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There are times when Dan Heng loathes the infinite, winding corridors of sins and debts his past life left him.
(Not often. And not for long—he’d hate to taint his precious freedom with the shadow of a man long dead, a man he didn’t remember, a man nobody but one willing to talk about with him. And, Blade doesn’t do as much as talk but straight to the sharp edge of a cracked sword and blood.)
With the emergence of Dan Feng’s memories—blurs before his eyes, distorting like mirages in summer heat, or a painter’s pigments melding together with one careless brushstroke: he remembers, he doesn’t remember enough—his feelings about Dan Feng barely change, or more to say, it has taken a sharp dip straight into the lightless depths of Shackling Prison.
The red string coiling around his wrist is only one more block on the mounting pile of grievances he has accumulated with no way to resolve.
(The string came with the memories, dust-colored and one end in tatters. Until it strung him to the side of a man as bright as the sun. Until two ends met and intertwined and regained color. Cinnabar red. Auspicious red. Red as the lines now under both Dan Heng’s eyes.
He has never hated a color before, but he thinks he comes quite close.)
Beloved, Dan Feng tells him.
Yours only, Dan Heng disagrees.
Pardon me, I believe there is still one promise I’ve made that is yet to be fulfilled. Please visit me at your earliest convenience. I will let the Knights know to expect you.
The way to Jing Yuan’s office is relatively quiet. The Cloud Knight at the gate waves him through with the ease of a man following orders. The few officials Dan Heng runs into don’t give him more than a glance or two even with the glints of recognition he sees in their eyes. The lack of reaction is startling until he remembers they are Jing Yuan’s people, a master of instilling adaptable composure into people under his authority.
He doesn’t have to walk for long until he hears Jing Yuan’s voice, muffed to near imperceptibility. The guard stationed in front of the office taps a mallet against a bell that makes no sound, then moves to push open the door.
It is not mere coincidence that draws Dan Heng’s eyes to the central figure of the room. The string on his finger demands so. And, it doesn’t only demand to see. No—it wants to trace, to imprint, to caress where the gauzy fabric of memories intertwines with the soft, malleable threads of dreams. A flash of white silk, heels clicking like clockwork against marbled floor. A glimpse of a glaive, sharp like wings breaking up the sky.
“As it’s already hour of the Dog, per the detailed instruction left by Lady Bailu, I would have to ask you to cease your working for the day and take rest, Jing Yuan,” a female voice says diplomatically, but Dan Heng can hear the uncompromising steel underneath, “respectfully.”
“If my eyes haven’t played tricks, didn’t half a dozen cycranes just visit us not even half an hour ago?” Jing Yuan’s voice rings out with the slow, inevitable surety of the moon—climbing through the skies with the swiftness of a swallow.
Dan Heng isn’t proud of the considerable amount of willpower needed to drag his eyes from that figure to take the rest of the office in. He recognizes the basic structures and styles of Luofu infrastructure but he’s certain the stone lions and the giant star chess board are Jing Yuan’s personal touch.
“They did. However, none of them demands your immediate attention nor worth putting more setbacks into your recovery. I also have requested assistance from the Divination Commission. Master Diviner is very understanding,” the Vidyadhara woman pauses, a flick of eyes at Dan Heng before they return to stare down at the most powerful man on the Xiangzhou Luofu. “and I believe you have an engagement to follow up.”
Jing Yuan hums, finally looking up from the scroll on the table, and greets Dan Heng with a steady gaze. Dan Heng’s riveted to the spot: eyes like a vein of gold, a smile that brings to mind the image of a cat readying to pounce.
“You have made your point clear,” Jing Yuan straightens with the regal bearing of a ruler. He stands, stretching his fingers and wrists. “Lest there be another title bestowed upon myself.”
“You have never cared,” the woman shakes her head before shooting Dan Heng another sharp and narrow look. “I would like to remind you once again that you still need extensive rest, which consists of no strenuous act and light exercises only.”
