Chapter Text
Jing Yuan stands at full attention, his back ramrod straight, his guangdao propped firmly against the ground.
It takes everything for him to resist wrinkling his nose when a petal lands on his face. He briefly considers blowing it away, but protocol unfortunately dictates that he must be still as stone unless absolutely necessary. The most he can do is pretend that it doesn’t tickle as much as it does.
On the grand stage not far from him, a group of beautiful maidens perform a traditional dance, each dressed in dazzling robes and exuding an aura of soft naivety. A troupe of musicians are positioned on a lower platform in the background, too focused to even sway to the lively notes they masterfully strum on their instruments. Children tasked as assistants are stationed to the side, scattering fresh flower petals towards the gathered crowd at every specific point of the song.
It is by no means a terrible performance. It’s in fact one of very best—standards are high when it comes to the Luofu’s annual Harvest Festival. Troupes who wish to perform are subject to harsh screening procedures, and only the best of the best have their applications approved. And even after that, the honor of being able to perform in the nation’s most important event would motivate anyone to offer nothing less than perfection when it is their time on stage.
Yet there is an undeniable air of anticipation hanging thick among the countless spectators, noticeable enough that Jing Yuan feels a pang of pity for the current performers. Try as they may, it remains a fact that they are only considered the side acts of the day’s ceremony. The entire nation holds its breath for the one who will be stepping on stage after this.
A wave of tense silence descends upon the audience the moment the final note of the song fades away. Servants hurry to rearrange the stage, leaving it a bare platform with only the intricate backdrop of carved wood and sculpted gold. Even the winds seem to still in anticipation.
Jing Yuan subtly runs his tongue over his dry lips, glancing around to quickly check for potential dangers. Nothing about their surroundings looks out of place, and but he must remain vigilant. The dense crowd is the perfect place to blend in and bide one’s time until the right moment to strike.
An echoing bellow of a gong heralds the long awaited auspicious hour. Jing Yuan is just letting out the breath he’s holding when a figure brushes past him in an afterimage of whites and teals. His every step accompanied by a beat of a drum, uniting the crowd into a single pulse as he makes his way towards the stage in dignified strides.
Badumph, badumph, badumph.
His Highness Dan Heng takes his place on center stage, and then all falls silent once more.
Jing Yuan gulps, nervous on his master's behalf. All eyes are on Dan Heng as he reaches towards the sash around his waist, and slowly draws his sword.
The pipa player plucks the first note, and the Prince’s offering to the gods begins.
Each of Dan Heng’s meticulously practiced swings form perfect crescent arcs, every movement calculated and powerful, his billowing sleeves fluttering like waves of the ancient sea. The bells on his ankles chime clear and crisp, the pearls woven into his hair glittering like stars under the sunlight. This year, the ceremony is a tribute to Lan the Hunt, and Dan Heng’s performance is the rendition of one of Their most popular legends, Their fight against Shuhu’s undead army of Abundance abominations.
The early stages of the dance are relatively slow, the build-up gradual enough that most people would hardly notice. They are not supposed to notice, for the performance has been carefully adjusted to last a whole three hours, spanning the entire length of the peak auspicious time frame. If anything, perhaps it would be more fitting to call it a mute theatrical play; a grueling endeavour regardless of its definitions. No matter how effortless Dan Heng manages to depict it to be, no matter how sharp his movements remain even after the first hour.
Jing Yuan just wishes that at least an interlude of sorts could’ve been incorporated, despite himself. Brash and reckless as They were in the tale, Lan still had the wisdom to retreat from the battlefield accordingly in Their lengthy war against the abominations. A short break in the performance would not have been out of place.
But it’s not like any of his opinions matter, at the end of the day. Jing Yuan bites back a sigh; if His Highness has agreed to see it through despite everything, then who is Jing Yuan as his retainer to complain? Besides, he’s aware that it’s partly a matter of pride as well; His Majesty Dan Feng had successfully completed the same routine many times during his youth before his ascension to the throne, so it is of course expected for his younger brother to be just as capable.
The tempo of the music gradually begins picking up as they enter the final act, the erhu wailing a solemn melody in the company of stuttering flutes. Lan has broken through the endless waves of beasts of the Abundance army, and is now approaching the last line of defense until They face the mastermind behind the meaningless slaughter of Their people.
Jing Yuan subconsciously tenses up as he watches on; this is where everything begins to spike in difficulty. Dan Heng’s movements grow more intense, his previously graceful maneuvers now turning into deadly strikes, his blade glinting and singing with every slash and parry. He moves as though actually fighting off countless hoards of invisible enemies, every swing of his sword weighty with intent to kill. He is understandably drenched in sweat by now, keeping his exhaustion hidden by the sheer force of his willpower. The music gradually hits its crescendo as Lan dives into Their climatic battle with the monstrous Shuhu, sword posed to carve deep into its heart and end it once and for all—
And Dan Heng’s foot slips.
