Work Text:
Before
-
If there was one person Shen Qingqiu could regard as a "friend”— even with much reluctance—it would be Mu Qingfang.
And Mu Qingfang would like to believe that at the very least—
It was something to hold onto.
-
The first time he meets the Qing Jing Peak Lord was when he was delivering Qian Cao's monthly batch of salve. Shen Qingqiu had been the Head Disciple at the time, a boy followed by rumors of treachery everywhere he stepped. Not much has changed since then.
He was as ill-tempered as the rumors told, as cold and brittle and underhanded and beautiful, with words sharper than Wan Jian Peak’s blades and a glare that pierces through Mu Qingfang’s soul like a war god’s arrow.
He fled Qing Jing that day in the color of crabapple blossoms, stuttering on words as he reminds himself he isn't sick.
(He tells his shizun who only laughs.
“You might as well bring a bouquet of roses next time you visit!” the Qian Cao Peak Lord snorts.
Perhaps it was a lapse of judgment, but there were roses on the Head Disciple of Qing Jing’s doorstep the next morning. About a dozen of them all freshly picked the night before.
It was thrown down the Rainbow Bridge.
His shizun doesn’t stop laughing, and his shijies don’t stop asking him where he went last night.)
-
They met more,but enough time has passed that he’s lost count. Still, every time they do, it leaves Mu Qingfang breathless and his head in clouds the color of warm sunsets.
When he sees Shen Qingqiu once again, the man lies in Qian Cao, mind addled by qi deviation calling out for a missing 'Qi-ge'. Mu Qingfang could only raise the dosage of medicine and close his eyes as he brings Shen Qingqiu into his embrace.
("Qi-ge is here now.")
It was then, Mu Qingfang thinks, when he started visiting the small bamboo hut on Qing Jing as much as possible. Their meetings had been sparse before then, with little words and passing glances.
The increase had been subtle, first out of obligation as qi deviation was known to relapse, then to deliver misplaced letters and vials of medicine.
Ah, Shen-shixiong had a delicate constitution after all. He tries telling himself that, brushing off a Hallmaster’s comment.
Mu Qingfang is tolerated, but that's enough for him.
"Mu-shidi? To what do I owe the pleasure of your appearance today?" Shen Qingqiu snaps his fan open.
"Ah, this new pill I've been working on, would Shen-shixiong like to see?" he really has run out of excuses at this point, but it doesn’t seem to bother the other man.
With a slightly exasperated sigh, Shen Qingqiu opens the door for him, "Whatever it is, do it quickly. Zhangmen-shixiong will be arriving soon."
His shixiong says their Sect Leader's name like rat poison, eyes curling into disgust (and some kind of longing and warmth). It leaves Mu Qingfang's knees weaker than they were a second ago.
He can ignore it.
He always had.
"Of course, Shen-shixiong."
-
There was a particular moment too when Shen Qingqiu notices during a quiet evening. Shen-shixiong had his fan up to his face, eyes fixated to the horizon as he drinks Mu Qingfang's tea.
"Mu-shidi, understand, the only reason why I put up with this..." There was a pause. "...is your tea."
"It means much that Shen-shixiong enjoys my tea," he laughs.
They talk about their students, much to Shen Qingqiu's pleasure, eyes narrowing every time mentions of choosing a Head Disciple comes up. Of course, most of the Peak Lords of their generation have yet to choose, Mu Qingfang included. Thought that never eased his shixiong's distaste if the subject.
"So Liu-bas—"
"Liu-shixiong?"
"Yes, I heard he came back to Bai Zhan yesterday," Shen Qingqiu scoffs, "That brute really had nothing better to do but overwork other peaks. Caused a good show at the gates."
Mu Qingfang feels his smile strain. "Liu-shixiong has interesting teaching methods."
Liu Qingge returning did have his peak ready to burn the Rainbow Bridge. It would be unprofessional if he, as the Peak Lord, were to encourage it. He doesn't comment on it (and he really doesn’t see the petitions going around).