…Maybe he is quite out of practice with double-speaks after years of straight-forward honesty but she can’t be implying…
“Perhaps I should take a day off tomorrow then?” Jing Yuan chuckles, mischief glittering like light shone through glass. “Goodnight, Qingzu.”
“Goodnight, sir.” Qingzu signs, deep and long-suffering.
“You arrived sooner than I thought. Have you dined yet?” Jing Yuan asks when they’re under the open air of the Exalting Sanctum.
“Your message said at my earliest convenience,” Dan Heng nods as they cut through the serpentine white stone staircases. “How are your injuries?” He makes a study of keeping his voice at the level of sparse interest, as if merely inquiring on a change in weather.
“As well as they can be considering the circumstances. Bailu believes I would make a full recovery with enough time and rest.”
“Are the ones following you the guarantee?”
Jing Yuan chuckles, amusement briefly warmed his expression. The spark is like a purr against Dan Heng's skin, a steady warmth that sank like a blessing into his body.
“How many have you detected?”
“Three,” Dan Heng exhales slowly, leaving his lips parted so that he can taste the air against the roof of his mouth. “Two from the beginning and one joining after. There are more, aren't there?”
“I believe you just opened three of my men to the prospect of further training.” Jing Yuan side-steps the question.
“Do you want me to point them out?” He offers, only half-serious.
“No. Let them decide within themselves. I want to see how they’d solve this.” Playfulness creeps into Jing Yuan’s voice.
As they walk, he can tell that they draw some more stares, Jing Yuan is ignoring or noticing but not caring about the looks the other pedestrians keep sending him. Still, there are alleyways tucked out of sight all over. A cycrane zips overhead when they slip away from the crowd into a small and narrow gateway, marked with green hanging lanterns.
“Where are we heading?”
The alley is lined with white-blue bricks and sound echoes from both ends. Lamps hanging from above offer dim lighting that turns the liminal space disconcertingly intimate even though he knows they’re very far from alone. Dan Heng curls his fingers into the loose fabric of his sleeves as he focuses on the worn paved stones underneath his feet, listens to the creak of wind through branches through pathways. Dan Feng had never walked upon this path.
“My abode. I believe you would not appreciate somewhere that will inevitably set off rounds of tongue moving before the night even ends,” Jing Yuan looks from him towards the direction of the next turn. ”If you want, we can move to a location of your choice. My only request is that it isn’t too far. It is quite late.”
A second’s hesitation makes Jing Yuan turn to look back at him, head tilted in question. The length of immaterial red between them hung in a nice bell curve, never once pulling taut with resistance.
“I do not mind,” Dan Heng answers. He suspects he will never feel completely at ease anywhere on Luofu. Too many memories. Not enough memories. “Your previous resident was in the opposite direction,” he says.
“I do try to alleviate my security detail from unnecessary anxiety.”
Evening has fully crossed the threshold when they stop before a small manor with a lit porch lantern, flinging dancing shadows across the road. Dan Heng sees the care of the builders in the silhouette of the house and the care of the keepers in the neat rows of trees edging the property but he can’t help thinking it is far too humble for the Arbiter-General of the Cloud Knights.
Jing Yuan deserves better. Goodnesses are reserved for people like him, but then again, Dan Heng doesn’t know what Jing Yuan wants these days. Does he still like star chess and small animals, or are they now relics of youth that he doesn’t bother to toss away? This aged Jing Yuan that is tranquil as an autumn lake, Dan Heng can’t tell.
There is the slightest sound behind the dark red doors before a white-haired, delicate young woman with very familiar features pulls open a crack. For an absurdly blank second, Dan Heng thinks he is looking at Jing Yuan’s child. It is a second too long.
She peers dubiously at Dan Heng. Her eyes travel up and down him at least three times. He is starting to feel the smallest niggling of self-consciousness setting in before Jing Yuan clears his throat meaningfully and those eyes switch target.
