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They find Tingun in an abandoned shipping container of all things.
Yukong doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry when they tell her. The world seems to sway and she clutches the side of her desk to stay standing. The fluorescent lights of the command center make her dizzy.
When they had discovered that Phantylia replaced Tingyun, Yukong had refused to accept Tingyun's disappearance. She’d gotten pitying looks for it from the other departments the longer the search took, but the Commission had gathered behind her and they continued to volunteer to search for her. Even her own secretary, Xikui, had taken the time to do so.
It's been four days and the Sky-Faring Commission, master of all things flight, trade and airspace related, finds their missing amicassador in a shipping container.
The entire command center has gone quiet at the news.
Tingyun is alive.
Up is down and down is up and everything has turned topsy-turvy inside of Yukong. She’s shaking apart at the seams, a burst of happiness so great she scarcely knows what to do with it cropping up in her chest, and then she’s promptly struck by enough fear to render her to nearly nothing.
"Is she alright?" is the first question she asks.
Alive is beautiful. Alive is more than she ever expected, more than she could have hoped for.
But alive does not mean unharmed.
Xikui does not reply. That, in itself, is answer enough. Yukong’s knuckles turn white as her grip on the desk tightens. “Tell me.”
"Phantylia… vented her frustration on Tingyun before discarding her. We don’t know what the possession did to her mentally, but the physical torture alone was grisly. She’s in the hospital now."
And though Yukong will not be done thanking Xikui in a thousand years for finding Tingyun when they’d nearly given up, when she’d thought she lost her precious student for good — she cannot spare a moment more, and walks right past her, running for a starskiff.
Nobody stops her. None of her many, many colleagues.
It’s only when she’s halfway to the hospital that she remembers to call Qingni, one hand on the steering wheel and the other fumbling to dial her daughter’s number in a blatantly illegal move she can’t bring herself to care about right now.
"Don’t wait up for me tonight."
Qingni understands — she too, is unspeakably relieved to hear Tingyun’s alright.
Yukong, to Tingyun, had always been a shining star, a goal in the distance, someone so bright and amazing she’d wanted to be just like her. She’d recorded every ceremony involving either Yukong’s archery or her flying skills since that very first demonstration Tingyun’s parents had taken her to, and she’d never looked back.
But drawing a bow, even the children’s models, was hard with pudgy hands. As her peers left her behind, it became all too obvious that her lack of strength was not merely a product of her age.
She was not as martially inclined as other Foxians.
It made her double down on her flying skills and academics, as if it would make up for it; as if it’d make her parents’ disappointed looks go away.
If you can’t fight harder, fight smarter — or perhaps, make sure there never is a fight at all.
This becomes her life’s philosophy.
Yukong struggles to explain her relation to Tingyun at the hospital. Student seems so lacking a word because Tingyun is more than a student, she's more than Yukong’s future successor as Helm Master, she's more than a dear friend. She's irreplaceable in Yukong's life, a source of deep fondness and pride.
Thankfully, very few people say no to the head of the Sky-Faring Commission, so she’s let through in the end and rushes to room 408 with her heart in her throat.
The figure on the bed seems disproportionately small — which is ridiculous, because Tingyun was never tall in the first place.
But she always seems a little larger than life, always poised, her tail brushed to perfection, so meticulous about her appearance and what she’d let others glean from it. Yukong has always known, though, has always seen through the facade.
The prerogative of someone who’d seen Tingyun grow up, a troubled little foxling popping up in Yukong’s life here and there before she invaded it with determination. Tingyun was always just a little too peaceful so she turned to business instead to make her kills, which Yukong had the honor of supporting.
It feels… like a hallucination, almost, seeing Tingyun like this, when Yukong had spent so many nights feeling dread creeping up on her in the darkest hours of the night. She’d turned and turned, twisting in her sheets, watching the ceiling and waiting for the hours to go by as she waited for news — of life, of death, of anything. Qingni had watched her with the same fear in her eyes every morning as they sat silently at breakfast, the bags under their eyes getting darker and harder to ignore.
And now here Tingyun is, hurt terribly.
Yukong reaches out to smooth down chocolate locks framing a pale, bruised face, and watches that all too fragile chest rise and fall.
The prerogative of a—
The china doll in the bed comes to life, eyes fluttering open.
Yukong’s breath catches in her throat.
Tingyun’s eyes are bloodshot and clearly have trouble focusing. But her gaze makes its way to Yukong — unerring, as always, as if Yukong is a homing beacon she cannot help but face like a moth to a flame.
Tingyun’s face twists, into something so heartbreaking that Yukong’s own stomach drops, and when Tingyun croaks: "Yu…kong." she cries just as hard.
Tingyun is too weak to even lift her arms, but Yukong would embrace her anytime, anywhere.
She’s only glad she’ll have the opportunity to do it many, many times more.
Tingyun stops fights between her classmates, brokers truces when she can, and steals moments with her idol whenever possible — she grows up sitting on the curb outside the Sky-Faring Commission, waiting for Yukong to leave work, to teach her, to take her with her on a flight.