“If you would call abandonment interesting—he gets to go gallivanting off to some foreign land to fight the monster of the week,” Shen Qingqiu scrunches his nose, “and I have to be the one who entertains some second-generation brats with too much time on their hands.”
“Does Shen-shixiong not get missions?”
“Qing Jing rarely gets missions requiring this shixiong’s presence outside of the peak,” he says. “Court proceedings are worthless.”
“Ah.”
He thinks of the shortage of spiritual herbs since Liu Qingge happened. Then his mind drifts to the inevitable journey to get nastier kinds since dead disciples are strongly discouraged unless you’re Bai Zhan. Even then, he doubts Liu Qingge would lend him a fodder or two. Bai Zhan wouldn't be in commission until the next few weeks.
It was fast, too fast for him to reign his words as an invitation slips from his mouth and no , Mu Qingfang does not have a fever.
Silence punctuated his words and for a moment, Shen Qingqiu loses his grip on the folding fan.
Mu Qingfang holds his breath, counting to ten and trying desperately to keep his voice neutral, “O-of course, Shen-shixiong doesn’t need to indulge this shidi.”
“I’ll go.”
“Really?” An even larger smile blooms on his face.
“It seems I have nothing of importance the following week.” Shen Qingqiu leans back, a fan covers the bottom half of his face. “My disciples are more than competent enough to look after themselves.”
“Shen-shixiong is too kind.”
“Tch.”
The Qing Jing Peak Lord pours himself the last of Mu Qingfang's tea, lips pursing when the last drop falls. It was almost twilight, and the sounds of disciples at work are fading into the chirping of cicadas.
Their meeting had been brief, Mu Qingfang’s schedule was too full for him to visit during his usual time. Shen Qingqiu tilts his head sideways and hides the tea a disciple probably made when he greeted Qian Cao's Peak Lord at the door earlier.
Mu Qingfang excuses himself, bidding goodnight to the man in pale green robes before he leaves. The smile on his face does not fade until the next morning.
-
“A disciple recently uncovered some old medical text in Qing Jing’s libraries,” Shen Qingqiu says, fanning himself. “This shixiong’s peak has no use of it.”
-
There are days when it was Shen Qingqiu who visited Qian Cao. The first time it happens, there had been rumors floating around of Zhangmen-shixiong and Shen-shixiong sleeping together.
He doesn't buy it, despite the Sect Leader's sweet spot for Shen Qingqiu—he hears 'Xiao-Jiu' playing like a broken record. Mu Qingfang knows there's no way Shen Qingqiu would allow himself to be touched in such a way, and not by Zhangmen-shixiong at that.
Yet it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.
The man at his doorstep tells a different story. Mu Qingfang is trained enough to make out the bloodshot eyes and slightly swollen palms. The headpiece is crooked with his shixiong's long, soft hair in disarray.
Still, Shen Qingqiu walks with his head held high, graceful as if nothing was wrong in the world.
"Could this shixiong trouble Mu-shidi for tea?" His voice is as serene as ever, like clear streams on spring's eve.
"Of course, Shen-shixiong. It wouldn't be any trouble at all." He offers a closed-eyed smile as he leads the Qing Jing Peak Lord to his office. "Quite the contrary, these past few days have been admittedly slow."
Shen Qingqiu mutters his thanks, hiding his face behind a painted fan. Ah, was that not the fan Mu Qingfang had given Shen Qingqiu a few years back? It was commissioned from a workshop in Huan Hua if he remembers correctly. The shade of emerald was unmistakable though. Mu Qingfang went through too much trouble getting the dye.
(He duly notes the used handle and slightly frayed edge.)
There's something about Shen Qingqiu's posture that's off too. He sits too stiffly, yet somehow lethargic. His hands were twitching, and when he thinks Mu Qingfang wasn't looking, he tilts his head up to the wooden ceiling dazed.
"Does Shen-shixiong enjoy this one's tea?" Mu Qingfang offers another closed-eyed smile.
