Chapter Text
April is the cruelest month, breeding /
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing /
Memory and desire, stirring /
Dull roots with spring rain.
The raindrops patter downward, slowed to a light drizzle. The air is damp, but the mists have receded, gravity has been put right, and the soldiers moving about the camp are made of flesh and blood, not memories and regrets. Jiyan watches them with a lighter heart than he’s had in three years. The Threnodian is defeated. The Tacet Discords have been pushed back. For now, Jinzhou is safe, his duty is fulfilled – at least for today – and he can rest.
But not yet.
He’s had his wounds tended – despite his protests, the Rover had skipped the line for the medical tent and deposited him directly in front of the nearest field medic – and he’s seen that new patrols have been set from the freshly-arrived troops. The doctor in him knows he needs to eat something soon, but he can’t seem to find the stomach for it yet. He watches the camp kitchen, cooks ladling steaming soup into the bowls of waiting Rangers. The battle is over, the camp secure, his troops cared for, but still Jiyan finds himself pacing restlessly.
This is how he finds her, slouched against a storage container. A pile of empty soup bowls sits next to her, and he watches as her fingers dance through her hair, weaving her rattail into a semblance of a braid. Yangyang’s head rests in her lap, the smaller woman curled into a ball at her side, snoring. She, like his other Rangers, seems to have found a measure of peace he desperately wishes to share.
The Rover flicks her eyes up lazily, regarding him as he approaches. The wing of pure Havoc she sprouted mid-battle is nowhere to be seen. He’s struck once again by how normal she appears in the mundanity of his warcamp – her golden eyes hiding someone not quite human, but who desperately wants to be. Like the rest of them, she is covered in sweat, blood, and dust.
“Rover, will you walk with me?” He holds out his hand to help her up.
She grasps it and springs lightly to her feet, pausing only to gently shift Yangyang’s head to the ground. He envies the alacrity in her movements; he can feel the beating they took from the Threnodian in every aching muscle and twinging joint. Her footsteps are light next to his booted stride as they leave the base.
They walk in silence, for a while. Jiyan is too tired to make conversation, and the Rover strikes him as the contemplative type. She does not try to fill the silence; she walks quietly, with an air of both patience and expectation.
The clouds that have hung over the Desorock since before he was stationed here have finally begun to part. He sees, for the first time in many years, the first rays of sun filter over the highland. The rain is gone, morning has come, his troops are alive, they have survived –
He will still have many flowers to plant, but he will be there to plant them. How many more seeds would he have needed, had the Rover not been there? Would it instead have been the Magistrate planting a flower for him? Would it have been his mother?
His reverie is broken by a faint melody. The Rover is humming under her breath, and he listens. He doesn’t recognize the tune, but it feels old, ancient and mournful and hopeful and triumphant, a dirge and a victory chant sewn together. It, like her, feels both foreign and like it has always belonged. Jiyan lets it flow through him, lets himself breathe in joy and exhale sorrow. His heart feels like it has been newly scrubbed, raw and sensitive, and is all the more alive for it.
She continues her song as they find their way to the peak overlooking the camp. They slow as they approach the small watch station near the precipice, and Jiyan is relieved to see his lookout leap to attention, clearly unharmed. He dismisses the ranger back to the base, to eat and get some rest. There will be no more attacks for now.
Where a harsh wind normally whistled through the cliffs, a gentle breeze now brings the scent of damp earth and resurrection. Jiyan watches the Rover step to the railing of the lookout, the haphazard braid she had woven untangling in the wind. He stands in silence, trying to wrestle his thoughts into speech. He is a doctor and a soldier, not a statesman, and the words he wants do not come easily.
He squares his shoulders and joins her at the railing. He’s glad to lean on it and take some of the weight off his injured leg; the painkillers he’d gulped down earlier were beginning to wear off. The pain is grounding, and for that, he’s grateful. The Rover glances at him as he joins her, and while he’s certain she sees him grimace, she doesn’t comment. There is a warrior’s understanding, a comradery from a battle shared, in her gaze.
Jiyan clears his throat, but his voice still comes out rusty.
