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There is a meeting with the other generals at five, and Feixiao is going to be late. When Jiaoqiu tells her this (nags, really), Feixiao smiles. She looks toward the sea, that same sea Jiaoqiu had been facing, the same sea Jiaoqiu could not see. The waves are quiet today, blue-green waters roving back and forth like a rocking cradle over the shore, and Feixiao hopes that the world continue to gentle itself for Jiaoqiu. An impossible wish, perhaps, even more impossible than the wish to be faster than the light, but Feixiao has never not dared.
“It’s already a quarter past five,” Jiaoqiu says again.
Feixiao glances at Moze. Moze crosses his arms; his expression remains blank, but Feixiao reads it perfectly well as a silent agreement with Jiaoqiu, He’s right, you know. A quarter past five already, Feixiao. What a pair they make, she thinks ruefully, ganging up on her like this.
Feixiao says, “You always worry too much, Jiaoqiu.”
“And the General worries too little. So it falls upon your retainer Jiaoqiu to worry for two.”
Feixiao says amusedly, “I suppose I must thank you, then, for your service.”
Despite her best attempt, there is still a quiet remorse in her voice that winds like the claws of a borisin around her throat, pressing down until the cartilage closes in on her windpipe. Perhaps Jiaoqiu could hear it too, because he turns toward the sea again, as though to drown out the sound. “Willingly so,” Jiaoqiu says. “Always.”
Feixiao remains silent for a while. Then she says, “Jiaoqiu. May I touch you?”
“When has my General become so polite with what is hers,” Jiaoqiu says.
Because you cannot see me cross the distance anymore, Feixiao thinks. Because Jiaoqiu must relearn half of his life from here on out, because Hoolay has taken something he should never have dared, because Feixiao should have better protected what is hers.
Feixiao undoes the button knot of his collared shirt, then carefully smooths her hand down his neck, her thumb meeting the edge of the scar that’s peeking out from beneath the clothes. Jiaoqiu quietly inclines his neck, throat bared in relaxed submission.
Moze watches them. Moze always watches.
Feixiao lets his gaze pool over her, then draws back from Jiaoqiu. “You will not be wronged by this world,” Feixiao says. “I won’t let that happen.”
“And even with that, you’re still going to be late, General,” he says leisurely as he does the button knot of his collar again. Eyes still closed. “Don’t you agree, Moze?”
As if on cue, Moze nods.
Feixiao smiles again. “Right,” she says. “As you say.”
Before she leaves, Feixiao touches Moze’s shoulder. “Moze,” she says. “Stay with him in my stead.”
Even without looking back, Feixiao knows Moze will nod. Already done, he may have said, or perhaps, Another strale today, I suppose. But Feixiao has already sprinted off, chasing the path toward the Palace of Astrum. Her fingertips itch. Jiaoqiu’s throat had felt so delicate; it had been a miracle, the Dragon Lady had said, that she’d managed to lay eyes on him while he’d still been breathing.
A pity that Hoolay had died the way he did. She would have liked have ripped the bastard’s eyes out first.
The wind howls in her ears as she runs, a wolf’s cry. It couldn’t be Hoolay, because Hoolay is dead, and Jiaoqiu almost died for it to happen. Hoolay is gone, and Feixiao remains, the benefactor of Jiaoqiu’s sacrifice, a final enemy onto herself. An eye for an eye, she tells herself, and a hundred times more.
“Be careful with the mushrooms,” Jiaoqiu says besides Moze. He stirs the pot, and adds, “And the slices shouldn’t be too thick, either, to better absorb the nutrients from the rest of the ingredients.”
“Okay,” Moze says. The knife in his hand feels foreign, a strange, heavy weight against his palm. His daggers are light and thin, butterfly wings. Jiaoqiu’s kitchen knife feels differently. Sharp, but in a different way, like a papercut to a sword slash.
Moze’s not used to a healer’s work, but he’s all right in the kitchen. Better him than Feixiao at least; she’d bulldoze Jiaoqiu’s herbs. Not because she’s incapable of chopping an onion into fine bits, but because she’s too impatient to wait for the water to boil before chucking everything in, and too fast for Jiaoqiu to stop her when she inevitably does.
Moze chops the mushrooms like Jiaoqiu had asked. “What next?” he asks, sweeping the sliced mushrooms into a bowl for Jiaoqiu to use later.
“The garlic,” Jiaoqiu says, passing the cloves he’d peeled earlier.
Moze nods, then says, “All right.” He minces the garlic without another word. When all’s said and done, and Moze is done with the knifework, he stands back and watches Jiaoqiu work in the kitchen, observing the slight sway of his tail whenever he does a taste test. He navigates the kitchen in confidence, and barring the occasional slight stumbles, Jiaoqiu moves in the kitchen as though he could still see everything as clear as day.