"It was decent." He takes a long sip. "A floral base I assume?"
"Shen-shixiong has a good eye."
“Make it more often.”
“Ah, of course.” He supposes he won’t be making any other types for his shixiong.
(He doesn’t.)
The Qing Jing Peak Lord narrows his eyes at Mu Qingfang's desk. "Has that brute been giving you trouble?"
"No, it seems the younger disciples had forgotten to bring the paperwork down," he said.
"Tch. Children ," Shen Qingqiu says. “This shixiong shouldn’t be surprised, as they seem to be unable to deliver anything to my Qing Jing without their Peak Lord.”
Mu Qingfang laughs, pouring the both of them more tea, and Shen Qingqiu's eyes widen, bringing his fan to cover his face. There's something about the way that sunlight his shixiong's face that he can't explain.
"Shen-shixiong seems troubled lately."
"It is nothing." The room turns a few degrees colder.
"Did Zhangmen-shixiong do something?" Mu Qingfang pushes.
“No.”
“I heard—”
" No. "
"But—"
Shen Qingqiu snaps his attention back to Mu Qingfang with furrowed eyebrows and cracks start forming on the teacup in his hand. "What I do to that imposter is none of your business!"
Before the man in green robes could leave, Mu Qingfang grabs his arm. There was a look of disbelief, a raised hand, a smashed teacup.
Oh, and how he suddenly wanted to hurl himself off into the Abyss.
"This shidi apologizes for bringing up such a sensitive topic!" He closes his eyes, ready for impact as his voice falls into a soft plead, "Please stay, just a bit longer."
"...fine."
The man in green robes doesn’t look at him for the rest of the evening.
But it’s nothing.
-
“So I assume the flowers at my doorstep have nothing to do with Mu-shidi.”
Seconds pass by as heat floods his face.
“Ah, I wanted to apologize for my earlier behavior,” he said. “This shidi had no right to pry into shixiong’s past.”
“This time, I will let it go.” Shen Qingqiu doesn’t meet his eyes. “Mu-shidi is in luck this shixiong does not hold a grudge.”
Mu Qingfang looks to the direction of Qiong Ding, then towards Bai Zhan, and does his best to stifle any amusement. “Of course.”
He supposes it’s a good sign when the green-robed man puts down his fan.
Shen Qingqiu shoves a box into his hands the moment he finishes his words, all surprisingly gentle.
“A replacement.”
He holds it in his hands with care, as if it’ll shatter at the slightest touch. It doesn’t, but Mu Qingfang could melt into a puddle at that spot.
-
“I heard Shen-shixiong has a head disciple now.”
“Ming Fan is capable,” he says with a scowl, fanning himself.
“Then this shidi supposes you’ll have more time to yourself now,” Mu Qingfang leans forward, face closer to his shixiong and a hand on his forehead. “Has Shen-shixiong been feeling alright these days?”
Shen Qingqiu slaps his hands away quickly. “There’s nothing wrong with me!”
“Ah, but Shen-shixiong forehead feels a bit warm.”
The Qing Jing Peak Lord’s hands twitched to where his teacup was.
-
There are times when Mu Qingfang hates, hates that the only things he could offer were smiles and pleasantries. Hates that he has to watch Shen Qingqiu writhing under the pain of qi deviation, knowing the only thing he could do was wait it out while muttering small assurances and transferring a steady flow of qi. Hates that Shen Qingqiu in this state looks at him like he’s a stranger (or another man altogether).
Shen Qingqiu was never a stranger to qi deviation. It follows him like a vengeful spirit waiting to sink its knife at any sign of weakness. Qing Jing's Peak Lord was rather special in that regard.
Zhangmen-shixiong had visited earlier that morning before Shen Qingqiu awoken. His right eye follows the pair as he continues on with his work.
