Archive of Our Own ^beta

oOo

It hurt exactly as badly as he’d expected. A wrenching, burning pain where his heart beat.

He gritted his teeth and breathed. He forced a smile, all teeth.

He forced himself to look.

To meet that gaze he’d been craving for so long: Cool and appraising.

Those dark eyes, calm like a lake in winter.

Zang Hai was looking at him. Standing tall and upright, even in the plain hemp robes he wore instead of his fine, boring silks, his hands tucked into his sleeves as always.

He was looking. At Zhixing.

Zhixing dismounted. His hand went to the hilt of his sword out of habit – in the midst of battle, every blink could decide who lived, who died. Zang Hai swayed, ever so slightly, as if it were just the breeze stirring his robes. He glanced at the blade, then back at Zhixing. But he didn’t shrink back.

Ah. Trust. It was still there, between them, holding fast as iron. A strange trust, unlike any other bond.

Zhixing knelt, his bronze-studded leather armour creaking and clinking as he moved. He linked his hands before himself, and bowed deeply, reverently, until his brow touched the dusty soil, until it touched the toes of Zang Hai’s boots. “Teacher Zang,” he said, his voice rough but firm. “Master. This student will not fail you.” This student, it echoed in his mind, would carry Zang Hai in his heart to his last breath.

Zang Hai bent and laid his hands – those slim, hard, capable hands – on Zhixing’s shoulders to raise him. “You shouldn’t kneel,” he said, and it wasn’t an admonishment for his tone – warmed by the slightest tremor – wasn’t as blank as it could have been.

“It’s no dishonour for a man to bow to his teacher,” Zhixing replied, the sensation of Zang Hai’s touch on his shoulders.

“It is not,” Zang Hai replied, “but this teacher wishes to see his student’s face to bid farewell.”

Farewell. It cut, it cut so deeply it might as well have been a stab to the heart. It was hard to breathe through it, but he did, he did as he rose, knees weak, skin burning. He’d seen a new recruit at camp. Part of the latest intake, not a peasant but the youngest son of some minor clan, shunted off to get out of the way of whatever politics were spun by the family. A youth that reminded him of himself, before Zang Hai. He’d caught Zhixing's attention because he seemed lost and unwilling, bewildered by his surroundings, and ready to complain about the lack of comforts. Zhixing would test him to see whether he was rotten, mud, or stone. If he was rotten, he’d get rid of him. If he was mud he might shape him. If he was stone, he’d sharpen him.

He’d do Zang Hai proud.

“Master…”

Those dark, calm eyes rested on him, and he met their gaze and held it, and it felt right.

Zang Hai’s mouth curved in that small, appreciative smile Zhixing had spent months toiling for. He realised, with a start, that it was the first time he saw it directed at himself. This was for him.

He stared, helpless to do anything.

“Zhixing,” came the placid reply, call and response, an echo of something else maybe, though it would never come to pass. He hadn’t managed to close that last distance. He hadn’t been able to overcome that last, small reserve. Zang Hai remained as formidable and forbidding as ever.

He’s become too hardened to cry like a child who didn’t get his favourite toy.

It would be the dust blown into his face by the breeze.

He didn’t resent the woman by Zang Hai’s side. At least she wasn’t a spoiled doll. At least there was no clan to bind Zang Hai beyond reach. Zhixing wondered, not for the first time, what Zang Hai felt for her. Their interactions were suffused with kindness, with a quiet understanding on Zang Hai’s part, and jealousy on hers. It filled Zhixing with mild satisfaction to know she wasn’t certain of Zang Hai. She didn’t know his heart. His tenderness towards her seemed almost brotherly at times, void of desire. It could be supreme restraint. It seemed less than that. No matter how petty, Zhixing allowed himself this small, frosty comfort. She’d never been Zang Hai’s student; she’d never have the opportunity now that they might wed. She’d be a wife, she’d be absorbed by wifely duties; perhaps they’d have children.  Maybe, just maybe, Zhixing could be a godfather to their offspring. Fate had a habit of tangling up plans, no matter how well-made (except Zang Hai’s, who was a master of Fate itself).

“Teacher Zang,” Zhixing said, letting Zang Hai’s gaze warm him – the glow of a fire that needed to be banked to last for a long, long time before it might be rekindled – “will you bless this humble student?”

Zang Hai’s smile was cool like his gaze, like all about him. “Is there a need?”

It was the highest praise Zhixing had ever heard from him. Yet he clasped his hands and bowed once more. “Please.”

Zang Hai fished in his sleeves. His fingers were surprisingly warm when he closed them around Zhixing’s hands, and Zhixing felt something being slipped into his grip. “This teacher hopes it’s enough of a blessing.”

Zhixing kept bent at the waist, until Zang Hai sighed and said, “Is this how I shall remember you?”

Only then did Zhixing unbend and straighten his spine. Zang Hai nodded, a small gesture, then turned and began to walk, towards where the woman was waiting, astride a brown horse and the bridle of another in her hand.

Zhixing could barely bear it, but he did, he did, clutching Zang Hai’s blessing in his right fist, his nails and knuckles whitening. His own horse wickered behind him. Zhixing watched Zang Hai climb into the saddle (less elegant than his usual self; Zhixing had found that Zang Hai’s horsemanship was somewhat lacking – something he found oddly endearing), and both of them set off at a steady pace. The wind that always streamed across the plains stirred up dust in their wake.

Zhixing stayed put until their tiny figures were lost in the vastness of the plain and the light faded towards dusk. His horse was cropping what sparse grass it could find.  He wiped his burning eyes with the back of his hand, then unclenched his fingers to see what Zang Hai had pressed into his grip. On his palm lay a horse, carved from pine-wood. It didn’t aspire to artful tastes. It was a children’s toy.

Zhixing stared until his vision blurred. He closed his fist around that cheap little thing until he felt its contours cut into his palm. It felt priceless. A treasure. And he accepted it for what it was: Not a token of affection, but a reminder as stark and severe as his teacher¹. He pulled snot up his nose and wiped his face with his sleeve; the leather lacing and bronze studding scraped reddening weals onto his brow and right cheek; it was a welcome pain, pulling him from the weakness that had sunk into his bones since Zang Hai had told him about his impending departure. He drew a sharp, burning breath and let it go slowly to regain his balance. Then he went to climb into the saddle; he didn’t bother gathering up the bridle, steering his mount with heels and knees and thighs and by shifting his weight. He slipped the toy horse into the overlap of his shirt, beneath layers of armour and quilted winter robes. He let the horse find its way at a slow walk and gave himself to the rhythm of its movements, the sounds of its thudding hooves, the familiar creaking and clanging of the weaponry and accoutrements of a soldier ready for battle. He laid his head back and gazed up into the sky – nowhere was it as vast and blue as out here, nowhere was the sun so bright, the stars so many, or the moon so clear.

He felt himself uncoil, with something settling inside him, warm and heavy. From the endless sky emerged a bird, serenely sailing on the currents. He raised one hand to shield his eyes against the glare of the light. An eagle. He watched it circle in a wide arc, searching for prey no doubt but it looked as if it was simply enjoying its flight, free of all burdens. Perhaps, it drifted through his mind as his body swayed with the horse’s gait, perhaps it would come to him one day. Or he might follow it, to see where it might lead him.

oOo

END