To bother her, when her own parents have long turned their gazes in another direction, when they don’t ask her where she disappears off to anymore.
She waits on that curb until she finally, finally, is old and qualified enough to pass the threshold.
Tingyun joins the Sky-Faring Commission with her head held high and her shoulders heavy with determination, ambition in her pocket.
But here too, she struggles with her own gentle nature once again — she will never be a fighter pilot. All Helm Masters have been so, and surely all future ones will as well. Tingyun knows business — she does it with her parents’ blessing now they have finally accepted she cannot be what they want, will never lift a blade unless in self-defense. She just doesn’t have it in her. She will not be a soldier as they are, and though she follows Yukong as if she’s the north star, neither will she be a fighter pilot.
So when Yukong asks her to be her successor as Helm Master, when she turns to Tingyun with hopeful eyes — Tingyun cannot help but break it to her gently. “I want to," she says, hands twisting in her lap, “but I will never be like you. War is not within me. No one will ever see me as a proper successor to you."
And Yukong takes one look at her and puts her paperwork aside to give Tingyun her full attention. Something warm blooms in Tingyun’s chest, even as there’s still a lump in her throat.
Yukong’s eyes are calm and so is her voice when she speaks. “You would know better than anyone else that war is not the only way to ensure peace. Just imagine, for a moment, a world you ruled. How would you prevent conflict?”
Tingyun bites on her lower lip. But — this is something she’s thought about before. A thousand plans turned over in her mind, about trade routes and ways to obtain them, about human nature and all its different faces. About her own nature, and what true peace might look like.
“Conflict is inevitable, but I don’t think war needs to be." She takes a deep, shuddering breath. Think of it like a business. “Make sure that fuel and steel production is a chain, with no complete step in one sovereign body’s hands. Weapon supply will be impossible in case of war against each other. Force them to come talk — force them to use other tools than those of war."
Yukong’s eyes are piercing as she meets Tingyun’s eyes and cocks her head. “That sounds like a plan to me."
…What?
Tingyun’s eyes widen as Yukong starts rummaging in the drawers of her desk, before taking out a fan.
Yukong reaches over the desk to take Tingyun’s hands out of her lap and folds them around a warfan, a weapon she is more suited for (concealed, a spine of steel and most of all: it has other uses than violence) and tells her: “Times are changing. The Xianzhou is changing. One day, this giant ship will grow utterly exhausted of a sky full of blood and war. When that time comes, the Sky-Faring Commission will be your stage. You have the skills and you know how to do it: now show me the new era, Tingyun.”
Tingyun’s hands tighten around the fan underneath Yukong’s own hands still holding hers and from that day forward, Tingyun learns to wield a war fan in preparation of the day she won’t need to bloody it — the day she uses its steel backbone only for cooling her face.
It is the wind under her wings and it feels like being free, like finally being able to breathe.
Like she can learn how to create a new world; like she can learn how to make peace if she cannot make war.
The Tingyun in the hospital bed is one Yukong has to learn anew. Tingyun has never had sharp edges before, cajoling and compromise were her weapons of choice.
Still, Yukong can hardly blame her. Tingyun has her own reasons, and good ones too. Something about her reminds Yukong of a shattered blade — something that can be reforged, but will never be the same after.
There are endless nights of sitting next to Tingyun as she relives her torture whether awake or asleep, flinching whenever someone moves too swiftly and certain sounds — some as simple as a door opening — set her off until she retreats into herself. The doctors call it ‘disassociation’. Yukong has seen it in soldiers before, when it was simply called ‘looking into someone’s eyes and realizing nobody’s home’.
Tingyun’s empty stares are what scare her the most. Yukong sits next to her for hours, clutching her hand and hoping fervently she’ll come back. Qingni visits on and off, begging Yukong to rest, but she can’t help it. She sits there until her legs have gone numb and her fingers are cold from lack of food and Qingni pushes juice into her empty hand like that will save her heart from sinking.
Tingyun’s anger is a relief, compared to that.
“I was used to wage war upon the Luofu," she cries one day, her hands trembling for once not with nerves but with incredible anger, her face red and her eyes squeezing closed with ugly, livid tears spilling down her cheeks. “That is unforgivable!"
The sheer betrayal in her voice strikes Yukong like a spear in the chest.
But all too soon the tears disappear, and when Tingyun quietly apologizes for her outburst, Yukong doesn’t quite know how to feel about it.
Tingyun is entitled to her anger. She should not need to apologize for it.
But that does not make physical therapy easier.
Tingyun’s legs had been mangled as well, and relearning how to walk has been a nightmare so far. Tingyun is quiet as she does it, but that only feels like the calm before the storm, frustration brewing beneath the surface, water getting ready to boil over the edge of the pan.
Yukong visits most evenings, and thus often helps Tingyun with her exercises, holding her up as she sets tentative steps.
Some evenings go well. Others, quite frankly, don’t.
"I should be the one to hold you up, instead of the other way around. The young helping the old, not the old supporting the young!" Tingyun’s voice is filled with frustration brimming to spill over like the tears in her eyes. The fluorescent lights wash her out, until she’s pale and wan.
Yukong sets her down gently on the bed. “It might be the duty of the old to pass their power to the young, but the duty of a parent is always to the child."
“You are not my parent," Tingyun says, with eyes blazing, bracing herself against the cushions.
This is true, and perhaps it was a poor choice of words, especially given Tingyun’s trouble with her parents. But it still hurts Yukong to hear her say it; she might not be Tingyun’s parent, but she considers her role as mentor no less important. But Tingyun is simply hurt, haunted by what happened to her, and Yukong will not fail her today. So she answers calmly, “No, I am your mentor — and that is much the same in that I will give you the tools to make your own way."
Tingyun cries — does not apologize, but slowly, the hatred and helpless anger starts to drain from her, making room for new things.
Perhaps even for recovery.
After receiving the fan (after receiving Yukong’s faith), Tingyun still has a long path ahead of her to make her own way.
She stumbles and messes up, but she doesn’t let that stop her — each time she falls, she gets up, dusts off her skirt, renews her smile and continues on her way. She might not be a fighter, but she is the queen of the can-do attitude.
People appreciate that. She makes mistakes, of course, and it certainly takes some time before she takes on officials from the IPC without trouble, but she gets there, and she loves her job.
It is not that she has not been challenged before — she certainly has, sometimes it feels like there’s been nothing but bumps on her road — but this new challenge is a thrilling one. Where nothing before had ever been enough to make her world go quiet, her focus completely on one thing, joining the negotiation table is an entirely new experience. She relishes in figuring out her opponents, her enemies and future allies alike. She studies their expressions, reads them like a science, anticipates their moves, watches their tactics to twist trade contracts to their favor until she can copy them, improve them, make them her own.
She lives and breathes legalese, delights in the loopholes she puts into script, the silent traps ready to rear up and bite whoever shames their promises to the Luofu. She enacts her plans — makes sure fuel and steel production is at least partly in their hands, and every step is so miniscule she can barely see it, but it is a step forward nonetheless.
She’s so proud of her work.
The only person who’s possibly prouder of it is Yukong, who’s watching her with shining eyes and a warm hand on her shoulder whenever she returns.
It makes her so happy, a warmth bubbling up in her chest like she’s never known before, and she knows this is right.
The next morning hasn’t even dawned, the hospital room still painted in shades of gray, when Tingyun apologizes. There’s no light on, and the plastic chair Yukong is sitting on is honestly hurting her back, but she hasn’t been able to leave Tingyun alone after her outburst. If sleep won’t find her either way, she might as well guard Tingyun.
These dreadful hours, deep in the night, are always filled with the bone-deep fear that Tingyun will be stolen away by the Antimatter Legion again.
Still, Yukong is not the only one unable to sleep, Tingyun is staring at the ceiling with her eyes wide open, bags underneath them. “I’m sorry."
Yukong smiles painfully. “Why should you be? I… I didn’t even notice when she replaced you. I thought you were having an off day, that you were busy with other things, that the fact that you didn’t return Qingni’s calls was just a matter of circumstances. There were so many signs!" She covers her face, her eyes burning. “And I didn’t see. I have failed you as a mentor.”
Now Tingyun begins to cry in earnest. “Stop that! You couldn’t have known! No one knew, including me until it was way too late! I— aeons, I feel like all I do is cry these days! I didn’t mean it! I meant none of it— I…" She sits up, breath hitching with sobs, eyes on Yukong as if she’s a beacon, as if she might be forgiven, after all. "I wouldn’t know what to do without you."
The I love you is unspoken, but Yukong hears it nonetheless. This time, it moves her to tears as well, and she joins Tingyun on the bed, embracing her tightly.
This moment too shall pass, with all its pain.
But the love will remain.
Qingni brings them breakfast, and Tingyun cannot help but smile at her tremulously. She’s still… angry and sad, but somehow, tonight has bolstered her. She is no longer feeling quite so fragile, as if the love others bear her is gold plastering over pottery scars, making something beautiful out of something broken.
But she’s not.
Tingyun, sad and angry, but most of all: determined – she may not be a soldier, but should a fight come to their doorstep, she’ll make sure they have allies aplenty. The Antimatter Legion will not find her and her ship such an easy target again.
She has made so many agreements to make sure that when the Luofu’s hit, everyone will feel it. She’s made sure it’s in their best interest to defend the Xianzhou. A spider in her very own web, she will only be grimly satisfied as she pulls it tight.
She’ll prove to Yukong that she will leave the Sky-Faring Commission in good hands.
Tingyun is a fan, with a spine of steel, and she will let no one force her into losing her gentleness — not violence, and not a near-war she is stopping in its tracks.
She’ll not use a white flag to wave in an age of peace.