Chapter Text
The story begins how most of Xie Lian’s days end, with him finally remedying the damages that his misfortune has caused. He even earned some coins by the end so all in all, it’s a good day.
He is about to leave town to look for a warm patch of grass to sleep on when he passes by a teahouse with an interesting name.
Little Shop of Chance Encounters, it reads.
He wonders if there is some truth to the establishment’s name– that people have entered not expecting anything at all and then leaving with a memory of an ephemeral meeting that strikes the chords of one’s heart. He shakes his head and deems that he has reached his quota of romanticizing for the day.
He chooses a table by the window and then orders their cheapest tea. Xie Lian doesn’t indulge but after such a long day, he allows himself to take this breather.
The teahouse is bare of patrons other than himself and two others seated at the farthest corner of the shop. The couple of elderly men seem to be stuck in a heated debate and forgot to lower their voices. Xie Lian does his best pretending he is not overhearing their conversation, lest they notice and accuse him of eavesdropping. It has happened before that he doesn’t even bother counting the number of times that it did.
"I still think it’s not a good idea to pray to someone like Crimson Rain Sought Flower!" One of the men hmph’s before slamming his cup on the wooden table. This Crimson Rain must have ascended after either of Xie Lian’s banishments since their title means nothing more to him than a stranger. But at the same time, it could be someone from his first ascension that he just didn’t take the time to get to know of.
Oh, but what a striking title!, Xie Lian thinks. He can’t help but imagine someone sitting across from him, waiting for their tea as well, promptly recounting the tale behind the god’s title just because there is a smudge of curiosity on his expression.
His reverie is abruptly squashed by the hot tea cup placed in front of him by the server.
He thanks her, then: "The shop’s name."
"Daozhang?"
"Do they only remain as chance encounters?"
The server’s ever-present smile blossoms into something more genuine and ah, he must have asked the right question.
"Some do. But to want to meet again, it takes seven parts courage and three parts fate, wouldn’t you agree?"
The server lingers and offers him a piece of the shop’s history for free. The tea master’s ancestors never seem to come across the right location to put down roots. But the family will always open a teahouse and name it "Little Shop of Chance Encounters" wherever they find themselves to be.
The two patrons leave shortly before Xie Lian does and the last tidbit he overhears from them is that Crimson Rain Sought Flower is not a heavenly official’s title.
Xie Lian starts awake with a dead man’s name locked in his throat and lament blurring his vision. It’s cruel, too cruel, to finally reach that person only for him to still be too late.
In a bout of madness, he calls for him, barely a breath, and waits. No one comes and it only proves that he is a fool for hoping. Xie Lian is undeserving of that person’s devotion. You killed him, a part of him says. And the rest of him listens.
In another bout of madness, he interlaces his fingers together and brings it to his chest. Xie Lian rarely prays and now he is unaccustomed to the gesture. To whom exactly does a god pray?
In his last bout of madness, he prays to a Ghost King.
Crimson Rain Sought Flower, his mind murmurs, it is rather silly of me to pray to you when I don’t even know what most of your worshippers pray for… Still, I hope you forgive this old man for rambling.
Xie Lian confesses that there is a person in his life whose sacrifice he never demanded, because it is wholly unfair to die for one’s sins not their own. Instead, they deserve to live and reunite with their beloved.
It should have been the other way around, he tells Crimson Rain. He truly believes that he was meant to die that day.
An apology that will never be heard by that person hangs on the tip of his tongue as he is lulled into a deeper, calmer slumber, palms still pressed in prayer.