, quietly. “Thank you, sirs. I hope you find them.”
The child scurried off out of the inn, leaving the tattered old rattle drum on the table. Xie Lian picked it up and carefully spun it. It made a disjointed tap sound, given that one of the beads was missing.
“San Lang, do you think belonged to the ghost’s bǎo bèi?” He asked, running his fingers down the handle.
“I presume so. I doubt it belongs to the ghost itself.”
“So, this bǎo bèi is the ghost’s child?”
“Probably.”
Xie Lian hummed, and observed the rattle drum further. There was a small carving on the bottom, two characters presumably spelling a name, but Xie Lian couldn’t read it. It had long since worn away, as if someone had repeatedly run their fingers over it, lamenting a loss of some kind.
“I wonder what happened.” He said to himself.
“We’ll find out tonight gēge.” Hua Cheng said, reclining in his chair casually. “Probably.”
[ah sacré papa,]
Midnight rolled around, eventually, and Xie Lian found himself stood on the edge of a small clearing, waiting for the mysterious ghost to appear. The old rattle drum was in a pouch, hanging by his side.
“Where is it?” Hua Cheng frowned.
“Hush San Lang,” Xie Lian nudged his side with his elbow. “The old man said he appeared every night at midnight without fail. We just have to wait a while.”
Hua Cheng huffed and folded his arms like a scorned child.
A short while later, just as Xie Lian began to question whether the ghost would turn up or not, he heard a quiet cry a short distance away, followed by a flurry of disturbed birds. He hurriedly tapped on Hua Cheng’s shoulder.
“San Lang, San Lang!” He whispered. “I think the ghost is here!”
The cries got louder and louder. They were beginning to sound more and more like words.
“Mm,” Hua Cheng replied. “I think gēge is right.”
As the cries got closer and closer, Xie Lian managed to make out what the ghost was saying:
“Bǎo bèi!” It yelled. “Bǎo bèi, where are you? Come back, bǎo bèi!”
Xie Lian produced the rattle drum from his pouch and waited until the ghost appeared at the edge of the clearing. When he did, Xie Lian began to twist the rattle and its’ tapping noise rang out.
The ghost paused, listening to the drum. “Bǎo bèi?”
The ghost looked exactly like how the villagers described him; there was an open wound circling his neck, his black hair was cut alarmingly short, just above his ears, and curled slightly at the ends. His clothing was simple, stained with blood around the neck, and he was without shoes. His accent was indeed not from the area, it reminded Xie Lian of Yong'an, which was impossible, given that city-turned-kingdom had long since fallen. The ghost must’ve been a couple of hundred years old at least.
Xie Lian took a step, intending on walking out into the openness of the clearing, when Hua Cheng grabbed his arm and stopped him.
“Be careful gēge.” He said, with a worried expression on his face.
Xie Lian smiled and rested his hand on Hua Cheng’s arm in an attempt to comfort him. “I will be San Lang.”
Xie Lian gave Hua Cheng once last smile before stepping out into the clearing. The ghost was still stood on the edge of the clearing, seemingly entranced by the sound of the rattle drum, still calling for his bǎo bèi.
When the ghost realised that it was not his bǎo bèi with the rattle drum, but rather Xie Lian, he frowned. His eyes were familiarly hollow.
“You’re not my bǎo bèi.” He said, still stood on the clearing’s edge. “Why do you have his drum?”
So this rattle drum does belong to his bǎo bèi.
“I found it.” Xie Lian replied, in a calm, mediating voice; the exact voice he used to defuse arguments between Feng Xin and Mu Qing. He held the drum out in front of himself. “I would like to give it back.”
The ghost took a few tentative steps forward, scared that Xie Lian would disappear with the drum once it got within his grasp, but when he realised that in fact, Xie Lian was not going to disappear anywhere with the drum, he almost ran towards him and snatched it out of his hands. He grasped it tightly, knuckles turning white around it. It looked as if he was never going to let go.
“Thank you.” The ghost said, quietly. “Thank you for giving it back; I don’t know what I’d od if I lost it forever.”
“Do you mind if I ask who your bǎo bèi is?” He took a step closer to the ghost, who noticed him, but didn’t move back. “Maybe I could help you find them?”
