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It is truly a rare thing indeed for the Arbiter-General of the Luofu to be awake at such an early hour.
The Seat of Divine Foresight is eerily quiet --- perhaps, Jing Yuan thinks, because any reasonable individual is still in bed and dreaming; alas, such is not his lot in life today. A bowl of congee sits in front of him, untouched. Honey-gold eyes regard it with a certain sort of contemptuousness, and Jing Yuan lethargically lifts his spoon to poke at it, watching as a berry drifts lazily to the top. He swallows, deciding he feels rather nauseous, and looks away --- though the ever-expanding pile of paperwork that surrounds him is no happier sight.
From somewhere off to the side, a door creaks open; moments later, a pink-haired menace fills his field of view, and Jing Yuan sighs, deflating like a popped balloon. "Lady Fu," he says, digging the heel of his palm into his eye, "to what do I owe the pleasure of a visit from you at such an unpleasant hour?"
"I just had to see it for myself --- you, awake, at this hour, and attempting to do work? Well, I've truly seen everything, now."
Fu Xuan leans forward, somehow managing to be intimidating (in a particular sense, anyway) despite her diminutive size, and sets both her hands flat on his desk, leaning in to peer at him --- studying him much like one might a bug trapped in a jar.
"And now that you have had your gloating ---" Jing Yuan glances up, managing a weary smile as his gaze meets Fu Xuan's, "--- are you going to leave me to my misery in peace, or are you going to pester me, such that all my efforts to wake up early are for naught?"
Fu Xuan clicks her tongue in disapproval at him. "You look like death warmed over," she says matter-of-factly. "Are you sleeping?"
"Clearly not," Jing Yuan retorts, unable to keep the hint of amusement out of his tone as he gestures vaguely to the piles of paperwork. He thinks another one may have mysteriously appeared in the last fifteen minutes, even. How cruel.
"--- At any rate, that's not why I'm here." Fu Xuan's gaze flicks from Jing Yuan to the untouched bowl of congee and back again, then slides it out of the way, hopping up to sit on his desk. Jing Yuan laments internally for all the work he won't be accomplishing, and for all the sleep he's missed for it --- a futile undertaking, all of it. "I'm here because there's something we need to talk about."
"You've scryed into my future." It's still an accusation, even if delivered in a tone of amusement. Jing Yuan leans back in his chair, arms folded across his chest, looking every bit the cat that got the cream.
Fu Xuan's gaze is steely for a moment, unappreciative of having been called out so directly. She sighs. "General ... you've been moping."
"Moping?"
"Moping. Ever since ..."
Ever since Dan Feng was killed, is left unsaid, ever since you gathered what little was left of his personal effects when they washed up along the shore.
She doesn't have to say it aloud for Jing Yuan to understand the implication. The lump in his throat that has been a constant (unwelcome) companion in his idle hours threatens to choke him again. He swallows thickly, sniffling.
"--- At any rate ---" Fu Xuan's voice slices through his reverie like a hot knife through butter, "--- I have a proposal for you, one I think you should give consideration to." Her gaze is so intense that Jing Yuan feels as if she's dissecting his very soul for closer inspection. "General ... I think you should take on a disciple."
Jing Yuan masterfully plays off a snort of laughter as a cough. "A disciple? Lady Fu, with all due respect ... I believe I have very little to offer in that regard. Despite being trained by a sword champion, I am hardly even a passable swordsman, in my own estimation ... and I certainly lack the accolades typical of someone who's held the position of Arbiter-General for this long a tenure. I am merely an old man who has managed to fail upwards." A pause, and then he adds more softly, "It would be unfair of me."
"Jing Yuan."
Jing Yuan sighs heavily. "Lady Fu."
Fu Xuan's expression softens, and she reaches out, takes one of his hands in both of hers. "I don't have to scry into your future nor peer into your past to see that you are lonely and bored. Perhaps having someone to teach, to train --- to mould in your own image, for the future of the Xianzhou --- would help take your mind off the things that trouble you even after all these years."