He’ll pretend Zhangmen-shixiong’s hands weren’t grasping Shen Qingqiu so tightly it might as well be their last day. Then, he’ll ignore the way he gently tucks loose strands of hair behind Shen Qingqiu ears like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Xiao-Jiu…”
(It’s for the best he ignores the way Shen Qingqiu relaxes with the sound of Zhangmen-shixiong’s voice.)
No, Mu Qingfang does not hear the warmth, the guilt in his Sect Leader’s voice. He does not hear a thing.
-
“Mu-shidi.” It comes out as barely a whisper.
“You’re awake!” Mu Qingfang rushes over to the bed.
An eyeroll.
“Oh? Was I—” Shen Qingqiu coughs, “dead then?”
The doctor lets himself laugh, if just for that moment. “How do you feel Shen-shixiong?”
He gets a grunt and some attempt at a scoff from his shixiong in response. The fever had lessened slightly, and some color had come back to Shen Qingqiu’s face, to his relief.
They talk as Mu Qingfang continued making Bai Zhan’s medicine, and he finds himself unable to tell the Qing Jing Peak Lord of Zhangmen-shixiong’s earlier visit. It was visits now he believes, the disciple in charge had informed him of the Sect Leader coming by.
“I know Zhangmen-shixiong came by,” he sneers.
A bowl of herbs almost slips to the ground.
“Ah, is Shen-shixiong troubled by this?”
“Tch, not like I need that man’s concerns.”
Mu Qingfang bites his lips and shifts his gaze. “Then would Shen-shixiong mind if this shidi asks shixiong why he holds such contempt for Zhangmen-shixiong?”
“Formality won’t get you anywhere, Mu-shidi .” Shen Qingqiu places down his fan. “Though I would think delving into your shixiong and an oathbreaker’s past should be saved for when he’s not bedridden from qi deviation.”
“Ah, if Shen-shixiong doesn’t want to, this shidi will stop.”
This won't end like last time, he won't let it.
“I’ll indulge you.” The grey eyes, if Mu Qingfang had looked, stare at the doctor almost wistfully.
Mu Qingfang stops what he was doing with slight reluctance and walks to the green-robed man’s bedside. If a higher power had been watching him, they surely would be laughing by now.
What he hears next is more akin to a horror tale than a person’s life. Mu Qingfang pushes down the sensation of slow, burning asphyxiation as Shen Qingqiu’s quiet words go on.
A tale of a wretched boy and his no good brother. Of broken bones and a lonely cell in a manor far too wide. A naive girl with sewage at her feet that binds the wretched boy in chains.
A loss of innocence, perhaps. Trailing, trailing and the wretched boy's hands are soaked in blood and oil.
"Miss Haitang was there." Shen Qingqiu gathers the blanket in his arms. "She sworn revenge as if it's the last thing she does."
There were pauses where Shen Qingqiu just laughs, raspy and hollow. When the words trailed off into heavy silence, Mu Qingfang finds the green-robed man in his embrace. It was only the sound of his shixiong’s heart beating below him that assured Mu Qingfang that Shen Qingqiu was still with him.
“You’re safe now.”
‘ I love you, ’ he doesn’t say.
Shen Qingqiu falls asleep in his arms.
(Mu Qingfang ignores the vague mutter that sounds all too much like a farewell.)
-
When Zhangmen-shixiong visits, Mu Qingfang does his best to hide the bile rising up his throat with smiling apathy.
-
Shen Qingqiu doesn’t wake up the next day.
Or the one after it.
Or the one after it.
Or the one after it.
Or the week after it.
-
It’s fine, it does not matter because when rain befalls Cang Qiong following midday moons that color the sky mellow shades of indigo, the man in green robes awakens. Zhangmen-shixiong cries out a “Qingqiu-shidi!” and Mu Qingfang stares straight through.
It was a sinking feeling which betrays any logic he possessed. One that lodges itself within Mu Qingfang’s consciousness as he tries to recognize the person behind his shixiong’s face. It was not his own hyperactive imagination, that he knows.
Between two stumbles with the paperwork, he slips away. Though, not before he takes one last look at the stranger wearing Shen Qingqiu’s face.