Jing Yuan manages to reel back after taking only a single step forward, seeing Dan Heng immediately right himself with a skillful flip and spin. The spectators let out a collective gasp, fortunately still fully immersed in the re-enactment. With the sheer number of enemies They’d faced, it is no surprise that even the mighty Lan would stumble! And yet They’re fighting on to avenge Their people despite Their exhaustion! How admirable! How heart-wrenching!
How heart-wrenching, indeed. Jing Yuan silently prays for the minutes to pass faster. Dan Heng isn’t exaggerating to capture the hearts of the audience—it’s surely genuine fatigue that’s rendering his movements heavier, sluggish and more desperate. As if it is truly taking very last bit of his energy to finish off his sworn enemy. Stumbling, struggling, yet gritting his teeth and hanging on.
And finally at the sound of a subtle cue woven into the music, he leaps into the air, a single battle cry tearing from his throat as he plunges his sword towards the ground.
The music peaks—and cuts off. The ceremonial blade dissolves into water droplets fractions of a second before it touches the stage floor. Dan Heng stays kneeling, chest rising and falling as he pants from the exertion.
Lan’s battle is over, and evil has been slain.
A moment of stupefied silence. There is no one in the Luofu who does not know how the tale ends. Lightning strikes from the heavens, and Lan ascends into Aeonhood.
Dan Heng slowly gets on his feet again, and then comes the roaring cheers and thundering applause. What a spectacular performance! What astounding endurance and cultivation! As expected of the His Highness the Prince, darling of the heavens and favourite of Long the Permanence! Peerless in elegance and martial prowess, as beautiful and eye-catching as a lotus in bloom!
Dan Heng’s demeanor remains largely unaffected in the face of it all, the only giveaway for his rising fluster being a subtle red tint on the tip of his ears. He never has been fond of being the center of attention, and Jing Yuan can imagine just how much he’s dying to leave right then.
Nevertheless, Jing Yuan agrees that praise must be given where it’s due. He itches to join the cacophony of proclamations of awe, but with the position he’s in all he can offer for now is his proudest smile when Dan Heng steals a glance his way. He'll have to wait a bit before his chance to congratulate him for a successful performance comes. Jing Yuan remains rooted in place, watching Dan Heng clasp his hands together in a salute before stepping back.
Master Diviner Fu Xuan is the final one to take the stage for the day, closing the ceremony with her highly anticipated foretelling of the year. Trade is expected to further improve, and the sea will remain bountiful as long as moderation is practiced. Summer will be especially hot, but winter will be largely the same as it has been for the past years. Investments will yield promising returns, and all who work hard will be proportionally rewarded. Such and such.
Of course, the Master Diviner is not foolish enough to divulge some of her more ominous predictions. Those shall be reserved only for a select few for their exclusive consideration.
And with that, the ceremony thus comes to a close. Jing Yuan spends the next few hours assisting with dispersing the crowd and finishing his last patrol before he’s finally excused to return to his primary duties.
“Your Highness,” he calls along with a few sharp knocks on Dan Heng’s bedchamber doors. “This humble servant has returned.”
“You may enter,” promptly comes the familiar voice from within. Jing Yuan pushes the heavy wooden panel to step inside.
Dan Heng has already changed out of his ceremonial robes and cleaned the make up from his face, and he currently dons a simple set of attire much like those favoured by the common people. At Jing Yuan’s arrival, his personal attendant Qingzu takes her leave, deftly retrieving the basin of water Dan Heng had used to wipe himself down and exchanging a nod of greeting with Jing Yuan on her way out.
Jing Yuan lets his shoulders slump once the doors are closed once more, finally allowing his own fatigue to rear its head. He trudges towards Dan Heng, who’s seated at his tea table enjoying a chilled drink.
“Good work today, Your Highness,” he tells him, offering him a warm smile when their gazes meet. Although Dan Heng’s demeanor hardly changes, Jing Yuan spots the way his eyes brighten at the little praise.
“You’ve worked hard yourself, Jing Yuan,” Dan Heng returns, gesturing for Jing Yuan to take a seat as well. Normal etiquette would forbid a lowly servant from standing even a centimeter too close within his master’s vicinity, but Jing Yuan has been by his prince’s side ever since childhood. They’ve both known each other for far too long to keep such pointless decorum especially in private.
So he happily settles on the stool next to Dan Heng’s, picking up the untouched cup of tea that Qingzu had knowingly poured for him before excusing herself. Dan Heng’s quiet gaze carries an almost child-like expectation, and Jing Yuan feels his smile helplessly widen as he reaches for his hand resting on the tabletop.