"That's a terribly selfish reason to take a disciple," Jing Yuan counters, tipping his head back and letting his eyes flutter shut. "I am old, Lady Fu. I haven't but a few more centuries left in me."
She squeezes his hand. "That's time enough."
Jing Yuan cracks one eye half-open and looks at her. At long last, he says simply: "I will consider it."
Fu Xuan smiles brightly, giving his hand a final pat before hopping off his desk, satisfied that the reason for her visit has been accomplished. "Don't tarry too long on it," she cautions. A pause, and then: "Oh, and Jing Yuan?"
"Hm?"
"Take it easy the next few days. I suspect the rainy weather will make that backache of yours worse if you allow it."
She doesn't wait for an answer before turning heel and leaving the Seat of Divine Foresight as abruptly as she'd come. Jing Yuan watches her retreating figure, grinning helplessly, then hunches forward and drags his fingers through his hair, uncertain whether to laugh or to bang his head on his desk.
He does not necessarily like to believe in fate being preordained, but in times like this, it's terribly hard not to.
Qingzu is smiling softly as she leads a little boy by the hand into the Seat of Divine Foresight. Even from across the room, Jing Yuan can tell that the boy is clinging to her --- but despite the fear he must be feeling, he's putting on a commendably brave face, lips set in a thin, determined line. His flaxen hair is tied up in a loose ponytail; his eyes, as golden as the wheatfields before harvest, peer cautiously out from behind a disheveled fringe. In his free hand, he's carrying a wooden toy sword.
Jing Yuan --- who has never particularly wanted children of his own, nor particularly cared to deal with them --- feels a twinge in his chest, an emotion he can't quite place bubbling up to the surface.
"This is Yanqing," Qingzu says, leading the boy up to Jing Yuan's desk. She lets go of his hand, nudging him forward.
Yanqing regards Jing Yuan with eyes as wide as dinnerplates. For a moment, he looks equal parts in awe and terrified --- and then he abruptly remembers his manners, dropping his toy sword and bowing so deeply Jing Yuan half-wonders if he'll bump his head against his knees. "I'm Yanqing," he says once he's straightened back up, then hesitates, uncertain whether he might be allowed to pick up his sword; he looks over at Qingzu as if seeking her guidance, but she only smiles.
Jing Yuan takes advantage of the opportunity to round his desk, taking a knee before the boy and handing his sword back with all the gentle reverence that one ought to handle another's weapon with --- even if said weapon is naught but a wooden toy. "I'm Jing Yuan," he says softly, "Arbiter-General of the Xianzhou Luofu, and I am to be your master, young man."
Yanqing blinks up at him. "Jing Yuan, Arbiter-General of the Xianzhou Luofu," he repeats, as if trying the name and title on for size. There's a beat, and then he adds admiringly: "... shīfu."
Jing Yuan must give credit where credit is due: Yanqing is nothing if not a spirited little creature, blessed with all the energy that children are so fortunate to have in spades --- it's easy to get tired simply watching him. He cannot help but think about all the things he could accomplish if he had even a fraction of Yanqing's vigor --- at the very least, perhaps the pile of paperwork on his desk would be less intimidating.
But he does not, and so all he can do is mourn silently for his courtyard, which he suspects may spend the next century or so serving as a playground for a boisterous child, instead of the tranquil retreat it had once been.
"Shīfu, look!"
Ah --- if only Yanqing would pull the weeds with as much ardor as he yanks up Jing Yuan's beloved flowers. The boy stands, triumphant and clearly proud of himself, as he holds up his latest victim by its petals. Jing Yuan can do naught but say a silent prayer for the poor dear lotus that's so cruelly met an untimely demise at the hands of an over-eager child.
"What's this one, shīfu?"
"That is --- ah, was --- a lotus." Jing Yuan cannot help himself --- the corners of his lips curve up into a soft smile. Yanqing's mischief has the unfortunate side effect of being terribly endearing. "Yanqing, when you pull them up so roughly, they die, do you see? They are fragile things --- you must treat them gently."