After
-
Mu Qingfang wears mourning clothes when he’s alone, deep within the confines of his home. There are old books that line the shelves and broken shards of teacups in a delicate box.
It has been two months since Shen Qingqiu wakes up as a stranger to Mu Qingfang, two months since he had last stepped foot on Qing Jing. The disciples look at him and trade whispers the moment his back is turned.
The stranger wearing Shen Qingqiu’s face visits though, so many times that it leaves him with too many questions.
Shen Qingqiu likes his tea without sugar and his hair combed back all the way. He mutters his concerns like they were curses and calls Liu-shixiong names in private with a calm rage as he cracks Mu Qingfang’s teacups. His shixiong always brought new sets the next time they met though.
But this Shen Qingqiu, with hair slightly loose and smiles without the sharpness or innocuous sneers, holds his cups as if it were priceless jewelry. He doesn’t think he has met this person before, and he doesn’t think this person had met him.
“Shen-shixiong.” Mu Qingfang bites his tongue.
“Hm?”
“Would you like to try some floral-based tea? This shidi recently acquired a new batch.” He braces for the should-be slight of irritation.
“No thank you, Mu-shidi.” There was no acid, no hint of sarcasm in a voice that’s so strikingly similar to his Shen Qingqiu. “This shixiong doesn’t care much for floral-based tea.”
It would be, ah, inappropriate if he were to ask the stranger wearing Shen Qinqiu’s face to leave at this moment. The walls have ears, after all. He smiles instead, brewing the kind his Shen Qingqiu particularly hated.
Maybe, somewhere far away from here, his Shen Qingqiu is calling him a fool. He won’t deny it—he’s not any less of a fool than Zhangmen-shixiong.
-
Cang Qiong herself covers her eyes and pretends nothing has changed, that The Qing Jing Peak Lord’s transformation was never such a thing to begin with. Perhaps Mu Qingfang is no different in that regard, outside his own feeble consciousness.
The days passed like the ebb and flow of old rivers that washed away humanity’s imprints on the earth. It dragged all those awake along with an everlasting current in the constant beat of early springtime rain. Melodies that played alongside it are written down and buried beneath the bedrock for no one to uncover.
Mu Qingfang watches the stranger wearing Shen Qingqiu’s face with one eye closed. The differences are stark for anyone who pries deeper than the indifferent surface.
It was a slow, almost calculated ease into change starting with the alleged memory loss. The stranger wearing Shen Qingqiu’s face begins smiling more—not sneers or dry, sarcastic laughter.
(Seeing that smile was a scalpel carving deep into layers of his flesh, twisting the blade in his guts).
-
“It’s strange,” Qi Qingqi says one day, “Did you and Shen-shixiong fight?”
“No, nothing like that, shijie.”
She had invited herself in earlier, with all the bravado and theatrics the rest of Cang Qiong lacks. It’s been a long time since they had a proper conversation, so Mu Qingfang relents and brews the tea.
“He’s approachable now, apparently. Which I suppose is good, not all of us have time—or the patience—to force ourselves into Shen Qingqiu’s good graces.”
There is an implication he acknowledges.
It was not like his fondness for Shen Qingqiu had been a secret, quite the contrary. For some time, it had been the most talked about thing on Cang Qiong. Mu Qingfang does think that had been a product of disciples with too much time on their hands. He really should give them more work.
Mu Qingfang sighs, “Yes, Shen-shixiong has been busier lately.”
“Uh-huh,” she says, “with Liu Qingge and that kid.”
He looks aside. It was the best course of action as opposed to faking any emotions in front of a person who reads him better than a book.
What was he supposed to feel for the stranger wearing Shen Qingqiu’s face? Distress? Jealousy?
Qi Qingqi lips form a thin line. “You aren’t as subtle as you think, shidi.”
“Ah, it seems Qi-shijie has caught me.” He offers a smile.
