Chapter Text
Li Lianhua is alive.
This is the knowledge that Fang Duobing held close like a lifeline.
This is the knowledge that Di Feisheng burned to his mind like a tattoo.
Li Lianhua is alive.
But.
He's not quite living at all.
It was something of out of a dream, really, when the two of them had came across a very familiar item-
Li Lianhua's purse.
On a beggar.
On a beggar who claimed to have found it on a dead person. A dead person, who, according the the beggar-
Was dressed in vermilion-stained white, hand embroidered with lotus blooms, with long hair the shade of charcoal, and skin pale as porcelain.
Di Feisheng and Fang Duobing were not fools. They knew who exactly the description sounded like. They knew that their beloved friend's soul had likely left his body.
And yet-
Di Feisheng and Fang Duobing paid the beggar to bring them back to the body- Li Lianhua deserved a fair burial, at least. Alongside his master, just like how he wished.
And yet-
The beggar swore up and down with his life that he had taken them to that exact spot. That he hadn't been lying at all.
And yet-
And yet there was no body.
No, no body at all. Nobody at all.
Only silk crimson ribbons remained between the blades of grass, tangled on the roots of a large overgrown tree.
How strange.
Qiao Wanmian never stopped looking for Li Lianhua.
It is the least I could do for him.
They were in love, once. And that was enough.
He does not owe her, and she does not owe him, and so they have no strings left and he could die, at least without burdening anyone with unfulfilled debts. That is what Li Lianhua had assumed, but Qiao Wanmian kept this thought to herself:
No, you are worth so much more than that.
Because she knew him, and she knew him well, and she knew that he deserved to live, that he deserved to want to live, that he deserved to be living the life that he wished to live.
So Qiao Wanmian had prayed, with all her heart, that Li Lianhua, selfless as he was, had retained just enough of Li Xiangyi's selfishness to want to still live.
No- she believed he did. Because she believed him. Because she had faith in how much he had loved life.
Whether he was Li Lianhua, Li Xiangyi, or somewhere in between.
Perhaps not all dreams could be fulfilled.
But some, at least, were worth trying.
There were few perks to being old lovers, formerly or otherwise-
Li Lianhua had habits he could never quite break.
And on a fateful afternoon, as Qiao Wanmian readied herself to return home-
There had been a man, walking down the street with a white cloak.
Patched with green and red scraps fabric at the edges- it was worn out, and it was well-loved.
She halted in the middle of the street.
"Where," She breathed, "Did you get that cloak?"
"A dead person," The man said, "Gave it to me."
"Do you know where he went?"
"I don't know."
"Why? How long has it been?"
"Why are you so curious, miss?"
"Just answer the question."
"It is nearing colder seasons. He traded it with me for a long strip of white fabric, yesterday, somewhere beyond the rivers on my way here. I asked him why he would make such an odd exchange, and he told me he was as good as dead, anyway, when the snowflakes would begin to fall."
Yesterday?
Only Li Xiangyi would patch white with coloured fabrics of the robes he wore so recklessly, and yet fold the ends of the fabric pieces so carefully as to not let it fray.
And she recognized that cloak, nonetheless.
"Have you ever heard of the red silk sword dance?" Di Feisheng asked one night, as they roasted a rare catch in the bonfire underneath the starry night.
"I have," Fang Duobing answered, "Who hadn't?"
Li Lianhua was an enigma.
But he was also predictable.
Who else would call themselves dead when they were still walking?
Di Feisheng and Fang Duobing met Qiao Wanmian on a path upwards the stream of the river.
The first thing she said to them was this:
"He does not have a lot of time."
This would sound depressing in any other context-
But this time, it was a lit match, burning bright in the pitch black darkness of an endless night.
Li Lianhua was alive.
Li Lianhua does not have much time, but-
Li Lianhua was still alive.
That was what mattered.
Until when the snowflakes begin to fall.
Winter.
They had until winter, and then, presumably, Li Lianhua's fragile body would give in.
But they had time.
Fang Duobing swore he would not let his master down.
They knew very little of him now.
First-
A beggar had found him, and he had given his pouch to the beggar. He had been lying on the ground, with his white robes dyed in blood. And then he had- somehow- left.
Second-
He traded his cloak for a piece of white fabric.
Third-
The last anyone has heard of him was two days ago, because it took one day for Qiao Wanmian to meet them.
There were so many holes in the story.
Room for mistakes.
Room for missing chances.
Room for hope.
But from where should they start? Nobody knew where Li Lianhua was, or where he was going- only where he had been.
"The Bicha poison would slowly worsen's one senses," Di Feisheng mused.
Fang Duobing froze in his pace.
Senses?
Something tugs at the back of his mind.
"One by one?"
"Presumably."
A long, white strip of fabric?
A blindfold?
Why would he-
Wait.
"Has Li Lianhua gone blind?"