The ghost smiled wistfully, still looking at the rattle drum. “He’s been lost for a long time now, I don’t know if you’d be able to find him.”
“It’s worth a try, right?” Xie Lian reached. “And who knows? Maybe we’ll find him.” He put his hand on the ghost’s shoulder, trying to ease information out him. He didn’t want this to end violently. “Please, tell me about him. Tell me about your bǎo bèi.”
“It’s been so long.” The ghost lamented. “When I last saw him, he was about this big,” He gestured to his waist. “He was almost a complete copy of his mother; the only thing he got from me was his hair,” He laughed. “And his stubborn attitude. He was so strong, so kind; I was so proud of him. I wish I could’ve told him that.”
Xie Lian smiled sadly, looking over the ghost’s mournful face. “What happened?”
“I died. I died and I left them behind, and when I went to look for them, they weren’t there.”
The ghost was crying now. Xie Lian didn’t even know that ghosts could cry, and he certainly didn’t know that they could cry like this; full body sobs, snot and tears running down his face. Xie Lian helped him into a sitting position on the ground.
“Where were they when you last saw them?” He asked. “Maybe we could go and look once again?”
The ghost shook his head. “You can’t. It’s not there anymore.”
“What isn’t?”
“The city!” The ghost exclaimed, his dark eyes blazing. “Xianle! I went to find them and it’s gone!”
Xie Lian froze.
Xianle?
But Xianle fell over eight hundred years ago!
Has he...
Has he been searching for his bǎo bèi for over eight hundred years?
“You’re...” Xie Lian swallowed loudly. “You’re from Xianle?”
The ghost shook his head. “We were from Yong'an, but our youngest was born in Xianle.” He smiled at the mention of his youngest. “We were looking for a better life.” He said. “But we didn’t find it.”
Xie Lian frowned. “I’m sorry.”
The ghost smiled sadly. “You needn’t apologise, it’s not your fault.”
Xie Lian felt tears gather in the corners of his eyes. But it is, he thought. You have no idea.
He quickly wiped his eyes and hid his sadness with a smile. “Your youngest, is he your bǎo bèi?”
The ghost nodded.
“What is his name?” He asked. “I want to help you look, in fact I insist.”
I have to help one of my former citizens, he thought. I have to help one of my former citizens find their way home.
“Qing.” The ghost said. “His name was Qing.”
Xie Lian paused once again.
Qing?
He shook his head.
No.
It couldn’t be him.
There must’ve been hundreds of children in Xianle called Qing.
It couldn’t be him!
It couldn’t be...
“And what is your name?” Xie Lian said. “If it’s not rude of me to ask.”
“My name?” The ghost seemed confused. He seemed to wonder why Xie Lian cared to ask. “My name is Mu Yin.”
Mu?
Mu Yin?
Does that mean...
Mu Qing?
How many children were there in Xianle called Mu Qing?
There must’ve been a few,
But I only knew one.
“Your son, your youngest...” Xie Lian began hesitantly. “Was he called Mu Qing?”
The ghost, now known to him as Mu Yin, nodded. “We wanted him to feel safe, we wanted him to be happy. I don’t know if he ever was.”
Xie Lian smiled sadly and rubbed Mu Yin’s shoulder comfortingly. “I’m sure he was.”
Mu Yin smiled back, but he didn’t seem convinced. “Do you think you could take this-” He handed the rattle drum back to Xie Lian. “-and give it to Mu Qing, my bǎo bèi, when you find him.”
Xie Lian cradled it in his hand carefully, seemingly scared to break it, now that he could safely guess who it belonged to (not that he didn’t care about being careful with it before). “Would he recognise it if he saw it?”
“He might do.” Mu Yin shrugged. “But I’m not sure.”
Xie Lian thought for a moment longer, before nodding and standing up from his seat on the ground. Mu Yin got up as well, dusting the dirt off of his clothes. The first signs of light were breaking through the trees.
“I’ll make sure to get this back to Mu Qing, I swear on it.” He insisted.
“Thank you.” Mu Yin smiled, genuinely this time. “What should I call you? I think it’d be rude if I continued to call you mister nice man in my head.” He laughed.
Xie Lian hesitated. He didn’t know if giving his real name would be a good idea.
“Fang Xin.” He said. “Call me Fang Xin.”
