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The sky is murky again. Long tinted a dull greyyellow by the constant rising smoke coming from the fires burned at each encampment between Yong’an and Xianle. What Feng Xin isn’t used to, is the smell. Rotting, burning flesh that now permeates the air as more and more of the common folk fall victim to disease, as more and more of them succumb, only to be reduced to ash by the only way their people knew how to prevent further spread of the plague.
Feng Xin looks down at his hands and flexes, fingers curling up into a tight fist before unfurling. Battered, bloodied. The leather of his gloves worn smooth, cracking along the edges, the suede lining stained and threadbare; the calluses on the pads of his fingers split raw.
He sighs, then perks up when he senses light footsteps behind him.
“Tired?” comes the hoarse voice, familiar, but without its trademark snideness.
Leaning against a pole hammered into the ground, arms crossed and head tilted, is Mu Qing. Slight and pale but sinewy and agile, Mu Qing. Thin eyebrows in a determined set, still as delicate as ever, the grime and dried blood giving his pretty face a feral edge. Feng Xin winces and holds up his right hand, relieved to see him alive.
The young man sucks in air through his teeth in a mock whistle and offers a humorless smile, though whatever he was about to say is cut off by a sudden bout of intense coughing. Dark brownred splatters cover the ground next to him.
“Mu Qing! There you are, the healers are looking for you! Come on before you get any worse!” A veiled, cross looking girl appears at the sound of hacking, and ushers Mu Qing away to the nearest tent before Feng Xin could get a word in. He grabs the next boy who emerges from the tent.
“What happened to Mu Qing?”
The boy’s eyes dart to and fro as Feng Xin shakes him, voice hard but laced with urgency, “R-ribs, my lord. Mu Qing’s ribs. They’re broken.”
Broken ribs and his first stop after stepping foot off the battlefield was not to the healers tent but to him. Feng Xin feels the odd warmth blooming in his chest immediately doused cold.
Stupid.
Feng Xin storms into the tent, eyebrows knitted tight. What an idiot, without Xie Lian, Xianle needs the both of them able-bodied and available at all times, what was he doing compromising his primary job and getting himself gravely hurt. What an idiot.
His cursing trail of thought pauses as he stares at the wisp of a man before him, lying prone with red seeping through the dirty sheets underneath. Feng Xin’s lips part, but the arriving healer speaks first.
“Mu Qing-ah, you will live.” The elderly man pats Mu Qing on the leg gently, then turns his palm up to take his pulse, clicking his tongue as his fingertips search for a proper diagnosis. The bluegreen vein at the base of Mu Qing’s neck jumps weakly. Turning and making a shooing motion towards Feng Xin, the healer tsks.
“You, go, get out, do not come back in without proper coverings. This is a tent for the sick, you cannot be here.” With a dismissive wave, he turns his attention back to Mu Qing, struggling to push himself up but seized by another round of coughs. Feng Xin lets himself be pushed out of the healers tent by the next wave of people, blinking owlishly.
Feng Xin spends the rest of the afternoon kicking up dust around the outside of his tent, but there's odd feeling in the pit of his stomach. It started after the relief of knowing Mu Qing will live was replaced by annoyance. Mu Qing is an idiot. He is too smart for his own good and too proud for his own good, and that makes him very, very stupid. Choosing to separate their two squadrons so Feng Xin no longer had an eye on him? Stupid. Getting his ribs broken as a consequence? Very fucking stupid. Feng Xin sighs and kicks up more dust, and coughs. Then he coughs some more to try and rid himself of that uncomfortable, warm stuffiness that has now moved from the pit of his stomach to his throat. He can’t be getting sick, now can he? Impossible. If he claims to be the second healthiest man in Xianle, he doubts anyone who would dare claim to be first. Maybe Mu Qing.
Feng Xin drops to the ground and pumps out twenty push-ups. That should do it for now. Exercise is best for preventing all illnesses. Mu Qing probably got his ribs knocked silly because he never joined Feng Xin when he led the soldiers’ routines. That’s why he’s weak. Must be it.
Feng Xin goes back to his tent, kicks dust, and cleans his armor. Kicking dust, polishing his bow and replenishing his arrows, hoping for news from the healer’s tent, and kicking more dust. With Xie Lian still off doing gods knows what kind of negotiations in the heavenly realm, Feng Xin was bored stiff. Plus, there is no chance this suffocating feeling in his chest has anything to do with Mu Qing’s health, he’s honestly just worried about compromising the state of Xianle’s army, right?