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Guizhong comes to her one night. That night. The Lord of Dust stands outside of her door, downcast eyes and wilted sleeves, the painting of a drowned lily.
"Gechen," she says, strands of grey hair trailing past her bare shoulders like washed-out, faded ink strokes. "May I stay the night?"
In the eternal darkness of the new moon, her face is pale illumination. Her sleeves the stars. Guizhong has always been like that, the light in the dark.
And so, Gechen Langshi, Streetward Rambler, the woman who would be the widowed Granny Ping come millennia from now, merely raises one elegant brow as she stands aside to make way for the Lord of Dust.
"Couldn't sleep?" she asks, not unkindly.
Guizhong looks away, a lackluster nod.
And Gechen has never known Guizhong to be anything less than enthusiastic, optimistic. Celestia’s decree was made and delivered in nails falling from the sky, pinning the world flat like preserved butterfly wings, and right now, everyone in the Guili Assembly seem tense and prone to crumbling, even Rex Lapis—but Guizhong had merely looked to the sky and sighed, Of course.
What are you thinking? Gechen had asked Guizhong, placing a careful hand on her cheek. Her skin had felt paper-thin, as soft as glaze lily petals, as fragile.
Guizhong had leaned into the touch, closing her eyes. That nothing ever lasts, she murmured. Especially not when predicated upon dust.
And afterward, she had sipped her tea and stared into the cup, Yanwang Dijun beside her. Streetward Rambler had watched with sharp eyes as she laid her sleeve over Rex Lapis’ arm—Rex Lapis, Morax, her fellow god-ruler, the one person Streetward Rambler cannot compete against because they are both privy to secrets she is not. Because they are two halves of what makes their Assembly.
Haagenti, he’d said quietly.
Morax, she’d answered. You must win this war. You must keep them safe. You must.
And Rex Lapis had taken a quiet sip from his own square cup. He did not speak for a long while, as though considering whether to reject her words. But in the end, he’d given a wry smile and a stiff nod.
Streetward Rambler had looked away, a twist in her stomach, a melody sliding down the scales, notes scrambled into something unknown, unpleasant.
Live, Guizhong had then whispered. Cling to life as mortals do.
Gechen did not mean to eavesdrop. Did not mean to listen, but heard anyway—because when Guizhong had said, Live, Guizhong had been looking at her.
And now, with Guizhong in her home, what was Streetward Rambler supposed to say?
To whom were those words spoken, Guizhong? Why did you look at me so, with those quietly mourning eyes?
“If sleep is evading your bed,” Gechen says, “take respite in mine instead.”
Guizhong blinks, her eyes pools of misty grey. "That's, um," she fumbles for words, for once left speechless. A pleasant shade of dusk-pink creeping over her cheeks, and Gechen’s fingertips itch with longing. "I didn't come for that."
"I know. I'm offering, anyway," Gechen says curtly. “I had not planned to use it anyway.”
Guizhong nods again, already knowing her penchant to meditate the night away. Adepti did not need sleep, able to make do with a light-meditation state in its stead; sleep was merely a sought-after pleasure, like food or alcohol or companionship.
That last point, Gechen is acutely aware. She watches as Guizhong silently slips into her bed, teal accents running across the covers and under her chin like blades of vibrating air, flung and violent music. Guizhong clings to the duvet like a frightened mortal upon seeing a goddess, and Gechen does not care for it.
So she does what she always does when she is perturbed—one graceful stride, two, and then her hand is trailing the strings of her zither as she sits down.
"I will play for you," Gechen says, and when Guizhong frowns, clearly about to protest, cuts her off, "not because you wish for it. Only because I want to."
"But—"
"Hush," Gechen says, closing her eyes already. "I have fought for you in battle with my spear, but outside of combat, I cannot offer you much. Not when compared to Marchosius or Cloud Retainer. But I have my hands and I know my craft. Let me offer you a song, Lord of Dust."
"I've never asked for anything, dear Gechen," Guizhong says softly, "except your company."
