Work Text:
The salt is first.
Shi Qingxuan wakes up on a beach, in the shelter of a tide pool lined by rock and draped with seaweed. The salt is crusted on his lips and in his eyelashes, and it hurts when he blinks his dry eyes open.
The light hurts as it reflects off the sand and water, and his vision swims in blue and green. The rocks scrape his hands, and the razor edge of a barnacle leaves a red slash over his palm as he struggles to crawl out of the tide pool’s embrace. There’s nowhere to wipe his hand free of salt and blood and sand except for on the formerly pristine fabric of his robes, but he’s past the point of caring about unsightly stains, so he does it anyway before lifting the same hand up to shield his vision from the glare on the water.
Midday, on a beach that’s… somewhere, though he can’t exactly say where. The shapes of mountains loom inland, peering behind dreary clouds. This must not be the far south, which has white sand and shady palms under which to drink wine, and Shi Qingxuan really, really could use some wine right now given the dryness in his mouth.
He shouldn’t drink another drop again, should he? Except that he also wants to—wants to drink so much wine that he forgets everything about the Young Lord Who Poured Wine, and everything about the depths of the black ocean abyss. Thinking about it is going to make him scream again, and his throat is already hoarse. Another result of the salt, he supposes.
To his left, something moves. Shi Qingxuan flinches before realizing it’s only a crab picking its way across the rocks and stones. Small dark eyes peer out at him from the edge of the dark shell; a claw clicks open and shut, almost as if in greeting, before it continues along its sideways path.
Shi Qingxuan shudders, and looks down the beach to see if there’s a path that leads inland, or boats further up the coast that might indicate a village nearby. It would be nice to see people again, rather than gods or ghosts or the terrible things that lurk beneath the water’s surface with bulging eyes and razor teeth.
The waves lap against the shore, foaming before they recede. Something else scuttles out of the shallows—another crab, which waves its claw just like the first. This time, Qingxuan suspects it’s hailing its crustacean friend, and he shakes his head before picking a direction to walk.
As his feet drag through the sand—legs weary, aching—the crabs begin to multiply.
They emerge from the waves and foam, and from under the rocks lining the tide pools. They come alone, and in pairs, and then in small groups. Shi Qingxuan tries to hasten as his heart begins to pound uncomfortably inside his chest, but his efforts to run fail. The sand wins, tripping his weary feet, and the last thing he sees are inky black shadows beneath the cresting waves—weeds, tentacles, ghouls.
~*~
For the first time in longer than he can count, Shi Qingxuan wakes up on a bed instead of cold floors or sharp sand.
That is the first thing that is unusual. The second thing is that his movement to sit up is met with a chorus of cheers, none of them from voices he recognizes.
“The young lord is awake! Just in time for the crabs!”
Qingxuan’s head is spinning, and he blinks against the light from the lanterns hung around the room. The area has been sectioned, and on the other side of the boundary of painted screens and lattice work panels, a large group has gathered around tables and chairs, all carved from twisted driftwood and laden with porcelain dishes.
An aroma fills the air. Qingxuan’s stomach growls, and twists so hard in hunger that he thinks he might pass out then and there.
“Please.” His voice cracks, and he doesn’t know if they can hear him. “Please. I’m so hungry.”
Someone’s hand is on his shoulder, guiding him to stand; he totters over to the nearest table, and collapses into a chair with none of the dignity he’s used to. It takes restraint not to grab for the nearest plate, but he feels his eyes bulging at the sight of steamed vegetables, fish, and crabs—so many crabs , heaped in the center of the table.
The shells are no longer black. The steam has turned them to vibrant red, the meat inside flaky and white, and only the eyes remain black like the depths of the ocean. There are many eyes staring at him from the plate and from around the table, but Shi Qingxuan is past the point of caring as his hands scramble to pick up a pair of chopsticks and accept the open shell being passed towards him.
He never cared when Ming-xiong used to eat with shamelessly gluttony when they’d have festivals and celebrations in heaven—not even that year during Mid-Autumn when he ate two whole ducks without even pausing to wash them down with wine, or when the whole plate of mooncakes had vanished and they thought a dog must have snuck into the banquet hall.
The taste of the crab is delicious—soft, flaky, sweet, pairing perfectly with vinegar.
Shi Wudu liked crabs the most when it came to the festival, though. He liked fish, too, but the crabs were round and copper-colored like coins, the true merging of Lord Water Master’s mastery over shops and the sea…
“The young lord brought us the crabs,” the villager who had assisted Qingxuan is saying, “so it’s only fair that he shares the feast. What a bounty from the seas! This one must be truly favored by Lord Water Master!”
“Favored? Of course—Lord Water Master is my big brother.” The words come tumbling out before Qingxuan can stop himself, and he hastily takes another bite of crab meat. No, no, no —gods can’t declare themselves before mortals, it’s breaking the rules! But he’s not a god, really, so that rule doesn’t apply anymore. Water Master is his brother, and Water Master—
Qingxuan chokes. A hand flies up to cover his mouth before the bite of crab ends up coughed back out onto the plate, and he surreptitiously lowers his closed fist so he can drop the piece beneath the table. The taste is too salty; all the water of the sea has soaked into the crab’s flesh.
