Chapter Text
One moment, Nie Huaisang was discussing weapons tax and freight with a pleasant minister from Lanling—the next, he was lying down on top of a bed, limbs sprawled out over its width in a childish manner.
He had been smiling at the minister as he often would, covering his mouth with a fan and closing his eyes, tilting his head to the side and dragging his free hand through his hair. When he’d opened his eyes to respond to the minister, he’d instead been faced with the mural roof of his childhood bedroom—something he recognised instinctually—and not the slightly aged and disgruntled face of the Lanling minister.
For a moment, he simply lay still, staring upward. The last time he’d seen this mural had been long enough ago that he couldn’t place a clear number of months that had passed. The brushstrokes of the branches, the little dots of petals—all exactly as he remembered it from when he was younger.
After some moments of thought and quiet confusion, he realised a handful of other strange occurrences; his hair was bare of pins and ornaments, and he no longer wore his Sect Leader robes. Instead, he was wearing a simple white under-robe, with intricate weavings near the tip of his sleeves and skirt.
Furthermore, the ornate iron fan he usually carried with him was absent from where it usually lay inside the arm of his robe.
Nie Huaisang sat up, back straightened and fumbled to check for it, which was no longer in his hands. Like the knife, it was nowhere on his person, but he quickly spotted it resting beside the bed stand.
At first, he had assumed the stress of his position as Chief Cultivator had finally gotten to him, and he’d begun hallucinating. The longer he sat and observed his surroundings, the less he believed this. He dragged his hands along his robes, flatting the wrinkles that had appeared from lying down for so long—although he did not remember lying out for more than a handful of seconds.
Then, he thought, brows furrowed in confusion: did I pass out?
It seemed the most likely option, though he couldn’t fathom why he hadn’t been brought to his room or the medical wing.
Absently, he brought his hand up to, out of habit, comb his fingers through his hair while he thought, but stopped short as his hair grabbed at nothing. The usual locks of hair that wound over his shoulders were absent, and as he raised his hand further to drag his hand through his hair to adjust it, he came to realise that his hair had been cut to his nape.
He blanched for several seconds.
The last time he had this short hair was when he was fifteen, and since he had harboured no desire to return to that length.
For a moment, he sat still, twirling what little hair still managed to brush his shoulders, thinking. Then, he stayed still as a cold wave of not-quite-anger washed over him, moving from his chest to his arms and the tips of his fingers.
Before he could banish whatever attendant had cut his hair to count their inventory, a knock came from the door, and a voice spoke from behind it.
“Second Master Nie? You are required to be present for classes in an hour.”
The voice was almost familiar. It took Nie Huaisang a few moments to place it until a strike of clarity punched the breath out of his lungs.
The voice sounded just like Zeng Suyin, one of his attendants from many years ago. She was one of the oldest souls living in the Impure Realms, clinging to life and working even with her old, frail body. She had been one of Nie Huaisang’s primary attendants since he had been a child, having been with them long enough to have known his mother and father. Two years before being appointed as the new Sect Leader of Qinghe Nie, she had passed away after several months of bed rest.
Nie Huaisang nearly leapt off the bed, not taking a moment to brush out his now-mussed hair before sliding the door open and staring wide-eyed at Zeng Suyin, who looked much younger than he remembered. Her face was still wrinkly, but her nose and cheeks lacked the purple blush she had developed over the final years of her life. Her hair was full and intricately done up, just like she had worn it when he was a child, and her hands were almost thin and lean, age not yet spread to the tips of her fingers.
She stared back at him, poorly attempting to veil her surprise. “Young Master Nie!” She exclaimed, hand rising to rest on her chest. “How unusual for you to be awake at this hour!”
“Zeng Suyin,” he said, standing still as a stone, “we know each other quite well, yes?”
Her eyes shot upward by the length of a thumbnail. “Of course.”
“Would you mind if I asked you something, then?” The tips of his fingers began to ache from the pressure he was putting on them, gripping the door hard enough to crack.
“You may ask me anything, Young Master Nie.”
Nie Huaisang straightened and asked, “How old am I?”
Zeng Suyin stared at him for a moment, perplexed. When Nie Huaisang only stared back at her, rapt in a way quite unlike him, she sighed. “You are fifteen years of age, Second Master Nie. Your birthday was four months ago.”
Had Nie Huaisang been a stronger man, the door would have cracked from his grip. “Ah,” he uttered, staring at the wall behind Zeng Suyin. “And how old are you, currently?”
“I am sixty-five. My birthday is in two months,” she replied, managing somewhat to reign in her confusion. “May I incline as to why Young Master is asking these questions?”
Nie Huaisang, who had since lost the ability to understand her, continued to stare at the wall.
“Young Master?”
Then, he flinched, as if slapped across the face and stumbled backwards. Zeng Suyin exclaimed in concern, hands splayed in as if she were attempting to catch him—although if she tried, her arm would surely snap off of her shoulder.