[dis-moi où es-tu cache,]
“You think that’s his father?” Hua Cheng said, an open look of surprise on his face. “You think that ghost was Mu Qing’s father?”
Xie Lian snuggled into Hua Cheng’s chest. They had returned to the village a short while after meeting Mu Yin and had settled in a room at the inn they visited the last morning. “I just think it’s too much of a coincidence. The black hair, the black eyes, the stubborn nature, the cut around his neck-”
“The cut around his neck?”
Xia Lian swallowed deeply; Hua Cheng felt the reverberations against his chest. “Mu Qing’s father was executed – beheaded – when he was young, for being a sinner. It just... with the cut around his neck, it makes too much sense.”
Hua Cheng nodded. “We’ll go talk to him later gēge.” He whispered into Xie Lian’s hair. “For now though, sleep. We can worry about Mu Qing later.”
[ça doit, faire au moins mille fois que j'ai,]
The moment he arrived in the revitalised Heavenly Capital, Xie Lian contacted Mu Qing.
Mu Qing? He called out in their private communication array. Mu Qing, are you there?
Xie Lian heard a quiet huff of frustration. I am, he replied, what do you want?
Despite his abrasiveness, Xie Lian could tell Mu Qing was happy to hear from him. There was a slight tilt to his usual deadpan tone. Can I talk to you?
You are talking to me.
In person, I mean. I’d like to talk to you in person. No – I need to talk to you in person.
Mu Qing was silent for a moment. Of course, I’m with Feng Xin in my gardens. Is something wrong?
No, nothings wro – wait, you’re with Feng Xin? His brows furrowed as he turned towards Mu Qing’s palace, where he apparently was, with Feng Xin?
It didn’t make sense in Xie Lian’s head.
Yes, is that a problem?
No no, not at all! I’m glad you’re getting along, it’s just... surprising.
Mu Qing laughed. I wouldn’t say we’re getting along. He criticized my flower arrangements earlier, as well as my choice of shrub, so I punched him.
Oh. Xie Lian held back a laugh of his own. Anyway, nothing is wrong, not really. I just need to talk to you. Preferably alone, but it’s up to you.
Alone? Why do want to talk to me alone?
Xie Lian stepped inside Mu Qing’s palace, nodding politely to the officials who let him in. It’s personal, and I know you don’t like being vulnerable in front of other people, so I thought you’d feel more comfortable if we had this conversation alone.’
Mu Qing was silent for while this time, probably sifting through his thoughts, trying to figure out what Xie Lian could possibly want to talk to him about. Feng Xin knows too much about me already, it’ll be fine.
Xie Lian wanted to ask if he was sure, but he stayed silent. Once Mu Qing had made up his mind about something, it was had to convince him if anything otherwise; it was that stubborn nature Mu Yin had talked about.
He happened upon Mu Qing and Feng Xin in Mu Qing’s garden. Mu Qing was kneeling on the ground, in more simple-looking robes than usual, with thick gloves covering his hands. He was gardening, and Feng Xin was sat a small outdoor table, watching him. There was a tray of tea, seemingly new, waiting for him. Once Feng Xin spotted him, he poured him a cup.
“Mu Qing told me you were coming.” He said. “He said you wanted to talk to him about something.”
Xie Lian nodded. “I asked to talk to him alone, but he said he was fine with you being here.”
Feng Xin raised an eyebrow, just as Mu Qing dusted off his gloves and began walking over to the two of them. “What do you want to talk to him about?”
Xie Lian didn’t answer him.
Mu Qing sat down beside Feng Xin and poured himself a cup of tea. Xie Lian noticed the dirt on his robes and the muddy stains on his hands. “When did you take up gardening?” He asked, trying to begin the conversation lightly.
“When I ascended.” Mu Qing said with a shrug. “I needed something to do, and I found I rather enjoyed it.”
Xie Lian nodded, his muscles tense. Having personal conversations with Mu Qing was difficult; trying to get his honest, true feelings was like trying to get blood out of a stone. It was near impossible.
“Let’s get to the topic at hand Danxia,” Mu Qing took a sip from his cup of tea and put it back down on the table with a quiet clink (Xie Lian had told Mu Qing multiple times that he didn’t have to call him Danxia anymore, but he was insistent on it). “What personal thing did you want to talk to me about?”