“Just spit it out. Whatever it is, everyone’s gotten all mopey ‘cause you are.”
Maybe there had been some truth to her statement; the tense atmosphere on Qian Cao blankets every crevice. If the rumors were right, the crying in the washrooms was indeed real, but he doubts the fault was his.
“I will but just—just not right now.”
“Hm.” She nods, closing her eyes. “Take your time, then. This shijie isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.”
Rain begins falling, filling his office with soft rhythms that mock the unease in his heart.
They talk for the rest of that evening, never going too far down one subject. She tells him of the not-quite rumors below the mountains and Huan Hua’s latest scandal with tax evasion and stories of trouble brewing in the north concerning a demonic uprising (An Ding solves it to everyone’s surprise). Qing Jing never comes up and he gives her his silent thanks.
It has been some time since he was able to talk to anyone like this. Passing conversations when the stranger wearing Shen Qingqiu’s face invites himself over had been short, awkward affairs. They do not count.
When Qi Qingqi returns to Xian Shu, he remains in his seat with a look on his face he can’t quite describe.
-
Without A Cure was a strange poison with stranger rules.
It leaves a ghostly green-robed man in his infirmary for that blinding white resentment to crawl it’s way up from his subconscious.
The Shen Qingqiu he knew had looked like this too, on those days when qi deviation sinks its claws. He prepares his Shen Qingqiu’s favorite blend and lights his favorite candles mindlessly like he had done so many times before. It doesn't occur to him he had done such a thing until he lights the last one.
Worried disciples come in and out of the room faster than the changing of the tides. They come in small groups but leave one at a time, always in the same order. Ming Fan is the first one to leave with a pile of scrolls in his hands, Ning Yingying is the first to ask if she could help him, and that young boy stays until Mu Qingfang closes visiting hours.
Ah, this is the one Qi Qingqi had referred to, Luo Binghe. He was not a stranger to the boy, both Shen Qingqius spoke of him—although with vastly different tones.
One with fondness Mu Qingfang can’t bear to keep on listening. The other a scathing bitterness of the boy and his incompetence (and something else he can't exactly pinpoint).
Luo Binghe was what both descriptions pictured yet not. He was an awkward thing, too stiff and wasteful in his movements yet eyes burned with an ironclad will. Naive yet so impossibly kind.
Mu Qingfang doesn’t watch the teacher-student reunion. A senior disciple was sent in his place with very explicit instructions. It’s baffling, then, that the stranger wearing Shen Qingqiu’s face still ends up seeking him out.
Perhaps his Shen Qingqiu was right about Qian Cao’s disciples' incompetence in everything but medicines.
“Thank you, Mu-shidi,” the stranger wearing Shen Qingqiu’s face says, almost too gently.
Mu Qingfang smiles. Teacup smashing wasn’t his thing, so this will do. There was an attempt from the stranger to smile back.
-
He meets Zhangmen-shixiong too, in all his bumbling gentleness. There’s something off about the man, something subdued, sadder. It’s a weary look of indecisiveness that weighs down on them both, speaking with more sighs than words.
They share a look, and Mu Qingfang should’ve known.
Cang Qiong’s Sect Leader is an amalgamation of contradictions like Shen Qingqiu had been. A secretive joy, softness lights his face yet every facet of his body grieved.
“Xiao-Jiu would’ve liked this,” Zhangmen-shixiong says with a wistfulness that leaves roses fading, holding a cup of tea as if it would shatter at the slightest force.
Not Shen Qingqiu, not Shen-shidi, not the (late) Qing Jing Peak Lord.
Mu Qingfang smiles softly. “Yes, he would.”
-
When the Immortal Conference comes, tumbling in like whirlwinds and hurricanes that draw wounds deep into the earth. Reverberations shake the foundations of this world.
Qian Cao does not participate, much to his disciples’ displeasure, nor do most other peaks. Only Bai Zhan, a handful of Qiong Ding’s, and a singular student of Qing Jing joined compared the ocean of Huan Hua’s yellow.