Yanqing blinks up at him, seeming to briefly consider what he's saying, then scampers off around the corner again. There's a rustling of leaves and a faint clattering, and it's all Jing Yuan can do to sigh for the millionth time as he mentally adds his beloved chrysanthemum to the rapidly-expanding casualty list. Yanqing considers it for a moment, then drops it aside, his attention turning to a nearby weed. Jing Yuan watches with bated breath, hoping very much that a teachable moment (and an assignment of a new chore --- one that will hopefully tire him out at least a little) will soon follow.
The boy yanks the weed up, then grins ear-to-ear, trotting proudly over to Jing Yuan, his chest puffed out like a victorious little warrior. "A pretty flower," he says, stuffing said weed (which is neither pretty, nor, in fact, even a flower at all) rather unceremoniously in Jing Yuan's face. "For you, shīfu!"
It's such an innocent, childlike gesture, and Jing Yuan comes to the sudden, crushing realization that it will be terribly difficult to ever grow angry with him --- which has rather unfortunate implications for the matter of disciplining him. He reaches out to ruffle Yanqing's hair, fighting mightily against a mounting urge to sneeze.
"Thank you, Yanqing," he says, and smiles.
A warm spring gives way to a humid summer; with every passing day, Yanqing finds a way to re-cement his place as the Luofu's most darling menace. Try as he might, Jing Yuan cannot convince the boy to leave the peach trees well enough alone and sit down for his recitations. Sometimes, he disciplines him. Usually, he doesn't --- much to Fu Xuan's dismay, he's found that he rather lacks the heart for it. Unsolicited advice finds its way to his desk at the Seat of Divine Foresight; everyone on the Luofu, it seems, has their opinions on how to parent.
"I am not parenting him," Jing Yuan complains to Fu Xuan one evening, his tone edging dangerously close to petulance as he shoves aside a list of suggestions an "anonymous benefactor" had so helpfully left for his consideration. "I am mentoring him. I am doing as you said: I am trying to raise him in such a way that he will be a beacon of hope for the Luofu's future."
Fu Xuan gives him a look that's equal parts knowing, tender, and terribly amused --- a look that says everything that she herself is grinning too smugly to. "And have you taught him the art of swordplay yet, General?"
Jing Yuan balks. "Even the littlest sword is bigger than he is!" he splutters, gesturing. "He's far too small yet!"
One corner of Fu Xuan's lips tug up in something that's dangerously close to a smirk.
"I am not parenting him," Jing Yuan repeats, grousing. There's a beat, and then: "Ah ... unrelated, but do you have any advice for how to coax a child into learning his recitations, instead of tossing fruit at my finches? His aim is terribly good."
Fu Xuan takes one look at Jing Yuan, throws her head back, and laughs.
Jing Yuan is not Yanqing's father. He is Yanqing's master, his mentor. His shīfu.
But being his shīfu does not mean that he cannot feel terribly fond of him. It does not mean that he cannot indulge the boy every now and again: that he cannot let him ride on his shoulders as they walk through Aurum Alley, for example, or that he cannot read him storybooks at bedtime, instead of dull and dry treatises on military history and the art of swordfighting (not that the boy would probably understand them anyway, at his tender age.) It does not mean that he cannot carry him in his arms when he's exhausted, cradling his head against his shoulder. It does not mean that he cannot want for his happiness, or feel an overwhelming need to protect him.
It is normal for a master to care deeply for his disciple, after all --- especially when his disciple is still so terribly small and young (hardly six years old, by Jing Yuan's best estimation) and wakes him in the middle of the night, feverish and miserable.
(As the Arbiter-General of the Luofu, Jing Yuan has always trusted in his instincts. Despite never wanting to be at the helm in the first place, he has nonetheless grown to become a certain sort of facile with it; his lion's heart, brave and unwavering even in the face of what seems to be certain destruction, he has never once faltered.
But as Yanqing's shīfu, he feels helpless.)
--- Fu Xuan's voice is groggy when she answers the phone; her displeasure at the situation practically oozes through the speaker. "Jing Yuan, what are you doing awake at this hour?"