Xie Lian shifted awkwardly in his seat, eyes flickering between Mu Qing, Feng Xin, and the pouch hanging at his hip. He didn’t know how, or where, to begin; he didn’t know how to ease Mu Qing into the conversation, and so he simply reached into the pouch, pulled out the rattle drum, and placed it on the table.
The initial response from both Mu Qing and Feng Xin was a look of confusion.
“What’s this?” Feng Xin asked.
Xie Lian ignored his question and turned to Mu Qing. “Do you recognise it?”
Mu Qing picked up the drum, and slowly rotated it in his hands. He ran his thumb down the handle, over the small juts and over the old, worn, carving. He brough the base of the handle closer to his face, in an attempt to read it; once he did, his face went pale, and his mouth fell slack.
“Where...” He paused, still pouring over the details of the rattle drum. “Where did you get this?”
“Wait,” Feng Xin said, also turning to Mu Qing. “You recognise this old thing?”
Mu Qing swallowed loudly, then nodded. “This was mine.” He said. “When I was child, my parents gave it to me.”
So it is him, Xie Lian thought. Mu Yin is Mu Qing’s father!
Mu Qing’s eyes met Xie Lian’s, and Xie Lian immediately recoginsed that look of suspicion. His eyes had narrowed and the look in them was sharp; they were very reminiscent of Mu Yin’s, but that made sense now, Xie Lian guessed, because Mu Yin was Mu Qing’s father.
“Where did you get this?” Mu Qing asked.
“I was given it.” Xie Lian said, because it was the truth.
“Bullshit.” He spat. The single wooden bead swung and banged against the drum. “Where did you get this?”
“I swear to you Mu Qing,” Xie Lian leant forward and took Mu Qing’s free hand in his own. “I was given it, by a ghost.”
Mu Qing laughed. “A ghost? Seriously? Do you expect me to believe that?” He snatched his hand away (Xie Lian looked hurt. Feng Xin didn’t know what to say). “My father to this to his execution,” He said. “He took this to the executioners block; he was fucking buried with it-”
Xie Lian interrupted Mu Qing’s tirade. “What if this ghost was your father, Mu Qing? What if this ghost was your father, and what if he gave this to me?”
Mu Qing shook his head and stood up from the table, the rattle drum still in hand. “It’s been eight hundred years Danxia, eight hundred fucking years. Why would he appear now? Why?”
“I don’t know Mu Qing, I don’t know.” He tried to reach out to Mu Qing again. He noticed the tears in his eyes. “A ghost appeared in a village a short distance from Puqi Shrine. He was disturbing the villagers, they said he was calling for his bǎo bèi-”
Mu Qing’s breath hitched.
“-He had that rattle drum. His name was Mu Yin.”
Mu Qing shook his head. “I don’t remember my father’s name.”
Feng Xin leant over to Mu Qing and did what Xie Lian wanted to do; he reached out and took Mu Qing’s hand in his own, running his thumb over Mu Qing’s knuckles and comforting him with soft squeezes.
Xie Lian ignored the surprising display of intimacy. “He said he was from Yong'an, that they moved for a better life. He said his bǎo bèi’s name was Qing. Mu Qing.”
“I don’t...” Silent tears were falling down Mu Qing’s cheeks. “I don’t remember enough. I was so little...”
Xie Lian’s voice was soft, delicate. “If you met him, saw him in person, do you think you’ll recoginse him? Or a part of him?”
Mu Qing shook his head again. “I... I don’t know, his voice maybe? I don’t think I’d recognise his appearance, it’s been so long.”
Xie Lian nodded. “Would you want to? See him, I mean. He’s been looking for you.”
Mu Qing was silent for a long while. He kept thumbing the carving on the drum, rubbing the empty string between his fingers, staring at the worn circular patch at the centre of the drum’s surface. His father had made the drum, given it to him for his sixth birthday, and Mu Qing had given it back, when his father said he had to ‘go away for a while’.
Mu Qing wasn’t stupid. He knew where his father was going. And he knew he wasn’t going to come back.
Eventually, Mu Qing nodded. “I need to.” He whispered. “I need to know if it’s truly him.”
Xie Lian nodded.
“When? When can I...?”
“Midnight.” Xie Lian said. “Midnight, any night. Just say the word, and I’ll take you there.”