Her hands arc out into smooth, lilting signs of someone experienced in doing so. He doesn’t recognize the dialect but Jing Yuan watches her hands attentively. There’s a silent conversation that completely goes over his head that ends with her stepping out, a purse dangling from one elbow. Her walk slows so she can persist in giving him another once-over, until she reaches a turn and gives Jing Yuan one final loaded look.
“That girl…” Jing Yuan signs. He pushes the doors to open in full and gestures for Dan Heng to go in. “Lianxue, my grandniece. She’s working as my housekeeper until she figures out what she wants to do with her life. Please pardon her rudeness. I don’t know where her manners have gone.”
He wasn’t aware that Jing Yuan had any siblings for grandniece to be possible. Given the silence in his head, Dan Feng hadn’t known either. For the first time, he is hyper-aware of the gulf of time between them.
“She’s very…spirited,” he says for the lack of anything better.
“That’s one way to put it.”
Dan Heng follows Jing Yuan up the short pathway to the house’s door. White lights slant out of glass windows.
“What do you remember about the red string?”
There’s a note of curiosity in his voice when Jing Yuan speaks, sitting across from Dan Heng, surrounded by the hazy coils of incense smoke and a sea of silence. They’re on the veranda beside Jing Yuan’s study and Dan Heng hears the unspoken ‘about us?’ clear as day.
Here, lanterns dangling above the low table sway like drunken dancers with a sudden wind. Dan Heng’s porcelain cup gleams like the shine of a serpent’s scales. The cup in his palms radiates warmth. Meanwhile, Jing Yuan’s lies untouched.
Watery light falling across Jing Yuan’s face in fractals. In the absence of engraved metal and leather, white brocade robe and red trousers makes him look soft. Makes him look like he has stepped out from a painting, brought to life from elegant brushstrokes and minimal ink. Dan Heng wants to smooth his thumb over the beauty mark under the visible golden eye.
My vow, our vow, Dan Feng tells him.
“I remember the vow.” And Dan Heng sees that ever-smiling facade flicker and fade. The shining sun, obscured by somber clouds.
(“Time doesn’t treat us equally. Even if we must inevitably part someday, the simple joy of meeting you is enough for me. I shall treasure our bonds, our union. I vow to walk with you until the end.” )
“He…Dan Feng was elated,” his heart aches, for a beat. Fragments of memory drift past him, flickers of a gentle heat and gusts of bitter cold. “You were happy.”
“I was ecstatic,” Jing Yuan reshapes the word. “I still remember how astonishingly blue the sky was that day. Like a jewel, like the ocean. And I was a bird, at long last able to take to the halcyon skies for the first time.”
Long had he waited in the depths of darkness without any light of hope to guide his way, Dan Heng understands. He understands.
“Are those feelings the reason why you didn’t demand an absolvement before the molting rebirth? It was completely within your rights,” Dan Heng laces his fingers together in case they shake. He doesn’t want Jing Yuan to see them shake. “He thought about it. He waited for you to come. He would have done it alone if he could. However—”
“—the knots have to be willingly released at the same time.” Jing Yuan finishes his sentence.
With that, Jing Yuan falls silent for a long, drawn-out moment.
"Do you know? I didn’t fall in love.”
Before Dan Heng can process that sentence, Jing Yuan continues, rolling up his sleeve, ”I walked into love with my eyes wide open choosing to take every step along the way.”
Dan Heng can’t tear his gaze away from the red loops. The ones on his own wrist constrict.
“At the end, we didn’t choose each other. But this is proof that, once, we had chosen each other. We vowed to walk together for a lifetime. I wouldn’t walk the final step with him but I could stay with him until the last moment.”
There is no regret in Jing Yuan’s voice. There is no flinching.
It isn't fair that Dan Feng could have this man so thoroughly. Jing Yuan is a wish, a promise, a dream the howling, nameless beast inside him can only steal furtive glances of. Dan Feng could have had him for an eternity, to hold, to love, to bask in his warmth.