And if only Gechen could be as immovable as Rex Lapis! If only, to spare herself the heartache of missing what is dust and gone—but Guizhong had worn Dijun down too, and if Dijun could not win, then against Guizhong, Gechen does not stand a chance.
"Listen," Gechen says. Beseeches.
“I will.”
The melody that forms under her fingertips is an old one, a lullaby that's changed form three times already, passed from mother to child over and over again until it no longer resembles the original, but they are adepti and their memories are long.
"Was this..." Guizhong says, voice wavering.
"The lullaby from your bell," Gechen finishes for her. "Yes, it is."
“You remembered.”
“I did.”
"...Will you look at me as you play, Gechen?" Guizhong asks.
"You wish for my gaze?"
"I wish,” Guizhong admits, “for you to remember me."
"Do you think me so fickle? That I will forget those who I call friend?"
"No. But even the memories of an adeptus will fade in a thousand years."
"I will remember," Gechen says. Even when there is no one else left to remember—Gechen will remember. Guizhong, her kindred spirit, her other half, the one who has wound herself into Gechen's soul like a metal needle catching under the skin, such a small thing but try as you may, you cannot remove it without bloodshed and pain and regret.
"Will you miss me if I'm ever… gone?" Guizhong asks. “If this war takes me.”
"You will not die," Gechen says firmly, "so I will not bother with an answer to such a foolish question.”
“...I am afraid,” Guizhong says, her voice cracking. Dissonance in the sound, agonizing in its composition. Equally agonizing to hear. Gechen wishes she could smooth the wrinkles between Guizhong’s brows. They do not belong on her youthful face. “I am afraid of this war, and I am afraid of the future.”
“Then I will protect you,” Gechen vows. “My spear, my zither, they are yours. Do you believe me?”
Guizhong smiles wetly. “I am afraid,” she says, “but you make me brave, Gechen. You make me feel like the goddess I’m supposed to be. With you, I feel as though I am not merely the dust of the plains, but something bigger. Something cosmic. I’ve always wondered, why is that?”
Gechen stares at Guizhong, eyes steady but heartbeat faltering. Is it because you know how I look at you? Like you are the centre of this world? The entirety of my universe?
And the message between the notes, the truth within the rests: Is it because you know how I cherish you?
“Listen well, Guizhong,” she says, swallowing the words, “and sleep already."
Guizhong closes her eyes, and Streetward Rambler lets her fingers guide her, losing herself in the composition, the air's vibration. She plays and plays through the night, on and on until her joints ache with the repetition. Hoping that whatever worry Guizhong has, it would dissipate by dawn.
Gechen’s breath syncs with Guizhong, and her eyes fall heavy. She dips her head, once, twice, and through the haze of music, she hears Guizhong mumble, The bell, Gechen. It’s yours, if you’ll have me—
—and when Streetward Rambler startles awake, opens her eyes: dawn's light. Carefully draped over her, the blanket that Guizhong had been using.
“Guizhong?” she says.
Gechen looks across the room, and there is no song, no sound. Just silent sunlight spilt over an empty bed, dust mites drifting down.
.
.
.
By the time Gechen finds Guizhong, her Lord of Dust will be long dead. And by dusk, Gechen will be cut adrift, zither strapped to her back, bell ringing at her side, joints aching with unplayed music, a singer widowed from her song.
So there is no dust, and there is no song: only the mortal plains, and an old woman standing upon them, smiling in the midst of her grief.
.
.
.
(You are the other half of my soul, you wish you'd told her. Forget the victory. Forget the bell. Forget the song. You are the one thing I cannot bear to lose.
But immortals forget that the world they inhabit is mortal. They forget love. They forget fate. You wear the face of an old woman, because even though you have lived through millennia, only now do you truly feel old.
And when the song's sung, the end's ended, you close your eyes and try to cling onto her.
But alas, you lament, that everything is already to dust. Alas!)
.
.
.
终.