He didn’t say anything. For the first time in a long while, maybe even centuries, Mu Qing was speechless. His throat had dried up, but he couldn’t bear to pick up his cup of tea, which had long since gone cold.
“Tomorrow.” Mu Qing said.
Xie Lian nodded. “Tomorrow.”
Mu Qing nodded back. “I’m sorry Danxia, I have to... I have to go.”
He turned, and practically ran back inside his palace, not acknowledging any of his attendants as went, except to ask for a new pot of tea and a hot bath. He asked for it to be brought up to chambers.
Feng Xin and Xie Lian watched him go, thinking it best to give him a minute alone to sift through his thoughts.
“He never talked about his father,” Feng Xin said, both to Xie Lian and to himself. “Only his mother, I guess now I know why.”
“He called Mu Qing his youngest.” Xie Lian replied, and waited for Feng Xin to connect the dots.
“He’s got siblings?”
“I would guess so.” He shrugged. “But I’m not sure. He never spoke of them either.”
Feng Xin paused.
“General Nan Yang.” One of Mu Qing’s attendants said, bowing. “General Xuan Zhen is requesting your presence in his chambers.”
Xie Lian’s eyes bulged, but Feng Xin simply stood up without protest. When did they become friends? He thought.
“My apologies, Danxia.” He said. “I must go.”
Xie Lian nodded and waved Feng Xin away. “Go.” He said. “I’ll get in contact at some point tomorrow, before we go and meet his father. Give Mu Qing my best wishes.”
Feng Xin nodded back. “I will.”
[compté mes doigts,]
Mu Qing wanted to turn back. He wanted to turn around, go home and pretend he never had this conversation with Xie Lian. He wanted to pretend that he never saw his old rattle drum, ignore the conversation he had with Xie Lian and go stress-drink tea in his garden.
“You can’t leave.” Feng Xin said.
He pouted. “Did you read my mind?”
“I read your face.”
Mu Qing shuffled awkwardly on his feet, kicking the twigs and foliage that littered the forest floor. Xie Lian was stood in the nearby clearing, waiting for the ghost (his father?) to appear. Hua Cheng was stood somewhere nearby; Mu Qing didn’t know why he had to be here for this, but at this point he had come to accept that, wherever Xie Lian went, Hua Cheng went too.
“What if it’s not my father?” He whispered, toying with the drum in his hand.
“Huh?”
“What if it’s not my father? What if this toy isn’t mine? What if I made a mistake?”
Feng Xin shrugged. “Then you made a mistake.”
“But then I would’ve gotten my hopes up for nothing.” He paused. “I want it to be my father, I want it to be my father so bad, but what if it isn’t Feng Xin? What if it isn’t?”
Feng Xin threw his arm over Mu Qing’s shoulder and squeezed it tightly. This was about as much PDA as Mu Qing could handle before he blew steam. “Then it isn’t. It’ll hurt sure, but you’ll be better off knowing the truth than thinking a lie.”
Mu Qing smiled. “When did you become a philosopher?”
Feng Xin shrugged. “I’ve picked up a few things over the years.”
The smile stayed on Mu Qing’s face, but it was slightly more awkward than before. If Mu Qing’s guess was right, it was a couple of minutes past midnight, and the ghost wasn’t here. What if he didn’t come? What if this was a big joke? What if this was revenge for what happened with Jun Wu? What if-
Feng Xin tapped him on the shoulder. When Mu Qing ignored him, he did it again, and when Mu Qing continued to ignore him, he did it over and over again until he got Mu Qing’s attention. When he did, Feng Xin pointed out to the clearing.
Stood on the edge of the clearing was a figure, hair cut short with dirty robes and no shoes, being coaxed further out by the sweet words of Xie Lian, who was wearing the sweet smile he’d offer to orphans and scared children.
“Did you find him?” The ghost said. “My bǎo bèi?”
Mu Qing’s blood ran cold.
This voice...
Is it really?
Xie Lian’s head bobbed in a subtle nod. “I think so. He recoginsed the rattle.”
The ghost smiled. There was blood on his teeth.
His head hit the ground with a resounding thud-
“I’m glad.” The ghost looked around. “Is he here?”