“Rover, I –“ He stops, the words refusing to come. “You saved Jinzhou tonight. You saved my rangers. I can’t -“ He breaks off again. “I do not have the words to express both my gratitude and my debt.”
Her face is in profile as he speaks. It’s smooth, expressionless, so young (like him) and so old. He watches her eyes tighten just for a moment, tenseness giving way to impassivity.
Her voice is distant as she answers. “There’s no debt owed, General.”
He manages to bite back an incredulous laugh. “Rover, you saved my life. If that doesn’t count as a debt –“
This time, he can’t help but notice her wince at the title. He pauses. “You don’t like being called that.”
She furrows her brow, her face morphing through a series of expressions – disappointment, anger, frustration, sorrow – before settling on exhaustion. Her golden eyes are dull as they meet his. She looks ancient – ancient and tired.
“No,” she says, with a semblance of a grin that quickly falls to a grimace. “No, I can’t say I do.”
Jiyan waits for her to elaborate, but nothing else is forthcoming. The breeze has stopped, and the air between them feels tense and stagnant. In all his briefings, she’s been referred to solely as the Rover – someone with no past and barely any present. In all things but her fated role, she is nameless.
“What would you like me to call you?” He manages.
This time, she actually smiles at him, considering. “That’s a very different question than what my name is, don’t you think?”
He coughs delicately. “I apologize, I had assumed that – given your reported amnesia – you did not remember it. Should I-“
She lays her hand on his arm, cutting him off. “No, I think you asked the right question. I don’t remember my name, and given the circumstances, whatever I was once called likely no longer describes me. You may call me Shàng Qīngtiān.”
Jiyan’s eyebrows arch high before he can school his features. “Out on the empty mountain, under the lonely moon / Such traveling is harder than scaling the blue sky.” He scrutinizes her. “How do you know Li Bai if you don’t know your own name?”
She turns from him to look out over the Desorock. “How indeed.” Her voice is softer now, less bright, more contemplative. “If, as Madam Magistrate believes, I am Jinzhou’s ancient hero returned, then it seems natural to me that I would have absorbed some of your culture during my previous stay. Perhaps it is only the memories that define me, so to say, that have been erased.”
He hums, considering. “Perhaps it is not my place to say,” he begins cautiously, “But I would imagine that distinguishing between oneself and one’s memories is not as clear a line as you have drawn.”
The Rover – Qīngtiān – throws her head back and laughs. It floats over the highlands, loud and unashamed, because there are no monsters to answer it. She laughs and she laughs and she laughs, and as she quiets, she turns to face him. Her face is wet with tears.
“No,” she says, “No, it is not. I apologize, General, I am not laughing at you. I am laughing because you have said exactly the thing I was unwilling to say to myself.”
Jiyan shifts uncomfortably. He’s no stranger to harsh self-examination – the Retroact Rain certainly had not allowed him any courtesy in that regard – but he feels the despair in her words. She has lost herself, lost her memories, lost her name. She is clawing, desperately, to cling to any sense of self buried beneath the weight of the expectations of the people of Jinzhou. She has been deemed a Rover; a wandering savior who needs no home. There’s no room left for Qīngtiān.
The General understands the weight of a title. Jiyan knows the freedom of a name.
“You have no need to apologize to me,” he murmurs. He stumbles over his next words. “Of all people – you have no need –“
He exhales, giving up on any attempt at eloquence. “Please. Just Jiyan. No General or formalities needed.” She has saved his soldiers, saved his city, saved his life. She has given him her name – she has given, and given, and given, and there is nothing he can offer her in return. Nothing, perhaps, except humanity. Except his name.
Qīngtiān smiles at him, golden eyes crinkling. The sun breaks over the horizon, and he is blinded by its brilliance. She holds out her hand to him. “Well then, just Jiyan, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve been in search of a friend.” He clasps her arm, and her grip is strong, bracing, grounding.
He looks at her, into her, and sees. She is a savior and she is a woman and she is an outlander and she is a friend and she is revered and she is strength and she is wounded and she is scared and she is alone and she is tired. She is so, so tired.
“A friend,” he echoes. “I think I can manage that. Qīngtiān, the pleasure is all mine.”
There is shadow under this red rock /
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock)