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Dan Feng
On the day before his execution, Dan Feng does not say goodbye.
Jing Yuan does. It takes everything in him to not follow up with, “I love you,” even though he means it. He does add, “I won’t be at the ceremony tomorrow”—“ceremony” because he uses euphemisms like masks when he’s upset and hiding it.
But the truth is that Dan Feng will die like this, hair tangled over hanfu silk and brittle-boned shoulders, residual blood burnishing the moon-glow of his skin. The chains are excessive, segmenting him into pieces to be reabsorbed and assimilated into a new whole, because that is his fate.
Such is death.
Jing Yuan turns from the lightless cell.
Dan Feng says nothing.
—
The Shackling Prison, I
The next time he sets foot in that place of death, Jing Yuan can hardly consider himself a young man. He carries the authority of an arbiter-general on his shoulders and his heart.
“Do not let your past relationship with the sinner color your judgement,” the Vidyadhara Preceptor escorting him warns. “This is not the same individual you remember.”
Jing Yuan doesn’t point out the inherent irony in his words.
In the silent depths of the prison, the cell door scraping outward is the death rattle of the condemned. The space beyond it is, as before, lightless. Only when a sliver of torchlight from the wall sconce breaches the darkness does the occupant appear like a phantom.
At first, Jing Yuan can hold his emotions in check. That sleek, lithe body wrapped in chains and suspended above the ground is terribly familiar, but he abides it. Skin flushed of color yet mottled with rainbow bruises makes rage and sorrow harder to quell, but he forces revulsion back. The sensation of the uncanny, of the familiar becoming unfamiliar, lingers like an ache in his bones, but he bears it.
But when the prisoner, shying from the light, finally opens his eyes, Jing Yuan falters. The tremor in his voice is masked only by echoes.
“What is your name?”
The prisoner does not respond. His eyes, indomitably fierce yet misted over with a light rain’s sadness, have grown wide—not in remembrance but in fear.
“Answer the general!” snaps the Preceptor.
The fear does not abate, but the young man forces words from his throat. “Dan Heng.”
The dam breaks, the flood comes, and Jing Yuan can only offer a watery, “It’s good to meet you, Dan Heng.”
—
The Seat of Divine Foresight, I
“A letter for you, General.”
Qingzu lays the envelope at the edge of Jing Yuan’s desk, her fingers hesitating over the sender’s address. “It’s from the Ten-Lords Commission.”
Jing Yuan leans on his palm, barely suppressing a tired smile. “My latest appeal rejection, I presume?”
The Seat of Divine Foresight is quiet today. A game of Starchess has been left half-finished on the holographic sand table after Yanqing excused himself to run drills with Cloud Knight recruits. Only the usual guards and a handful of officials and assistants mill about the hall, tacitly accepting that the projection in the center of the room will not be used for its intended purpose today.
Jing Yuan opens the letter. The contents are the usual refrain: The Imbibitor Lunae shall remain in the custody of the Ten-Lords Commission and the Vidyadhara Preceptors. Jing Yuan is unsurprised. Though it runs contrary to Vidyadhara law and customs, the Preceptors still cling to the illusion of vengeance against one already baptized in the waters of rebirth and cleansed of sin.
“What will you do now?” Qingzu reads Jing Yuan’s face rather than the letter.
“I will visit Dan Heng again,” Jing Yuan says, “as I always have. And after that…”
He tears the letter in half, then quarters, dispersing the pieces over his desk. “I will propose my next idea.”
—
The Shackling Prison, II
In the silence of the Shackling Prison, Dan Heng walks slowly, as if he is unused to both the sound and the sensation.
Or perhaps it’s the chains weighing him down. They cross his chest, cinch his waist, and bind his hands behind him—a straitjacket for the modern age. Yet he emerges from his cell like it’s a womb birthing him into the world fully formed. On either side, a guard flanks him as if they think he could escape—as if he would.
He keeps his head bowed. His mouth is a thin line holding back the indignant rage he’s due. He has been cowed but not mastered. At least, that’s how Jing Yuan hopes it is. Such is the best case scenario for this gross injustice.
In the dimness of flickering flames on prison walls, Jing Yuan greets him gently. Then: “Are you ready to go?”
A Preceptor stands as the final barrier between them. “Any misstep on your part will end your home confinement and see you returned to the Shackling Prison.” His voice is laden with disdain. “You will have no second chances. Do you understand?”
And Dan Heng lifts his head, the lazurite of his eyes both steel-edged and lachrymose yet surrendering nothing.
“Yes.”
—
The General’s Manor, I
Though the door is never locked, Dan Heng treats his room as his new prison cell. Jing Yuan suspects he doesn’t know how to live outside of one.
When he enters, he finds Dan Heng in the usual place, curled in the center of the bed with his knees drawn against him by bonds felt only by him. The trousers of his zhong yi pull up to his calves to bare his pale legs. He hugs himself, his head resting against his thighs to spill his hair like a veil. He doesn’t move even when Jing Yuan closes the door behind him.
“It’s been two weeks.” He strides to the chienchuang window, its maze of latticework filtering the light. “You ought to let in some fresh air.”
He folds the top half of the window upwards, and a cone of sunlight spills onto the floor, barely reaching the bed. Dan Heng flinches. The light catches the jade cuff fastened around his right ankle, drawing Jing Yuan’s eye. He had insisted to the Preceptors that he could restrain Imbibitor Lunae himself should the need to do so ever arise, but it was a fruitless attempt. Now Dragonhorn Pillories shackle Dan Heng’s wrists, ankles, and neck. Jing Yuan thinks five is overkill even by conservative estimates; Dan Heng hasn’t even left this room, let alone attempted escape.
“It’s another sunny day. Why don’t you join me in taking a stroll through the garden?” Jing Yuan speaks airily, but the steel of authority never leaves his voice. If it comes down to it, he won’t force Dan Heng to accompany him, but he will not promote indolence and stagnation.
Dan Heng lifts his head. His reservation in acquiescing is clear in the way his fingers grip the silk at his knees, but eventually, he lowers his eyes and murmurs, “Alright.”
Jing Yuan waits outside his door to give him time to change into a proper hanfu, and then they depart.
The flat stones that pave the garden’s pathways are warm underfoot. He can tell because Dan Heng has eschewed footwear, and his steps linger on them. They walk in silence over the bending path, past whorls of bright osmanthus and hollyhock. The scents of pine and jasmine are sharp in the air, and plum blossoms color the paving stones like drops of blood.
Despite his earlier reluctance, Dan Heng seems enthralled by the flowers, the bamboo stalks, and the carved stone ornaments. He follows at a slight distance, eyes everywhere but in front of him until Jing Yuan beckons to him from the moon gate of a small pavilion overlooking the koi pond.
“You are welcome to roam here should you ever require solitude.”
Dan Heng snaps to attention, hand lingering on a cord of jasmine. “Thank you,” he says, but some unspoken anxiety worries at his brow.
“Speak freely,” Jing Yuan encourages. “There is nothing you can say to me that I have not already heard before.”
Nevertheless, Dan Heng shies from his gaze. “General,” he says after a moment, “I appreciate all you have done for me. But you should know that I am not Dan Feng. Your relationship with my predecessor is—was—” He struggles to find the words.
“You needn’t worry,” Jing Yuan says. “I did not take you in with the expectation of a continuation of that relationship.”
Dan Heng blushes.
Jing Yuan smiles, then gestures to the bridge arcing over the pond. “Come. Let’s get a closer look at my prized koi fish. Dan Feng always did hate the stock I breed—perhaps you will find them more appealing.”
Appearing a little more relaxed, Dan Heng follows.
—
Dan Heng
Dan Heng’s hands curl like charcoaled parchment over the hem of Jing Yuan’s collar.
It isn’t the first time Jing Yuan has comforted him from a nightmare, but it’s the first time Dan Heng has touched him, let alone clung to him. He doesn’t dare to put his arms around him, to physically smooth away the terrors of the night with hands hardly more steady. Dan Heng makes slow progress, but it is progress.
Tonight, he came to find Jing Yuan on his own. He didn’t need to explain. Jing Yuan simply followed him back to his room. Now they sit together in the center of the bed, the duvet rumpled around them like a tempest.
“Did you dream of the past?” Usually, Jing Yuan doesn’t speak, but things have gone further tonight than they normally do, and progress demands challenge.
He doesn’t expect Dan Heng to respond. One hand tightens, fingers squeezing until the knuckles turn white. Then:
“No. My memories of the past are hazy.”
Jing Yuan expects that is all he’ll get, but Dan Heng continues.
“I dreamed that”—his breath hitches—“that you sent me back, and the Preceptors—”
“If that is all,” Jing Yuan interrupts, “then you needn’t fear anything.”
Dan Heng looks up at him then, grinding his teeth to force back the tears.
Jing Yuan dares to hold him then.