Xie Lian turned to Mu Qing, hiding beneath the shadow of the trees, and offered him the same smile. “Mu Qing?” He said. “Are you coming?”
How could he say no?
He stepped out onto the clearing, moving a small cluster of branches out of his way before pausing for a moment, meeting his father’s (the ghosts?) eyes. They were the same, the exact same-
“Bǎo bèi?”
His feet were rooted to the floor, like the thousands of trees that surrounded them. He almost turned back, turned back and ran, but he soon felt a pair of hands on back. Then, they shoved, and he stumbled further out, closer to the ghost.
Mu Qing’s throat was dry. He didn’t know what to say, where to begin.
“Bàba?” He whispered.
(That felt like a good place.)
The ghost’s eyes were scanning him, he could feel it. Over his hair, over his elaborate robes and over his face. He could see the recognition in his eyes; it was small, but it was there.
There was a similar look in Mu Qing’s eyes. He recognised aspects of the ghost – his eyes, his voice – but not everything. Things had changed (obviously) during the eight hundred years they’d been apart; most notably, his father was dead, not alive, and he was a god, not a poor peasant boy.
“Bǎo bèi?” The ghost repeated. He stumbled closer, his arms stretched, fingers splayed. He wanted to grab something.
“Bàba?” He took a few tentative steps of his own. His arms were folded, his fingers intertwining with each other out of nervousness. He was well aware of the small crowd watching them; it made him feel choked.
The hands that touched his forearm were cold - which rang unfamiliar to him because he always knew his father’s hands to be warm and welcoming - but they were familiarly callous and worked. They squeezed his forearms tightly, and eventually moved to cup his face.
“Bǎo bèi?” He whispered, his voice quivering. “Is it really you?”
“I think so.” Mu Qing replied.
“You’re alive?”
He nodded.
“How? Fang Xin told me it had been eight hundred years.”
It took him a second to remember that Fang Xin was one of Xie Lian’s many monikers.
“I’m a god bàba. I ascended.”
His father’s face broke out into a wide grin as he wiped at the skin beneath Mu Qing’s eyes. He hadn’t begun crying yet, but he was about to. The clear sheen over his black eyes made that clear.
“My bǎo bèi, my little Mu Qing,” He laughed, he himself tearing up. “You’re a god? Truly? You ascended?”
Mu Qing nodded again. Words were difficult to find.
“General Xuan Zhen.” He said, rather simply. “The god of the Southwest.”
His father clearly recognised the name, because he burst out into a fit of laughter once again. His arms fell from his cheeks and onto his shoulders, before they began to rub comforting circles into the fabric. “I know the name.” He smiled. “To think, I’ve been wandering these lands looking for you, calling for you, and yet you’ve always been there. All around me.”
A tear slid down Mu Qing’s cheek and hung heavily on his chin. “You found me.” He leant into his father’s comforting touch. “You found me.”
His father shed a mirroring tear. “I did. And I’m so thankful I did.”
Mu Qing’s arm detached from his front and wrapped themselves around his father’s body, interlocking on his back. His father did the same, wrapping his arm around his son’s body and embracing him in a tight hug. Mu Qing rested his head on his father’s shoulder, closed his eyes, and finally allowed himself to cry.
“I missed you so much bàba.” He choked between sobs. “I waited for you, but you never came back.”
His father’s face turned to one of sadness as he pressed a soft kiss into Mu Qing’s hair. “I’m sorry bǎo bèi. I didn’t want to go, but I’m here now.”
Mu Qing nodded and stayed silent for a while before speaking up once again. “Māma missed you. She tried to hide it, but I could tell. Nothing was ever the same.” He swallowed loudly. “I think she died of a broken heart.”
“When did she...?”
“When I was eighteen.” He whispered, his voice wavering once again. “She had gone blind. I did my best but she still died.”
“It’s okay bǎo bèi, I’m sure she knows.” His grip on Mu Qing’s tightened. “Where were your brother and sister?” He asked. “Did they not help?”
“They went to Yong'an and never came back.” Mu Qing said bitingly. The very thought of them boiled his blood. “They said they would but they didn’t.”
His father frowned. “They went back to Yong’an?
Mu Qing nodded. “For work, they said. They said they’d send money back, but we never heard from them again.” He cried. “I tried to look for them, but I never found them. It was just me and māma for a long time.” His grip on his father tightened. “I tried. I tried to hard to help her...”