"I need help," he croaks, an admission he'd never in all his years imagined would leave his mouth. Yanqing sits on his lap, too-hot forehead pressed into the crook of his neck, tiny hands fisted in the fabric of his robes, and Jing Yuan cannot help but feel less than useless as he rubs up and down his back, trying to comfort him. "Yanqing is sick. I do not know what to do."
"And so you called me, instead of Lady Bailu?" There's a pause on the other end, as if Fu Xuan can feel the realization dawning on him. She laughs softly. "Call her in the morning, Jing Yuan. You are a grown man, and the Arbiter-General no less. Surely you can figure out how to care for him overnight. And at any rate, he won't die of a head cold."
"And you know this because you have divined it to be so ...?" Jing Yuan asks feebly.
Fu Xuan remains silent for several moments. "He will be fine, Jing Yuan," she finally says, gentler this time. "Just be with him. He looks at you like you hung the stars. I'd wager your company is all he wants."
Jing Yuan doesn't know what to say to that, and so he says nothing. There's a click, then, and the other end of the line goes silent, leaving him alone with his thoughts and this terribly overwhelming problem once more. He lets his phone fall from his hand and looks down at Yanqing, who blinks up at him with bleary eyes. His nose is running down nearly to his chin, and for the thousandth time, Jing Yuan feels completely worthless upon the realization that he doesn't have any tissues about, because he himself hasn't been ill in years. He sighs, then tries not to pull a face as he wipes the boy's nose with the hem of his own sleeve.
"Thank you, shīfu," Yanqing says. And then he sneezes and makes a mess all over again; for as much as Jing Yuan wants to be disgusted, he cannot, because Yanqing looks on the verge of tears, overwhelmed with remorse. "I don't feel good," he says, tugging limply at Jing Yuan's robes.
Jing Yuan feels something crack open in his chest and spill out everywhere, like a dropped egg. "I know," he replies, blinking furiously at the pricking in his own eyes. "I know, and I am sorry. Tomorrow I will get you medicine, and everything will be all right. Do you believe me?"
Yanqing tucks his head beneath Jing Yuan's chin, and Jing Yuan cannot help but to wrap his arms around him, overcome with an urge to protect him against anything and everything that would ever do him harm. But there are so many things, so, so terribly many things that could bring about his demise centuries before he's due --- so many things that could rob him of his childlike happiness, of his reasons to beam up at Jing Yuan with that snaggle-toothed little smile --- and Jing Yuan has never before felt so impotent, faced with the staggering weight of it all.
"Yes, shīfu," Yanqing whispers, head heavy against Jing Yuan's shoulder, "I do."
It is a good thing that he grows quickly and remains hale and healthy over the years that follow (and it is also a good thing that the Luofu is blessed by a period of relative peace as he does; Jing Yuan is not certain his poor old heart could take the strain of anything but.)
And perhaps he gradually comes to realize that Fu Xuan was right: having a child about is a distracting thing; it leaves him far less time to get lost in his head, to toss and turn and dwell on what once was and what could have been --- and at any rate, even when the old sorrow comes creeping in once more, Yanqing has such a way of beating it back. He swings his sword --- his first real one, a gift from Jing Yuan for his eighth birthday --- with such focus and enthusiasm that it cuts right through the shadows, clearing away the cobwebs that have had centuries to collect in the back of Jing Yuan's consciousness.
Jing Yuan watches him, coaching him gently through his blocks and parries, and observing with no small amount of amusement as he slices a third watermelon to ribbons as if it were an abomination of the abundance. Yanqing turns to Jing Yuan, then, his grin a mile wide as he waits for his verdict.
Jing Yuan nods his approval. Yanqing whoops with delight.
(The shadows fade away, pushed back to the forgotten recesses of his mind.
The sunlight is so much brighter than he remembered. It feels so warm and welcome on his skin.)
"You will be a prodigy one day, Yanqing."
Jing Yuan sits behind him, dutifully running a comb through his hair, plucking out the twigs and leaves and all manner of things that he's gotten tangled in it during his adventures. Yanqing, still as energetic in his teenage years as he was when he was just a tiny thing, squirms restlessly, eager to get back to his training. "It's all thanks to you, shīfu," he says. "If it weren't for your gift of instruction, I'd just be another nobody. I want to be a famous Xianzhou legend, just like you!"