—
The General’s Manor, II
Dan Heng is beautiful.
Jing Yuan can’t keep the thought from his head as he lifts Dan Heng’s hair into a high ponytail and watches it cascade down the back of his neck in a single stream. He shouldn’t have such thoughts about his ward, about this new incarnation that is nothing like the last. But he does.
Dan Heng looks up at him from his stool in front of the bathroom mirror as Jing Yuan slides the ornate hair sticks into place. The high collar and cuffed sleeves of his hanfu hide the Dragonhorn Pillories, but there is little to be done to truly disguise his identity. Even those born after the sedition are apt to recognize the Imbibitor Lunae, so heinous were his crimes. The look in his eyes now suggests that Dan Heng knows this as well.
“You don’t have to come,” Jing Yuan says, running a comb down the length of Dan Heng’s ponytail. “It is not vital that I have a personal assistant, and you should not feel pressured on my account. You will still have full reign over the manor and grounds while I’m gone, as you always have.”
But Dan Heng shakes his head, the tips of his hair brushing Jing Yuan’s hand. “I will go. I have been curious about the outside world for a long time, and”—he hesitates—“it’s lonely when you’re gone.”
Jing Yuan swallows, as if he could force back the surge of bittersweet emotions that threaten to overspill from him. “Then,” he says after a moment, “I will do my utmost to protect you. Rest assured that any who dare to lay a hand upon you will face the full force of the Seat of Divine Foresight.”
Dan Heng inclines his head, the loose strands of his forelocks hardly enough to conceal the luminescence of his blush.
—
The Seat of Divine Foresight, II
The cut on Dan Heng’s cheek isn’t deep, but it still bleeds, deep red like the fruit of the Abundance. Jing Yuan holds his breath, soaks a cloth in the washbasin, and applies pressure to the wound.
“Forgive me.”
He doesn’t look at Dan Heng. He fixes his gaze on the sand table instead—today, troop positions in the Artisanship Commission. The incriminating weapon lies among the projected units—a shattered ceramic planter. The culprit, a Vidyadhara man on business from the Skyfaring Commission, has already been escorted out by the flesh-and-bone soldiers.
Dan Heng shifts under Jing Yuan’s hand. That’s when Jing Yuan sees the first line of tears, a string of silvered pearls that mixes with blood. His heart aches.
“You’ve been brave to accompany me to the Seat of Divine Foresight these past couple of weeks. If you no longer wish to do so, merely say the word. What happened today is unacceptable, and I will see to it that the culprit is punished under my full authority. But though it pains me to admit, I cannot guarantee that there will not be others.”
Dan Heng wipes his tears on the side of his hand. “I’m alright, General,” he murmurs, though his voice is unsteady. “If my presence is detrimental to your work, then you are within your rights to keep me home.”
Home. Dan Heng seems not to realize what he’s said, but the word catches Jing Yuan’s breath in his throat. The ache in his heart blossoms into something stronger yet not nearly so unpleasant. He almost smiles.
“That is not what is at issue. In truth, I had another reason for wanting you to accompany me.” He pauses, considering his words. “ I want you to learn how to live amongst others—not as the criminal Imbibitor Lunae but simply as Dan Heng. I have been working to have you released—to allow you to leave the Luofu forever, if you so choose.”
Dan Heng looks up, the surprise evident in his gaze, yet his words are cautious. “You want…to let me go free? The Preceptors will never allow it.”
Jing Yuan chuckles. “You were not allowed to leave the Shackling Prison, either, once upon a time.”
Dan Heng looks away. “Is this a favor owed to Dan Feng?”
“No. As much as I loved him—and continue to—I cannot deny that Dan Feng deserved his fate. He did not deserve mercy. But you are not Dan Feng. You are Dan Heng, and you are innocent. You deserve to live a life of your own, free from the shackles of his influence.”
For a long while, Dan Heng remains still and silent. “Is that so?” he says at last.
Jing Yuan waits, but Dan Heng seems not to know how to continue. So Jing Yuan folds the bloodied cloth in half and sets it aside. Then he clips a square of gauze from a roll.
“Come,” he says, holding up the gauze. “Let me bandage your wound, and then we’ll go home early. We can have whatever you want for dinner.”
Dan Heng doesn’t object. He allows Jing Yuan to tape the gauze to his cheek, then help him up by the hand. But even once he’s standing, he doesn’t let go.
“Yes,” he says, curling his fingers against the back of Jing Yuan’s hand. “Let’s go home.”