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The winds of winter howl. A tracery of fissures beckons them into the temple once mantled in glory.
Mu Qing's steps grow heavy.
It was winter when they had to say farewell, neither knowing it will be their last.
Weary eyes close. Glimpses of a bygone past flicker through his mind, vivid as they are spiteful. Mu Qing remembers a time when light played across murals, between columns, when candles radiated warmth, and the rich fragrance of chengxian incense tickled his nose. Memories of stolen kisses and familiar laughter, of nights spent in passionate embraces, skin to skin, heart to heart. Moments when two became one, then three and one again.
The winds of winter lament.
Only darkness and cold stone dwell here, an endlessness that can't be seen, but felt as it cuts deep into the marrow of his being. It stretches out into a chasm void of souls, with thousands of tomorrows promised, yet none lived.
Ruptured and incomplete, he stands before the statue of a ghost, and wishes it could speak. One last connection to a time that used to be theirs, but now is only his, left to rot away, exposing bones that had been turned to dust before a hundred years.
"You shouldn't be here."
The winds of winter cry.
A-Ming!
Shadows dance to the voice that haunts him when awake, and lulls him in his dreams. Times slows down, and he tries to breathe, but can't. The air is stale, and his chest tight. In the confines of his ribcage, his heart aches the same way it has never stopped aching for hundreds of years.
"Who are you?"
Feng Xin stares at him from the pedestal of his broken likeness, distant and emotionless. His skin is no longer tan with vitality, but waxen with the touch of death. From the crown of his head to the bend of his knees, hair cascades freely, diffused in streaks of pale gold, the kind that burns to white at the core of flames.
He's ethereal.
Yet nothing strikes Mu Qing more than the dark eyes peering back at him, devoid of any light. They no longer gaze at him with love or kindness, only with apprehension.
The god wants to believe this is a farce, a ploy to shatter the shards kept together by his will alone. But it is unequivocable. This is Feng Xin. It is his voice that Mu Qing heard, his face that Mu Qing has engraved into his heart. He would recognise his love in death as he always did in life.
A-Ming, please, I can't do this alone.
"Who are you?" the ghost raises his bow "I won't ask again."
Fengshen is as beautiful as he remembers, steadfast and unchanged by the metamorphosis of its owner. Tied to its grip, material worn out and colours dulled, threads of gold and silver intertwine.
"You kept them." he sounds on the verge of tears, but his eyes are dry.
An arrow hisses past his head. A warning.
"I am..." he chokes, muscles trying to work past the lump in his throat "I was a friend."
"I have no friends." it hurts to hear the certainty in Feng Xin's words.
I'll be there soon, I promise.
"You did once... a long, long time ago." he curses himself for the tremble in his voice.
Mu Qing strides closer.
One step "You had Dianxia."
"Stop." an arrow grazes his cheek, blood oozing from the cut.
Two steps "You had Pei Ming."
"I said stop." doubt, confusion, fear, another arrow nocked, aiming at his heart.
Three steps, foot on the plinth, hand reaching out, he can almost touch "You had me."
Fire burns his hand, a barrier of heat rising from the rumbling ground, meant to keep him away.
"How could you forget?" he screams the words as he pushes through the flames.
The skin is melting off his fingers, his wrist, his arm, until flames eat him whole, the acrid stench of his own flesh turning his stomach. He's shaking, but his entire body is numb. He doesn't care. Only Feng Xin's eyes, wide with tears, are clear in the midst of inferno.
"Please, remember us."
Around them, the temple quakes, its columns fracturing under the pressure of an unmistakable kind power.
That of a Calamity.
Light flashes to blackout in his overcharged brain. He feels arms circle his waist, pulling him back.
"You're late." he whispers to Pei Ming, eyes rolling back into his skull.
When he opens them again, Feng Xin is gone.
The winds of winter weep.