The crabs aren’t from Lord Water Master. If they’re a gift, then they’re from the other master of the tides, the demon of the depths.
One of the villagers gives an incredulous laugh, which is Qingxuan’s only clue that they’d fallen into mystified silence at his words. “Listen to this one! I suppose that makes you the Lady Wind Master, then? Ha, ha! What’s next? General Ming Guang is my father!”
There’s a bottle on the table. Qingxuan reaches for it, hoping it’s wine, and takes a swig directly from the jar rather than seeking a cup.
“Water Master is dead,” he announces, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand to catch the droplets on his chin.
Water Master is dead.
~*~
Shi Qingxuan has never been one to sneer at the kindness of others. He offers to pay for his share of the crab meat and wine, and finds that he doesn’t have a purse anymore; it’s probably somewhere in the ocean, being picked apart by fish and eels and other unsavory things that float in the deep. Still, the villagers are holding to their story that he’s favored by the Water Master, and Qingxuan loses the willpower to argue.
He chooses to head inland after that, away from the salt air of the sea coast.
Half a day’s walk brings Shi Qingxuan to the outer walls of a town that looks like the one he grew up in. The road leading up to the gate is filled with the usual suspects; peasants leading carts and oxen full of goods for the market, monks in simple robes, a few sharp-faced scholars and bureaucrats. Qingxuan’s tattered clothing receives a few passing sneers, but he takes some pride in the fact that no one stops him to ask questions. (Maybe they can no longer see the wounds beneath the fabric. Salt and water wash blood out of clothing, according to General Xuan Zhen.)
It takes half the walk across the village for Qingxuan to pinpoint why his stomach has been hurting. This time, it isn’t agony drawn out of his memories and nightmares.
It’s only hunger.
The town is populous enough that the edges of the street are lined with dozens of shops and stalls, many of them selling snacks. Qingxuan’s belly gurgles at the smell of noodles frying in a pan, dumplings filled with meat and spices steaming, candied fruit glistening in the sunlight…
There are other shops too, and Shi Qingxuna tries to distract himself from the pangs in his stomach by looking at silk dresses and jeweled hair pins in the shapes of flowers and butterflies. If only he could wear those and take Lady Wind Master’s sweet form again—who wouldn’t leap to offer her dumplings, pancakes, soups, candies?
Instead, he gets stall owners making shooing motions at him as soon as they gauge that he’s empty-handed.
He’s nearly reached the other end of the town when one of the merchants finally takes pity on him and waves him over with a few clipped words. “You. Beggar. Come here.”
Beggar? Isn’t he better off than those less fortunate souls? Qingxuan starts to laugh, and then sees that the shop owner is selling fish at his stand. There are piles of them, roasted over a fire until their scales and fins have blackened and their eyes stare dully from the sides of their heads.
“Got too many of these from a fisherman,” the merchant grumbles. “Unloaded a whole boat of them. He said to me, don’t let them rot, there’s beggars who will want them. So here you are, beggar.”
The fish has been speared on a stick. Qingxuan’s hand tremors as he reaches out to take it, too hungry to refuse. “Th-thank you…”
The merchant huffs. “Thank the fisherman, if you have to thank someone. I bet you’ll find him down at the docks.”
~*~
Qingxuan does not go looking for the fisherman.
He imagines reaching the bank of a river or a lake, even the ocean, and finding a man dressed all in black with the face of a handsome scholar.
It’s even less appealing of a thought once the sun slips down behind the mountains, despite the stars breaking up the blackness of the sky. Qingxuan used to enjoy the night, when the gentle breezes used to rustle through the bamboo leaves and play with his hair while he drank. But these days, the long shadows and mysterious noises have him jumping and watching his back. That’s to say nothing of the way he has to pick a doorstep to shelter in when the sun fades and the lanterns come out to take its place, a sour reminder of the circumstances he’s in.
Qingxuan misses beds. He misses pillows. He misses lying beside Ming Yi in the grass while pointing out shapes in the stars. He misses the way his brother would yell at him in the morning, hiding concern for Qingxuan’s reputation beneath his accusations.
The doorstep is hard against his back as he falls asleep in the shadow of the awning. His dreams are about the deep sea: eyes in the abyss, scales glinting like armor under the moonlight, gaping mouths full of sharp teeth in rows and rows and rows.
He also dreams of Ming-xiong giving him a plate of food at a banquet while the chrysanthemums are blooming, although the blossoms give off a fragrance of fish stew today. The smell is strong enough to make his mouth water, and he blinks himself awake at the steam rising from the bowl—
A bowl of fish stew that’s very much real, still hot where it sits next to Qingxuan by the doorstep. The surface is glimmering with oil in the dawn light, vibrant with the inclusions of vegetables and herbs and spices. His benefactor has even taken care to leave a spoon, carved of a wood so dark that it looks black in the early morning light; a pattern like fish bones crosses back and forth on the handle.
A glance up the street reveals nothing about the identity of his benefactor, and for a second, Shi Qingxuan wonders if it could be him . If, after everything, he would still care enough to make sure Qingxuan’s belly wasn’t aching with insatiable hunger.
Struggling to sit up, he tries the first spoonful, and finds that it tastes like sea salt.