“Is your foot alright?” he asks while idly, but gently, squeezing Dan Heng’s fingertips. “You almost frightened me to death when you slipped, you know.”
“I’m fine,” Dan Heng assures, moving to reciprocate Jing Yuan’s little pinches. “Although, I must say I am quite exhausted after the entire performance.”
Ah, and there it is. His Highness’ coy but unexpectedly forward advances. The little blush on his cheeks despite his cool expression, the expectant sparkle in his eyes. Adoration wells up in Jing Yuan’s heart as he moves to interlace their fingers in earnest.
“Then please allow me,” he indulges, gathering his concentration. Of the two of them, Dan Heng is no doubt the one who has better control over his own spiritual energy; it is simply not possible for an average person to compare to a Vidyadhara when it comes to that regard. Dan Heng is perfectly able to rapidly recover even without Jing Yuan’s assistance.
But these little moments are the most they could have, given their respective positions. Even behind closed doors, there are boundaries they are not allowed to cross; gestures they cannot exchange, words they cannot speak. Even a lifelong companionship can never change the fact that they are a prince and his guard, master and servant. A world’s distance between them.
It is as such that they’ll take any chance, any pretense they can use for even the slightest intimacy, the briefest moments of contact. Any opportunity to go as far towards the unyielding line as they are allowed.
Dan Heng’s spiritual energy flow within him like deep sea currents; steadfast, overwhelming. Jing Yuan carefully channels his own qi into Dan Heng’s palm, finding that abundant stream and tuning into it to patch up whatever little wear and tears he could find. They circulate within Dan Heng’s body as one, complementary as the sun and moon, rain and thunder.
Dan Heng sighs, drawing Jing Yuan closer to rest his cheek against the back of his hand. Dan Heng is cold to Jing Yuan’s touch; he is always just a little too cold. Jing Yuan longs to hold him in earnest, hold him until their temperatures match and they can no longer tell by touch where one ends and the other begins. Until they are relaxed, drowsy, and the safest they can be.
“A-Yuan,” Dan Heng eventually speaks, his gaze bright and knowing—but Jing Yuan only shakes his head before gathering the will to reply.
“Not now, A-Heng,” he says, savouring the sound, the shape of his name on his tongue. He hasn’t had many chances to say it these days, for fear the habit would slip at the worst times when he’s not careful. A servant has no business calling his master by name. Jing Yuan glances away before he falters even further from those dangerous pleading eyes. “Someone could show up at any moment.”
“They’re still busy wrapping up the ceremony,” Dan Heng reasons, turning his head ever so slightly to brush his lips against Jing Yuan’s knuckles. “And we can just lock the door—no one would dare barge into the Crown Prince’s chambers.”
“Even so…” Jing Yuan sighs, knowing full well he’s fighting a losing battle. It’s partly his own fault, he supposes. He has rarely ever denied Dan Heng anything he asked for, and now he’s dangerously skilled at getting what he wants from him.
“Can’t A-Heng have a little reward for all his hard work?” Dan Heng pushes further, unusually needy yet still adorable beyond compare—and Jing Yuan finally caves.
“Your shixiong has not bathed,” he warns, as he lets Dan Heng guide them both to stand up after he correctly senses that he’d won, “so please forgive his lacking hygiene at the moment.”
“I do not mind it,” Dan Heng assures without hesitation, and then he’s stepping into Jing Yuan’s space and easing him into an embrace.
Jing Yuan adjusts his hold, and tugs him closer, closer. Dan Heng fits perfectly in his arms, stands at just the perfect height for him to pepper kisses along the crown of his head. He sways along with Jing Yuan, his feet carefully stepping around his, as if urging him into a dance they’ve practiced a million times before. As if this is where he belongs, as if this is truly meant to be.
The sky outside dims as clouds drift over to cover the setting sun. Urging her; don’t look, don’t look. Just for a moment, don’t look and let them have this.
Jing Yuan closes his eyes, tries to imagine that they’re beyond these four walls with nothing to hide. Perhaps they could be at the town square instead, immersed in the merriment of the Harvest Festival, engaged in a proper dance as lively chatter and laughter and folk music fill the streets and surround them like a daydream. Free from judging eyes, free from words of venom whispered behind hands at the sight of a servant daring to behold his master with such audacity, at the sight of a prince who loves and loves like he’s got nothing to lose.
Jing Yuan dreams, even though he knows the clouds cannot shield them forever, and the moon watches in the sun’s stead even at night. He dreams, because after these brief moments of respite, all that remains is the world’s distance between them.