His voice devolved into uncontrollable, unintelligible sobs; tears were streaming down his face and soaking into his father robes, and his grip grew ever tighter, as if he was scared his father would disappear too.
He was determined not to. He reciprocated his son’s tight hold and encased him in his body that, though was devoid of warmth, was comforting nevertheless. “I’m here bǎo bèi,” He whispered. “I’m here.”
[où t'es,]
They had long since fallen to their knees; still holding onto each other, scared to let go. Mu Yin worried that he was dirtying Mu Qing’s expensive robes, but Mu Qing didn’t seem to care. He made no protests as his knees buried themselves into the muddy ground. “Robes are replaceable,” He said, “You aren’t”.
And they sat there, for who knows how long, crying into each other’s shoulders until Mu Yin spotted light on the horizon. He closed his eyes and sighed, before pressing a final kiss into his son’s head and loosening his grip.
When he moved away, he saw the confused look on Mu Qing’s face.
“I have to go.” He said quietly, wiping a tear from Mu Qing’s cheek. “It’s almost daylight.”
Mu Qing shook his head. “No. No, no, no.” He sniffled. “What do you mean go? Ghosts don’t disappear in daylight!”
Mu Yin shrugged, being without an answer himself. “I’m sorry bǎo bèi, I have to go, and you must return to your heavenly duties.” He smiled.
Mu Qing was still shaking his head when Mu Yin pulled him to his feet. “My duties can wait, I haven’t seen you for eight hundred years! I don’t want you to go.” He wiped his eyes. “Please don’t go.”
“I don’t have a choice. I-”
“I could tale him back to Ghost City.” Hua Cheng said, stepping out into the clearing with a singular hand raised, as if to signify he was the one talking, even though there were only three people present (Xie Lian and Feng Xin were still hiding in the trees). “He can stay there until he figures out what he wants to do.”
Mu Qing eyed him suspiciously. Crimson Rain is never kind, he thought, what does he want?
“I don’t want anything from you General Xuan Zhen; I just thought now was the time was for my centennial act of charity.” He shrugged, before whispering to Mu Qing, “It was gēge’s suggestion.”
That makes sense, he thought.
“Ghost City?” Mu Yin frowned.
Hua Cheng took it upon himself to explain. “It’s my city,” He said, rather proudly. “A lot of ghosts stay there, clue’s in the name really. Most ghosts treat it as a go-between, as they decide whether to stick around or reincarnate.”
“Most of them spend their time gambling.” Mu Qing retorted, jabbing Hua Cheng in the chest. “Don’t trick him you beast.”
Hua Cheng simply laughed.
Mu Yin thought for a second.
Reincarnation didn’t sound too bad. Don’t get him wrong, it was nice to see his bǎo bèi again, to know that he was safe and sound, and that he was a god (he almost couldn’t believe it. His eyes watered with pride at the mere thought), but he didn’t want to be a wanderer forever. To have the chance to live again, to do better by the people who love him, it was very enticing.
But he needed a moment to think about it. He needed to familiarize himself with son again, now that he’s found him again. This one conversation wouldn’t be enough.
“I’d like that.” He said.
“Bàba!” Mu Qing exclaimed. “Don’t listen-”
“A fantastic idea.” Hua Cheng smiled patronizingly, giving Mu Qing a satisfied glance, much to his disdain. “Let’s go then, before the sun rises and turns you to dust.” He began to walk, and Mu Yin followed.
“Bàba!” He exclaimed.
Hua Cheng turned and threw something at Mu Qing. He caught them and when he looked down, he saw a pair of red dice sitting in his palms. His eyes widened and he looked to Hua Cheng in surprise.
Hua Cheng’s face had softened to a look of understanding, and Mu Qing didn’t know how to feel about it.
“Use them sparingly.” He called, as he jostled his own in his hand. “I don’t want to see you hanging around!”
And with that, Hua Cheng and Mu Yin disappeared into nothingness, leaving a small waft of smoke in their wake. Mu Qing looked down at the dice in his hand and rolled them between his fingers. He didn’t know what to think; he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“Come on Mu Qing.” Feng Xin whispered, wrapping a strong arm around his waist. “Let’s go home.”
[papaoutai?]