Nie Huaisang stabilised, then for many moments, stared at the floor, eyes wide and only blinking ever so often. His mouth was slightly open, letting out small puffs of breath. Zeng Suyin approached cautiously—it was strange to see the Young Master so alert in the morning, and even stranger to see him so distressed.
“Young Master, is everything alright?” She asked, hovering a hand over his arms. “Are you ill?”
Nie Huaisang’s stare remained unbroken, eyes unblinking and stature frozen yet. Then, after an incense of time, his head whipped upward and he stared at Zeng Suyin with wide eyes.
“Is my brother here?”
She straightened barely, brushing out her sleeve and crossing her arms. “I— Yes, Sect Leader Nie is currently home. I believe he’s currently working in the main hall if you would like to—”
Before she managed to finish, Nie Huaisang shot past her like an arrow whizzing toward a distant target, tumbling down the hallway wearing only an under robe and hair unbrushed. Zeng Suyin shouted after him, her concerned yelling alerting other nearby attendants passing through the hallways. Only miraculous luck kept Nie Huaisang from crashing into anyone as he sprinted through the halls, sliding past corners and ducking past disciples and attendants.
He crossed nearly half of the Impure Realm in minutes, skipping across courtyards barefoot, developing a pain tolerance he’d previously lacked to cut across the stone paths without stopping to cry out. A particularly sharp rock cut into his heel, causing him to tumble forward. In an instant, he was up again, using the heels of his hands to dig into the ground beneath him and push himself up. He picked out the stone with his hand, not even pausing to whine about it, and then continued forward.
Eventually, he reached the main hall’s courtyard. As soon as his steps faltered, exhaustion struck him like lightning and he began heaving for breath. His hair had become damp from sweat, clinging to his temples and forehead uncomfortably. Patches of dirt adorned the dress of his white underrobe, hiding some of the intricate embroideries behind large splashes of grey and black.
With the back of his hand, he swiped at his forehead, brushing both sweat and hair out of his eyes, before straightening. He took a deep breath, his inhale lagging and hiccuping as it passed through his chest. He closed his eyes, took several more controlled inhales, and then opened his eyes again. With cautious steps he continued forward, stepping up onto the terrace.
The hall's interior came into view. It was the same as it had been when he was younger; paper everywhere, swords everywhere, attendants and disciples flitting about the place like restless birds. Desks lined the room, creating an illusion of a catwalk passing through the middle. A small stone slab raised out of the floor at the end of the room, housing a large, imposing desk. Behind it was a large banner displaying the Qinghe Nie sigil, sweeping with what small breeze managed to pass through the hall.
“Huaisang?”
Behind the raised desk, atop the stone slab, sat Nie Mingjue, cross-legged. Both his hands were placed on his knees, and his elbows pointed outward—sort of like a peacock spreading its feathers. He looked disgruntled, more than anything. Concern had yet to break out on his features, and instead, he stared at Nie Huaisang with an expression similar to the one Zeng Suyin had borne as he had sprinted away from his room.
A sharp, unbearable pain sprouted from his neck, freezing his entire body. For a moment, Nie Huaisang thought an arrow might have pierced through his throat, but a single experimental swallow refuted the possibility. The stinging grew unbearable until it was all he could think of—a single choked sob tumbled past his lips, followed by another, and another, until he had broken into tears.
Nie Huaisang had begun approaching a point in time where the time he had lived without his brother would surpass the years they had together. It was an uncomfortable thought, one which he’d often shunt to the far recess of his mind whenever it sprung on him during his duties as Sect Leader and Chief Cultivator. The thought was incredibly depressing that, whenever it came to him, Nie Huaisang couldn’t bear to even move.
Nie Mingjue looked as he always did. He was younger, though only by a few years, and untouched by the stresses and perils of the Sunshot Campaign. There was pride in his stance, though lacking the confidence and assurance that had come with overthrowing the Qishan Wen Clan. His hair was slightly shorter and his eyes seemed brighter, though Nie Huaisang had a difficult time discerning any noticeable differences at the distance, and through his tears.
“Da-ge!” He sobbed, stumbling forward a single step.
Alarm spread across Nie Mingjue’s features and he shot to his feet. “Huaisang?!” He said again, stepping away from his desk and walking through the pseudo-catwalk at a brisk pace.
Nie Huaisang stumbled forward further, eventually crashing into Nie Mingjue and embracing him as tightly as possible. He bunched the fabrics of his hanfu together, pinching them between his fists, and held him so close they might have melted together.
“Huaisang? Huaisang, what’s wrong? Is something wrong?” Nie Mingjue said, distressed and bewildered. He brought up his arms and placed them on his shoulders, making futile and half-hearted attempts to push his brother away to look at him.
With every gentle push, Nie Huaisang clung tighter to him, until Nie Mingjue gave up and put his arms around his shoulders, returning the hug. He managed to lower them onto the floor, Nie Huaisang leaning his entire body into Nie Mingjue. At one point, Nie Huaisang had clung so close to him that only his inner robe was touching his floor, arms and legs curled together in his brother’s lap.
“Zeng Suyin,” said his brother, looking away from Nie Huaisang for the first time since he’d come stumbling into the room. “Did something happen?”