“You’re staring too intensely,” Jiaoqiu says.
“You couldn’t have known,” Moze says.
“Ah, but you forget,” Jiaoqiu chides as he opens a sachet of seasoning. He takes a delicate sniff, then nods before adding it to the bubbling soup. “My memory is working fine, even if my eyes aren’t. I don’t need to see to know who you are, Moze.”
“You’re right,” Moze says. “But I never thought otherwise, Jiaoqiu.”
“Hm.” Jiaoqiu tries the soup, and his tail does a slight flick again. “The taste isn’t as spicy as I’d like, but Feixiao’s thrown out all the chili pepper. What a waste,” Jiaoqiu says with a click of his tongue.
“Jiaoqiu,” Moze says. And this must have been what Feixiao had felt too, when she’d reached out to touch the scar on his neck with such foreign tenderness. “I’ve yet to succeed in assassinating the General.”
Jiaoqiu chuckles. “Would it be inaccurate for me to say ‘I can see that’?” he muses.
Moze shrugs. “You can say whatever you want,” he says. “If anyone tries to stop you, I’ll be there to stop them from breathing instead.”
“You sound like Feixiao now,” Jiaoqiu says.
“That’s a horrible joke,” Moze says flatly.
There’s a tug at Jiaoqiu’s lips. “I know,” he says. “Poor taste. One Feixiao’s more than enough.”
Moze can’t argue with that.
“Jiaoqiu,” Moze says solemnly. “I’m Feixiao’s hand.”
“Aren’t we all,” Jiaoqiu says amusedly, and there’s truth there too.
“Then you have to know,” Moze says. “As long as you’re hers, then I’m yours to wield too.”
Jiaoqiu hums. “If that’s the case, come here and taste this soup for me.”
Moze goes. His footsteps are made louder than usual, audible enough to be heard over the boiling soup as he lands next to Jiaoqiu. Jiaoqiu brings the ladle to his mouth and blows slightly across it before turning and holding it out for Moze. “Here.”
The steam rises from the ladle, and it’s the scent of picking mushrooms at three and sparring at five and dinners at six and family and love and home. Moze lowers his head and takes a small sip. “It’s good,” Moze says. “Delicious as always.”
“I'm glad,” Jiaoqiu says serenely. “As long as Moze thinks so, that's enough.”
The world used to have a lot more lines. It had been a lot sharper, and Jiaoqiu thinks that if he could see like that again, he’d probably cut himself on the corners and edges. That, he thinks, would require refamiliarization. Now, everything is softer, rounder, a blurry haze. There’s still colour, but it’s been muted. But Feixiao had been a blur of white and blue even before he’d lost his sight, always chasing the light, always trying to surpass it. Moze, too, had been an invisible presence that required more than just sight to find. But Jiaoqiu knows that Feixiao will return herself to him, knows that Moze will allow himself to be found.
Jiaoqiu holds guilt and regret within him like an apothecary’s medicine cabinet, always on hand to weigh and dispense, but this isn’t one of them. How could he, when the wish he’d been holding onto for the better part of a century has finally been fulfilled?
It’s a tiny price to pay for Feixiao’s life. Rather than sight, it’s moreso the bland dinners that bothers him more than anything else. “I wish I could eat something spicy again,” Jiaoqiu sulks.
“Once you’re fully healed,” Feixiao says. “Then it’s hotpot and wine. Enough to drown in, I promise.”
“Just another excuse for you to drink,” Moze points out.
“That too,” Feixiao agrees easily.
“As if you’ve ever needed an excuse,” Jiaoqiu says.
Feixiao gulps down another cup of wine and slams the cup down on the table. “Fair enough,” she says, a slight slur to her speech already.
It is night, and the three of them are gathered in the courtyard. The stone stool is cool to the touch, and the water trickles quietly in the artificial landscape. There’s a pleasant summer breeze that flows through his hair, like a mother’s fingers as they comb through their child’s scalp. Feixiao is speaking animatedly while Moze listens with feigned disinterest, even though he’s surely absorbing every word. Against the dark backdrop of his eyelid, the sudden need for reassurance strikes him again.
“Feixiao,” Jiaoqiu says. “Are you well?”
Feixiao quiets. “Check my pulse,” she says.
Jiaoqiu takes her hand and presses two fingers to the inside of her wrist. It beats against his fingertips, strong and insistent. It’s not just the Moon Rage that makes her blood run so fierce, Jiaoqiu realizes.
