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Fu Xuan fell ill, as expected around this time of year—with her immune system in constant overdrive, every flu season was bound to take its toll on her. And she took it in stride, at first—ordering medication in advance from the Alchemy Division, backlogging enough work to allow for several days’ worth of rest, making porridge in bulk. The illness was annoying, but not awful. A clogged nose, a bit of a sore throat, a slight headache. Three days, tops—that was what she had designated; her immune system, too, being reliable enough for her to predict, after having endured so many flu seasons over the years.
Except this time, her prediction was wrong.
On the fifth day of illness, she woke up in the middle of the night, groggy and body burning with pain. Her clock on her bedside table registered three system hours after midnight. Her throat seared in agony as she swallowed with no saliva. The ever-present Omniscia was giving her grief as well; a restless animal, she imagined, twisting and turning in its burrow between her eyebrows.
It was hard not to curse Yaoshi for their “gift” to the Xianzhou natives. Perhaps even the Omniscia would have been physically bearable were it not for her body’s constant rejection of it. Her cells deemed the cold jade as a foreign object to purge, constantly fighting, pushing to cast out the alien bestowal of foresight to her mortal frame. And with her entire body wracked with fatigue, her headache was even less manageable. She’d never quite been able to tame it, and now it was going wild, throwing a tantrum of aching pain that simmered deep within her skull.
Could the Aeons not have made pain so poignant? Couldn’t they have lessened it by degrees; made it not such that she had to yearn for the sweet succor of death when ill?
She groaned and reached for her glass of water she’d prepared beforehand, downing it in desperate, hungry gulps. And then she turned in her bed and promptly fell asleep again.
...
The next she woke, feeling even worse than before, the clock registered three and a half system hours after midnight. Strange, she thought to herself. It feels as if it’s been hours. Her mouth was parched; her bed soaked with sweat; her blankets kicked to the side by her unconscious thrashing. She reached for the water again, only to find it empty. Some animal urge inside her wanted to smash the glass against the wall and curl up and sob, but she somehow made herself get up, drag herself over to the sink, and fill it up. She drank and drank and drank, blessedly cool water, oh; how sweet the seconds of sheer relief—and slumped back to bed. Somehow, even under the heat of the blankets, she managed to doze off again.
...
The third time she woke was to a rapping at her door.
“Lady Fu?” a familiar voice called. “Are you there?”
“It—” she croaked, then coughed violently, hacking up her lungs for what seemed like a minute. “Come in,” she gasped. “You know the passkey.”
An electronic tinkling announced the visitor’s presence within her abode. She couldn’t even muster up the strength to sit up. She could only lay in bed, one arm hanging uselessly off the edge, as she listened to the unbuckling of boots, the squeak of cushy slippers, the rustling of bags, and tentative footsteps making their way down the corridor. Though the door was askew, the visitor knocked gently to announce their presence, and with a small creak of complaint the door was pushed open.
“Fu Xuan,” the deep voice chided after a pause, “you look awful.”
“Thanks,” she snarled, blowing her nose into yet another tissue. She knew well how she looked—her floor riddled with used tissue like pockmarked scars; blankets, a wrinkled mess; medicine packets torn open and scattered all over her table.
“You should have called for me sooner,” he said. “Have you seen a healer?”
“It’s nothing. I can take care of myself, Jing Yuan. I’ll be better tomorrow.”
He pulled up the chair by the vanity and sat next to the bed, looking quite ridiculously oversized in her lodgings. He took her hand—she was too tired to shrug him off—and said, gently, “Lady Fu, it’s been a week.”
“What?” Panic overrode pain, and she fumbled for her phone to check the date. Sure enough—she’d been gone for four days more than her sick leave; the screen bloated with unread notifications and reminders. “That’s impossible. How…” She suddenly realized with a jolt that she’d been sleeping for days —the illness rendering her so tired that she’d slept through 24 system hours at a time. No wonder that second awakening had felt so strange.
“Aeons help me, this is a nightmare.” She buried her face in her hands, overwhelm curling her spine and shoulders into a ball of despair.
“Enough of that. Give this to me—” Jing Yuan said as she snatched the phone from her hand and deleted all of her notifications as she could only protest weakly— “and don’t worry about work for now. I’ll take care of everything.”
“Oh, if only,” she nearly sobbed. “Jing Yuan, I need to run the Divination Commission; how are they to operate without me there? I need to know—I have to—”
“Lady Fu, your colleagues are not incompetent,” he said sternly. “You are the finest mind aboard the Luofu, no doubt, but you know as well as I that a leader cannot work ceaselessly. Trust in your companions and take this time to rest. I’ll send for a healer shortly.”
“A good leader should work ceaselessly,” said Fu Xuan obstinately. “And besides, I wasn’t even working without any breaks. I took sick leave already! They’re all waiting on my instruction—”
“Need I remind you of my position aboard the Luofu? Must I issue an official command for you to rest, or will you listen to reason, Fu Xuan?”
She fell into a sullen silence, blowing her nose thickly.
“Good. Now, to start—”
“Why are you here, Jing Yuan?” she interrupted suddenly. Her voice sounded strident and nasally with mucus, displeasing to the ear, but she couldn’t stop herself from sinking deeper into self-pity and shame. Her plans overturned, her prediction shattered by a turn of fate, her current reality a reminder that she was not infallible. “Do you not have better things to do than to take care of a sick subordinate?” Leave me alone to suffer, she thought, and do not think to pity me. Leave me be, Jing Yuan, please.
A cloud passed over Jing Yuan’s face. He stood with an angry scrape of the chair. “Lady Fu,” he rumbled, “I will take your questions to be the ramblings of a woman driven nearly mad with illness and not a genuine inquiry uttered from the lips of my Master Diviner. I will brook no further arguments.”
Jing Yuan could look quite imposing when he wanted to. Normally Fu Xuan would find him slouched on his chair, sometimes basking in sunlight like a lazy cat, either lounging or sitting at a height where she could reach down and pat his head. She’d only ever seen him direct his commanding presence during battle, never being the subject of his wrath—it was hard to maintain eye contact with him when he was drawn up to his full height, glowering down at her.
“All right,” she muttered after a pause, defeated. “Do as you will.”
“First things first,” he said, “you need to eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“That’s worse. That probably means you’ve been fasting for days, if I’m not mistaken. Here. I am nowhere near as good a cook as you are,” said Jing Yuan, lifting a small bag in his hand, “so I brought takeout for you. You need a good meal to bring back your strength.”
“Sick people need porridge, Jing Yuan, not greasy takeout—”
“Meat buns, Puffergoat milk and yogurt, and yes, millet porridge. I asked the vendor to make it sweeter to your taste. Satisfactory, my lady Fu?”
Ah. Surprisingly thoughtful of him to remember her preferences. Jing Yuan took the yogurt out of the bag first, twisting the straw through the lid (the whole bottle looking absurdly small in his hands), and proffered it to her. Her arms raised automatically to accept, and she sipped on it with two hands wrapped around the glass like a child. The cool yogurt slid down her throat like ice over parched earth, sweet and thick and melting into her tastebuds.
In the meantime, Jing Yuan had already set up a small bed tray to lay out the food. She watched him, feeling stupid and helpless as he unfolded the legs and assembled the meat buns on a little paper plate. The porridge he poured into a little bowl decorated with lion motifs (did he bring it from home?), and the steamed milk was kept heated in a little disposable bag made of shiny foil, which slumped sadly over the bamboo tray. “And I got some medicine for you,” he said. “Take it after you eat, or you’ll get an upset stomach.”
“What is this?” Not that she didn’t trust Jing Yuan. But out of an abundance of caution and, well, a good sense of self preservation, it never hurt to check.
“Some painkillers I picked up on the way.”
Fu Xuan wrinkled her nose and pushed the pills away. “I don’t take painkillers.”
Jing Yuan’s brow furrowed. “Why not?”
“I just … I cannot. I can’t allow myself to become complacent. With my condition, I may … develop a dependence. I cannot risk it.”
“Lady Fu,” said Jing Yuan gently, “there is no nobility in suffering. Some types of pain are just that—pain. No moral or personal growth to be found in it.”
“I would agree with you, if I were just a common person whose life had no bearing on the fate of the Luofu. But my pain is mine to deal with how I so choose, and I refuse to risk my future by giving in to weakness.”
“My word, you are stubborn,” Jing Yuan sighed, pinching his nose. “How about this—you need only take one dose, just to get you through the day—and then you can continue with your masochistic tendencies. Please, Lady Fu, out of consideration for me. It pains me to see you suffering.”
She rolled her eyes and snatched the pills up, gnawing on a meat bun in her other hand. After she’d shoveled it into her mouth along with a spoonful of porridge, she popped the medicine in and gulped it down. “There. Satisfied?”
“Extraordinarily so. You’ve made my day,” he said, patting her head affectionately. He continued as she swatted away his hand, “The medicine should help. It’s nothing as effective as Lady Bailu’s healing, but she won’t be able to see you until later today. Many people are getting sick out there.”
“You’re risking your own health as well by seeing me, Jing Yuan.”
“Nonsense. I’ve been taking vitamin supplements every day for the past week. I’m practically invincible.”
“Hmph. Don’t expect me to be indebted to you for this, either,” she complained. “I never asked for your help.”
“Why do you always assume I have the worst intentions?” Jing Yuan asked with a pout, which Fu Xuan found to be rather ridiculous. “I assure you, Lady Fu, that I have come not with any ulterior motives. Rather, I came because you explicitly did not ask for any help from anyone for the past week, which made it abundantly clear to me that something had gone terribly wrong, what with you being so incredibly, er, headstrong.”
“Just say I’m stubborn. I know you’re thinking it.”
“Now is not the time to berate you,” Jing Yuan said with a small smile. “I will save the scolding for later. In the meantime, Lady Fu … would you like me to draw you a bath? It may help with the aches and pains.”
Fu Xuan looked down at her nightshift, suddenly blushing at the realization of how absolutely disheveled she must’ve looked to the General. Saliva stains, sweat, and, to her horror, recent porridge drippings were quite clearly visible on her clothing. She pulled the blankets up to her shoulders. “That would be very much appreciated,” she said quickly. “The bathroom is the first room to your right after you exit.”
“Very well. I hope you don’t mind if I search for some towels. Nothing incriminating you keep in the closets, I presume?”
“Just hurry up already!"
She chewed furiously on another meat bun while she waited, listening to Jing Yuan humming as the bath water came on with a terrific spray. The millet porridge was quite good, too; just the right amount of sweetness, and she found if she dipped the meat bun into the porridge the flavor soaked into the fluffy dough like a sauce. The food was still fresh and hot, enough to make Fu Xuan sweat a bit as she took small sips of the porridge and sweet steamed milk. She ate with relish, licking her fingers afterwards (thank the Aeons, Jing Yuan hadn’t suddenly barged in the room again to catch her in the act), and soon enough she’d demolished the entire tray of food.
She was just sucking up the dregs of the steamed Puffergoat milk when Jing Yuan came back. “Enjoyed the food? You’ve perfect timing; your bath is all set. I’ve added some Claretgleam salts at Bailu’s behest.”
Fu Xuan gasped. “Claretgleam … harvested from the Fanghu? That must’ve cost a fortune! I can’t accept this gift.”
Jingyuan’s mouth turned downward in a slight moue. “Unless you know a way to precipitate salts, I’m afraid you’ll have to simply live with it, my lady Fu. And before you suggest some harebrained scheme to boil the water in the bath—just hurry and soak. It’ll do you good.”
Fu Xuan found that she couldn't quite make eye contact with him. “I … I suppose I should thank you, General,” she muttered.
Jingyuan barked with laughter. “‘General?’ Does accepting kindness make you shy, 'Master Diviner?'"
“Hush, you … you scoundrel! I’m going!”
She rolled her eyes after storming into the bathroom and slamming the door shut; Jing Yuan’s chuckle could still be heard from behind it. What an infuriating man. I swear, he takes special delight in tormenting me with his buffoonery…
The water was refreshing, unbelievably so; the heat and fragrant steam making her feel as if she were dissolving into a bowl of Fu Xuan soup, sloughing off all the disease and death in her body. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d taken a bath. The sickness had reverted her into a child again; she marvelled at the strangely slippery water as she raised and lowered her hand under the water with faint splashes. She closed her eyes and recalled glimpses from a time long past—the faint memory of her mother’s smile; the sound of ringing laughter; the sensation of bubbles. I should go back and visit sometime, she thought wistfully. She stuck her nose under the water’s surface, letting out a small burble, and immediately felt ridiculous.
“Let me know if you need help, Lady Fu,” called Jing Yuan from outside.
“Don’t treat me like an invalid. I’m not going to drown in the bath,” she retorted.
“I meant your hair, Fu Xuan.”
“What about it?”
“I thought it looked … never mind. I’m sure you’ll be able to handle it.”
Her hair couldn’t be that tangled, surely. She reached for her comb at the edge of the bath and started running it through.
Thirty minutes later, she dragged herself out of the bath, defeated, her pink hair soaked through in a matted mess. She slipped on her bathrobe and slumped against the edge of the tub. “Jing Yuan,” she bleated pathetically. “My hair. ”
“Can I come in?”
“Yes, you oaf, I’m covered.” She tossed the comb aside, disgusted. “Heavens help me, if I have to deal with one more knot I will rip all the hair from my scalp.”
He all but barged in after hearing those words. “Don’t do anything drastic, Lady Fu!”
“Argh—don’t shout! I can hear you fine.”
“What’s gotten you— oh.” Jing Yuan knelt down and gently inspected her hair, tsk ing at the state of the knots. “As it happens, I do have experience with unruly hair.” He tilted his head askance. “May I?”
“Just do it already,” she groaned through her hands.
“All right. Why don’t you come with me and sit in front of the vanity? I’ll bring over the oils and your comb. Would you like to hold my hand, Lady Fu?”
Fu Xuan suddenly felt a terrific headache strike her like a bolt from above, ringing her ears. “Don’t need your help,” she muttered, trying to ignore the pressure building behind her eyes. When she tried to get up her knees turned to jelly and she stumbled. Were it not for Jing Yuan’s reflexes, she would’ve fallen face-first on the tiled floor.
“Don’t be that way, Fu Xuan,” he sighed. “Always trying to do everything yourself.” He placed both her arms over his shoulders and stood easily. With his bullish stature and her tiny frame, Fu Xuan felt even more like a helpless child.
“I don’t want to be a burden,” she whispered into his shoulder.
Jing Yuan shook his head. “Not allowing me to help you when you need me is more of a burden than anything.”
She pondered this as Jing Yuan pocketed her hair products and ambled along the hallway to the bedroom. She really had never been the type to ask for help. In fact, she prided herself on her fierce independence— her teachers had all said so; her family and peers as well, and after all, wasn’t it nice to look back on a job well done with the knowledge that all the work could be credited to one’s own industriousness?
That’s when I actually succeed, thought Fu Xuan bitterly. I have failed, many, many times. And I have always relied on others to pick up the scattered pieces for me.
He gently set her back down on her chair, dragging it back in front of the vanity. “Just relax, Lady Fu. Leave everything to me.”
Wasn’t it shameful for him? To be the General of the Luofu, yet appear as a mere servant to his own successor—knelt behind her as he puzzled over her hair? Wasn’t it strange, too bizarrely domestic for them to be in a context like this—for the Master Diviner to have her hair sorted, combed through, and oiled by Jing Yuan’s gentle hands, all because she was too listless and wracked with pain to move?
“Is your head hurting again, Lady Fu?”
Fu Xuan opened one eye blearily. “Again? What do you mean?”
“Lying through your teeth again as well, it seems,” Jing Yuan sighed. “There’s no need to put on a brave face around me.” She felt his thumbs inching towards her temples, and when he kneaded them with a featherlight touch she nearly sobbed with relief—biting her tongue to keep the noise from escaping her traitorous throat.
“I’m not putting on a brave face for anyone,” she muttered.
“You’re a horrible liar, Fu Xuan.”
“Okay! Fine! It hurts.” She tilted her head back and glared up at him. “It doesn’t matter even if it does. I’m already used to it. What’s the use of complaining when it won’t do anything?”
“Burdens shared are burdens halved,” Jing Yuan replied. She could’ve sworn she saw a flash of pain in his eyes, a sudden crack in his placidity, that ever-present armor.
“And yet you don’t tell me anything about your own burdens, do you, General?”
“Hm.” He flashed her a small smile. “I never said I followed my own advice.”
“You’re a scoundrel,” she muttered, closing her eyes again. “Are you done with my hair? I want to go back to bed.”
“Ah, yes. You’re all set. Shall I help you back up?”
“Stop treating me like a child already!” She stormed over to the closet, wrenched a fresh pair of pajamas from the hangers, and plopped back onto bed. “Turn around; I’m changing.”
Jing Yuan did so, even going so far as to cover his eyes. “Well, Lady Fu,” he said by way of making conversation, “if you think about it, you’re probably feeling the worst of the illness pass right now, and you won’t have to worry about falling this ill again for years!”
Fu Xuan shoved an arm through her sleeve. “That is not how probability works, Jing Yuan.”
“Haha. Right you are. But doesn’t it make life more bearable to think of it that way?”
Fu Xuan considered this as she tossed her bathrobe aside. “Is it?” she asked. “Do you think of life that way?”
“It certainly helps a little bit,” he said, kneeling to pick up the bathrobe. “You know those people—Yanqing is one of them, actually—who try and calculate the number of years they have, then have a calendar to mark down every day that passes—each day inching closer to inevitable death? They calculate progress, track weight and muscle gain, changes in diet, growth, aptitude scores, et cetera, et cetera. I couldn’t possibly do that. It’s exhausting … and not helpful.”
“Not helpful? I’ve done such a thing before,” Fu Xuan mused, settling back into her blankets. “When I was studying for exams as a child, for example. And when I have deadlines for work, and when I need to record the trajectory of divinations—having a marker of time’s passage and calculating how much time I have left is a huge boon.”