I would never want you to know all the troubles that this role brings, Jing Yuan thinks to himself. It's terribly selfish --- he knows --- but even as he trains the boy to be a swordmaster (one whose ability he hopes will far eclipse his own, no less), he cannot help but guiltily wish for Yanqing to know nothing but peace for all his days.
(It's a futile hope --- even this run of peacetime has lasted unusually long. Sooner or later, trouble always finds its way back to the Luofu. But Jing Yuan is no stranger to holding on to impossible dreams.)
"The role of Arbiter-General is far from as exciting as you seem to think it is, Yanqing," he laughs, tossing aside another twig. "It seems my primary function is to fill out whatever paperwork Diviner Fu drops on my desk. It makes for dreary work. Is that really what you want?"
Yanqing is silent for a long while, the the look in his eyes faraway, thoughtful. "I want my legacy to be an honor to you," he replies at long last. "I don't want all of your efforts to have been in vain. Everybody else doubts me --- but you never have! I want to make you proud. Someday, I will. Just you wait and see!"
Jing Yuan is not Yanqing's father. He is Yanqing's master, his mentor. His shīfu. But being his shīfu does not mean that he cannot want nothing but happiness for him in this life, nothing but success. It does not mean that he cannot wish he could be there to see his every victory, his every triumph, his every achievement; it does not mean that he cannot yearn to be by his side in every moment of uncertainty or strife --- a guiding presence, a safe port when his skiff is rocked by turbulent seas.
It does not mean he cannot mourn the silent knowledge that he will not.
Jing Yuan is not Yanqing's father --- but that does not mean he cannot love him as a father might.
(And Jing Yuan, for all his strength, is a terribly weak and lonely old man in the end.)
"Yanqing," he says, reaching out to ruffle the boy's hair, and wishing for all the world that he could take this moment and preserve it like a bug in amber --- that he could make it last for all of eternity, "you have always made me proud."
coda.
On the third day, Fu Xuan takes pity on Jing Yuan and brings him a pot of ching po leung --- though she doesn't manage to do so without taking one look at him and laughing until she can scarcely breathe. Normally, Jing Yuan would roll his eyes at her, but today he cannot seem to find the energy to do so; instead, he merely steps wearily aside as she shoulders her way past him, sauntering authoritatively into his kitchen as if she owns the place.
From somewhere in the parlor there's a shout, a thwack, and the sound of books thudding onto the floor, followed shortly by childish giggles; Yanqing peeks around the corner, wooden sword in hand, then laughs again, raises his sword, and tears off once more in pursuit of his next victim. Fu Xuan stares pointedly at Jing Yuan, an impish little grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. "I see he's recovered well," she says. "Didn't I tell you?" A beat, and then: "He's also just as undisciplined as he was before, it would seem ..."
"I've caught my death from him," Jing Yuan laments, sniffling miserably as he sinks down into a chair, "surely you cannot expect me to discipline him in this state!"
"I cannot expect you to discipline him in any state," Fu Xuan retorts, without so much as a hint of admonishment in her voice. "Jing Yuan, you sentimental old fool. If you don't scold him, he won't hesitate to break every knickknack you've ever loved."
Jing Yuan, who has already built a mental shrine to a great many knickknacks fallen victim to Yanqing's ruthless wooden sword, can only laugh. "Yes," he says, smiling softly, "but he'll do so very happily."
Fu Xuan stares at him in silence for a moment, ladling out a bowlful of soup; she sets it in front of him, then drifts over to his side, one arm wrapping gently around his shoulders. Jing Yuan sniffles and leans against her, his eyes falling shut as she runs her fingers tenderly through his hair.
"It's been a long time since I last saw you this content, despite your present predicament. All of us have missed seeing you happy as you once were," she says quietly. There's a pause, and then she adds, her voice softer, fonder still: "Welcome back, Jing Yuan."