“I am,” Feixiao says, “and it’s because of you.”
“Then, Moze,” Jiaoqiu says. “Are you here?”
“I am,” Moze says quietly. There’s a shift next to Jiaoqiu, layers of fabrics rearranging themselves as Moze reaches out to lay a hand on Jiaoqiu’s cheek. There, then gone again. Before Jiaoqiu could ask, Moze already answers, “I am well, too. Don’t worry.”
“You’ve asked about us, but haven’t even talked about yourself,” Feixiao says. “Take care of yourself too.”
“Look in the mirror, General,” Moze says dryly.
“Yes, follow your own advice first,” Jiaoqiu chimes in.
Feixiao snorts. “The nagging I expect from Jiaoqiu, but you too, Moze? I miss the days when you’d physically attack me instead,” she says. “Like a little rabid baby bird trying to peck my eyes out.”
“I miss little Moze too,” Jiaoqiu says. “Remember that time he caught a cold and clung onto your legs like sticky rice? He cried so hard when you had to pry him off to leave for a meeting.” And then he’d thrown himself at Jiaoqiu instead, which was its own sort of tragic comedy. Jiaoqiu wrinkles his nose. “I must say, I didn’t appreciate you using my jacket as tissue paper, Moze. The amount of snot that was there…”
“Be quiet.” Moze grumbles, “Whose side are you on, Jiaoqiu?”
Jiaoqiu says, matter-of-factly, “My own, of course.”
Feixiao laughs at that. Moze doesn’t say anything, but he must be smiling too. Feixiao downs another cup of wine, and hiccups.
“You’re getting drunk,” Moze says.
“If she isn’t already,” Jiaoqiu mutters. He’s given up a long time ago on stopping her terribly high alcoholic intake. If she drank one cup, she’s going to drink at least four more.
“If you’re going to get into another intoxicated brawl, don’t make too much of a mess,” Moze says.
“I know, I know,” Feixiao brushes off. She nudges her head against Jiaoqiu’s shoulder, and Jiaoqiu laughs quietly under his breath as he pets her head. At least she’s not trying to hug his tail this time. Feixiao hiccups again, then falls silent.
“How red is her face?” Jiaoqiu asks.
“Three quarters to tomato,” Moze intones. “How much property damage do you think she’ll cause this time around?”
“Steal away the wine jug,” Jiaoqiu suggests.
“She’s going to fling me off this ship,” Moze says dully.
“You can take it,” Jiaoqiu says, and lets out a soft laugh at Moze’s huff.
Feixiao raises her head, her ears bumping into Jiaoqiu’s hand. “The Tumbledust…” Feixiao murmurs. She reeks of wine, drunken mourning. “Next time, don’t do something so foolish again.”
“Is that an order, General?” Jiaoqiu says. “Shall I reply as a subordinate would, ‘Jiaoqiu will obey’?”
Feixiao sighs. She headbutts him again. “A request,” she says.
“I understand what the General is trying to say,” he says. “I will try.”
Feixiao says heavily, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Jiaoqiu says gently.
“An eye for an eye, and a hundred times more,” Feixiao murmurs. “I swear it, Jiaoqiu.”
“An eye for an eye,” Moze echoes, quiet but absolute.
“Yes. I—we—will pledge this on our blades.” Feixiao's fingers are on his face now, rough fingertips brushing over his closed eyelids. Decades and decades lay between them, a convoluted road from planet to planet, soaked in death and light-bound. “But Jiaoqiu…” She asks, “To have traded away your eyes for someone like me… Was it worth it?”
Ah, his General is far too intoxicated, Jiaoqiu muses. “What do you think, Moze?” he says. “Was it foolish of me?”
Moze takes a long, long while to speak. “It is done,” he says, “and you’re both alive for it.”
“You’re right. What’s done is done,” Jiaoqiu agrees.
Some day, Moze will die and Jiaoqiu will die and Feixiao will live on before dying too, whether it be in a fight against the prescription of time or the spears of her fellow knights. Some day, they will fall apart and crumble like the horizon line at sunset.
But for now, it is night, and the three of them are gathered in the courtyard. Feixiao’s skin is warm to the touch, like the residual warmth of the stove after the heat’s been turned off, and Moze’s presence is as solid as a stubborn tree that refuses to bend, Feixiao’s invisible hand, Jiaoqiu’s unseen knife. Tomorrow, Feixiao will surely complain of her hangover while Moze listens with twitching lips, even as he’s helping her to the hangover soup that Jiaoqiu will surely wake up early to cook.
It is night, and the three of them are together. They are here.
“I hold no grievances,” Jiaoqiu says. “I am content.”