Zeng Suyin stood outside on the terrace, body taut with concern. She was frowning, staring at Nie Huaisang, still clung tight to Nie Mingjue and wailing. “I don’t—” she began, then stuttered. She brought up a hand to tug at her thumbnail, then cupped her cheek. “I do not know if something has happened to Young Master Nie. He was awake when I came to get him, then asked me strange questions—”
“What questions?” Inquired Nie Mingjue, carding a gentle hand through his brother’s hair.
“He asked me if I knew how old he was. And then, after I answered, how old I was.”
Nie Mingjue frowned. “Besides that? Did he do anything strange besides that?”
Zeng Suyin’s hair had partially unravelled on her way between Nie Huaisang’s quarters and the main hall, and she tucked as much of the loose hair behind her ears as she could. “I do not know what else. He seemed very strange after I answered the questions, but I simply assumed he was ill…”
Nie Mingjue nodded once, then used the flat of his palm to cup Nie Huaisang’s forehead. “He doesn’t seem sick,” he said and retracted his hand, before grabbing hold of his wrist, using his thumb and point finger to loop around it.
He let a gentle stream of spiritual energy flood through his hands, ushering it into and through Nie Huaisang, inspecting his meridians and golden core. When even that came back clean, he sighed and withdrew his hand, leaning forward to rest his chin on top of Nie Huaisang’s head.
Most of the disciples and attendants inside the hall had been watching the ongoing events with rapt attention but eventually began returning to their work, one by one. Soon enough, every person inside the room aside from Zeng Suyin had begun ignoring the two entirely.
Nie Mingjue squeezed his brother tight once, then inched away, moving his arms to hold Nie Huaisang’s legs and to support his back. With a great heave, he stood up, still holding Nie Huaisang in his arms.
“Send for a doctor,” he said to Zeng Suyin, “I’ll move him back to his room.”
She nodded once, then said, “Of course, Sect Leader Nie,” before turning on her heel and disappearing toward the medical wing.
Nie Mingjue began traipsing toward Nie Huaisang’s room, which was regrettably placed near the opposite end of the Impure Realm. It was only a few buildings away from the Sect Leader quarters, amongst a cluster of buildings dedicated to the Nie family. Currently, most stood empty, due to there only being two living Nie’s at the current moment, something Nie Mingjue rarely spent more than a handful of minutes thinking about.
Using his foot to slide the door open, Nie Mingjue entered the small bedroom and walked over toward the bed. As gently as he could, he laid Nie Huaisang down on the bed, placing a hand on his neck to lay his head on the pillow. Nie Huaisang didn’t protest, only blinked once, then twice.
After a few moments of laying still, he inhaled sharply and laid his arm over his eyes. His wailing had long since stopped, now reduced to occasional halted sniffles and shaky inhales, though his face still harboured obvious evidence of tears; his cheeks and nose were bright red, and his cheeks damp.
“Sorry,” he said after a while. “I’m sorry, da-ge. I don’t know what happened.”
This was, of course, a lie. But what could he say? If he told the truth Nie Mingjue might believe he was lying, or worse, think he had gone mad. It was in these moments that Nie Huaisang was thankful he was an excellent liar—fooling his brother came as easy as breathing.
“It’s all right,” said Nie Mingjue, stepping away from the bed and grabbing a water pitcher, sitting amongst glasses on a metal tray. He carried the tray over toward the bed, setting it down on the bed stand. “Drink,” he said, crouching down beside the bed and crossing his arms.
Nie Huaisang nodded and propped himself up on his elbows, leaning toward the bed stand and grabbing one of the glasses, waiting as Nie Mingjue filled it with water. With slow sips, he drank it. Once it was empty, he set it down on the tray and lay back down on his bed.
One of his songbirds had since woken up and had begun whistling in gentle song, and the wind chimes hung from the roof had begun swaying. His room as Sect Leader had been much bigger and, although he had moved each one of his belongings, had rarely been enveloped in these soft noises. While his songbirds would often sing, and the wind chimes clink, the room was so large that the songs never mixed and only remained a pleasant backdrop to his day-to-day routine.
“Will you be alright if I leave you?” Asked Nie Mingjue, heaving himself upward to stand.
Nie Huaisang hummed, nodded, and said, “I will. I’m sorry for disturbing your work.”
“Don’t be.” Nie Mingjue shook his head and waved his hand in dismissal. “You are my brother. If you are ill, I am happy to help.”
“But I am not ill.”
Nie Mingjue ignored him, and walked away from the bed and to the door, sliding it open with one hand. “You are excused from today’s classes. Stay here and listen to the doctor.”
“But I am not ill! Da-ge!”
The door slid shut, and Nie Huaisang was left alone. Then, he relaxed his shoulders and stared at the ceiling.
He was fifteen again. Either, his consciousness had traversed time, or he had inherited memories from a future version of himself, or the entire world had regressed and he was the only one who had realised.
How it happened doesn’t matter, though. What does , is that Nie Huaisang has a chance to save his brother from Jin Guanguyao, and he would rather die than waste it.