It isn’t fair that Dan Heng is late by a lifetime.
The crushing weight of his own jealousy seizes Dan Heng by the shoulders. It steals the breath from his lungs, leaving him gasping like a fish, destined to die mere handspans from the sea it had called home. He feels as if the red string is winding across his throat, coiling tighter and tighter with each second that passes.
“Do I sound foolish to you?” The tone reminds Dan Heng of a rare bird he had once seen at an auction house, chirping quietly from the claustrophobic confines of its gilded cage.
He finds himself nodding before he even realizes he has done so, and Jing Yuan’s lips tug up. Dan Heng wants to deny his reaction but he realizes there is no good way to do it.
Dan Heng closes his eyes. Inhales. Exhales.
The clink of porcelain meeting wood makes him open his eyes again.
“I have upset you. Please accept my apology.”
“There is no reason for me to be upset,” Dan Heng shakes his head. “I only have one more question.”
Jing Yuan tilts his head and tips his chin for Dan Heng to continue.
“You said you did not choose Dan Feng at the end. Is it because you would not or you could not?”
“Does it matter in the present?” And a wall comes up so sudden, it leaves him reeling. “It is all in the past. What happened has happened, there is no redo.”
The and what business of it is yours? rings loud and clear. It stings, but hasn’t this what Dan Heng has asked? He doesn’t want to be treated as Dan Feng, so Jing Yuan will not treat him the same. Jing Yuan has been so forthcoming, he forgets. He forgets that all he is getting is because Jing Yuan wants to give, not because he has any rights to it.
"Let's cut the knots," Dan Heng suggests, half-shivering with sorrow. Maybe the pain he feels will be gone with their connection. "Let's cut ourselves free."
Jing Yuan lifts the corners of his mouth, his long hair spilled on the table like puddles of moonlight when he leans forward to pluck the cup from Dan Heng’s trembling fingers.
"As you wish," Jing Yuan agrees. Gentle, ready, beautiful. “Give me your hands,” he whispers.
Calloused and sharp hands slide over his, across the sensitive skin of his palms and up, up until skin catches on strings. His heart thunders. All he sees is red, red tangling, binding them together. He can see it pulsing under his skin. He can feel it in his bones. It’s alive. Alive and vibrant with energy. It’s buzzing, humming with life, with love, with power. He can smell it in his nostrils. He can taste it on his tongue. He can hear it echoing in his ears. He can feel it in his chest, beating strong and powerful against his ribcage. It’s painful.
And Jing Yuan’s pulling gently at his skin, at the loops, as if expecting them to have fused with Dan Heng and any force applied will tear him open.
It’s exhilarating. He hates it. He loves it. He needs it to go away.
Jing Yuan’s voice sounds distant now, as though he is underwater. He looks sad.
“This hurts, hurts more than the worst pain you have ever felt. Then, it settles into an ache you learn to live with. Until one day, before you even realize, the ache is gone.”
Dan Heng wonders if he should call this emotion grief. Mourning someone that’s still alive, someone whose love you remember kissing but never yours to begin with.
Hanging high in the artificial sky, the false moon gleams like a copper coin. A silent, solemn witness, bright as blood.
Dan Heng refuses to allow himself to regret what has transpired. He refuses to allow himself to regret why he has done it.
“Be safe on the road, Dan Heng.” Jing Yuan says at the gate. It sounds like a farewell.
Dan Heng hurries past, desperately trying to ignore the quiet croon at the back of his mind. A faint plea, begging him to stay.
One more moment.
One more moment with him, please.
He can’t let himself be infected with that virulent desire—can’t allow himself to forget that they aren’t supposed to be anything to each other. He allows himself one last turn, one last chance to trace those tender feelings to its source.
The red gates are closed tight. The lantern is still.
For some reason, listening to the endless rhythm of the unsleeping Luofu is a harsh reminder of the chasm of emptiness in his chest. Like a bird with a broken wing, can only long for the sun.