“Perhaps more so for you, Lady Fu. But I don’t think I can live life that way. Crossing out a tally of life I have left when I have no way to ascertain when and how it will end feels like an exercise in futility. Can I turn now?”
Fu Xuan snorted. “Haven’t I told you already? I’ve done many readings regarding your future. You’re destined to live an absurdly long life even among our species, and will pass peacefully in your sleep—”
“That’s not the point I’m making, Fu Xuan,” Jing Yuan said gently. “If I were to live like how those people live, I believe that would certainly change your predictions for my eventual demise. My hair would grow even whiter than it is now; I’d start losing sleep … Aeons forbid, I might even become mara-stricken.” He laughed. “It’s much better for me to live in ignorance and welcome what the world deigns to bring to my table. Besides, what counts as dying peacefully? Will all my ambitions and desires be at rest with me, or will I carry them to the afterlife, if such a thing exists? Perhaps my unrequited love for Lady Fu will haunt the Arbiter General’s seat for the rest of time.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Jing Yuan,” she snapped.
“Oho? Perhaps she does have a scrap of her affections reserved for me after all?”
“I said quit it! I’m not in the mood for your japes.”
“Ah, Fu Xuan,” he sighed. “Ever so stubborn. I’m going to assume you’re done by now.” He turned and breathed a mock sigh of relief, and Fu Xuan retaliated by pelting a tissue at his head, which he caught midair and tossed directly into the wastebasket behind him.
“What a team we make,” he said with a smile. “Well, I believe it’s time for me to head back. Unless you’d like me to stay?” His smile widened. “Please, do tell me to stay. It’d give me an excuse to play starchess with you and read those new novellas I’ve been so curious about. A-ah, and to take care of you as well, of course,” he added hastily.
“You just want to slack off again,” she complained. “Away with you. Go take care of your duties. You’ve wasted enough time on me.”
“It’s never a waste, my lady Fu,” he murmured. He knelt beside her suddenly, taking her hand in his again. Fu Xuan had the sudden urge to reach her other hand into his mane and ruffle it. His one unhidden eye peered at her, gold as the simulated sunset over the seas of Scalegorge Waterscape; limpid waters, unknowable depths. “Did you really mean it when you asked why I was here?”
She tilted her head down, unable to meet his gaze. “Yes. I don’t know why,” she said in a small voice.
“Hm. Let me ask you this, then—would you have done the same for me?”
“Of course. Without question.”
“And why would you, the Master Diviner, take the time out of her day to see me if I were simply ill?”
“Because—” Because the General needs someone to take care of him? No, he has healers at his beck and call. Because the General needs a companion to keep him company? No, he has plenty of friends, and even that ridiculous overgrown lion of his. Because he is my General, and I feel a sense of duty to him? No, no… “Because I … care for your wellbeing, Jing Yuan,” she said finally, looking back up at him. “I would want to … see you better.”
He smiled, then, and before she could react he leaned down and gently pressed a kiss to the back of her hand, the warmth of his breath ghosting over her skin, the act painfully tender. “And there you have it,” he said. “I care deeply for you, my lady Fu. Do you doubt my sincerity?”
“I—I can’t accept it,” she said, though for some reason she couldn’t pull her hand away. “Jing Yuan, you’re…”
“I don’t need you to accept it,” he said, getting up. “I simply need you to tolerate it, Lady Fu. I can’t help but want to spoil you. Taking care of you has been a welcome respite from everything … a hidden boon for me, to be perfectly honest.”
“J-just leave already!” she snapped. “And don’t get sick! Just because I said I would visit does not mean that I want to take care of you, you oversized boor!”
“You seem better already,” Jing Yuan laughed. “All right, all right. I’ll be leaving now. Take care, Fu Xuan. I expect you to return to work if and only if you receive a clean bill of health from a healer. Otherwise I’ll send one of the Ten Lords after you and have them personally chain you to your bed.”
…
Fu Xuan expected to feel relief after hearing the tinkle at her door announcing Jing Yuan’s exit, but she could only listen to the silence that resounded in his absence.
“A bothersome man,” she said aloud to convince herself, but her brain did not agree. Her eyes kept focusing on things she did not want to see. The bed tray and the various garbage littering the bedside table, gone. The pillows, fluffed. The bathrobe and towels, folded neatly on the vanity. The wastebasket, empty save for the one tissue she’d rudely thrown at him.
Fu Xuan turned and buried her face into her pillow. She did not want to be indebted to Jing Yuan. Yet time and time and time again, he made it difficult for her. Beating her at her own race, only to carry her over the finish line in front of him. “An infuriating man,” she snarled, “an irksome man! One day … one day …” she murmured,
and promptly fell asleep again.