A line of bitter disciples sat behind him, muttering, and below, the world falls into chaos. Bloodstains soak the grass as a desperate rescue attempt begins.
The end product leaves scars Mu Qingfang can’t heal. Cang Qiong is quieter, her eyes fall to the ground where fresh graves lie. His infirmary is swamped once again with requests to revive the dead collapsing at Qian Cao’s door. The disciples take it as well as a fish out of the water, growing wearier as the endless workdays go on.
The stranger in Shen Qingqiu’s skin doesn’t bother greeting him, too preoccupied with staring blankly into the wooden panels. It’s a look Mu Qingfang’s intimately familiar with.
“Shen-shixiong, your medicine.”
The words come out as barely a whisper, “Thank you, Mu-shidi.”
The food sent earlier had not been touched, nor has the tea. Mu Qingfang curses his bleeding heart and places a plate of fruit on the man’s bedside. There is reluctance in the stranger’s bites, slow and small.
He’s heard of the events within the barrier, the death of Luo Binghe and the shattered remains of the boy’s sword in his master’s hands. Qing Jing’s disciples pass whispers to one another with disbelieving faces and shaking voices, each more solemn than the last.
So when Mu Qingfang meets the stranger’s( Shen Qingqiu’s ) eyes, a wave of something washes over him. A churning pull of a kind he truly didn’t know he had, of built-up anger and frustration and sadness and grief. Of tides over tides of grief that envelope each other into something more.
“I—” He takes a deep breath. “Who are you?”
A million different things he can’t identify flash through the stranger’s face that leave Mu Qingfang uneasy.
“I am not Shen Qingqiu,” the stranger finally says with a sigh, eyes glued to the floor.
“I know.”
“A freak accident. It was a freak accident that caused this, I believe.” An edge lines the stranger’s voice. “The Shen Qingqiu you knew died in a fever and my—original body died at the same time. I woke up here, in your infirmary as someone else, a stranger in your shixiong’s body.”
All of this, all of what the stranger wearing Shen Qingqiu’s skin says was no surprise to him, but hearing it brings reality to his doorstep. That ember of hope deep in him which clings the explanation the changes were a byproduct of unfortunate memory loss is stomped out.
With a sharp intake of breath, Mu Qingfang closes his eyes. “It’s irreversible?”
“You must hate me.”
“I can’t.” He stops. “I don’t know you to begin with.”
“Thank you.” There’s the barest hint of a smile that spreads on the stranger’s face. “Why don’t we introduce ourselves? My name is Shen Yuan.”
Not Shen Qingqiu or Shen Jiu, but Shen Yuan.
It comes out breathless, like the beginning of a sunset catharsis.
“Mu Qingfang.” He avoids making eye contact and turns his gaze outside to a low hanging sun. “You should rest. A disciple will bring you more medicine later."
“Alright.” The stranger—Shen Yuan’s—voice held disappointment and relief that Mu Qingfang doesn’t delve further into.
-
Qi Qingqi stands on his doorstep with an armful of wine he reckons she stole from some hapless fool. He assumes it high quality; Qi Qingqi wouldn't settle for anything less. It looks almost like the kind in his stash. She has this wild grin to her that brings him a sense of dread he does not appreciate.
He lets her in, and she begins telling him of some demon exterminations she recently led. The one that ended with her and a demoness sharing drinks over the corpse of known rogue cultivators who tried a little too hard at necromancy. Mu Qingfang was quite sure there are some important details missing, but he doesn't ask.
"...and then she's like, 'wouldn't you get in trouble with your Sect Leader?'" Qi Qingqi pours him a cup. "Could you believe it? So I kiss— kicked her for even thinking that Zhangmen-shixiong could do shit about it."
"Did he even care?"
"Nah." There goes another bottle. "He was too busy moping."
"He's been doing that a lot lately," Mu Qingfang puts blandly.
"Just like you, then," she laughs.
Maybe if he hadn't been swamped with work for the last week or two, he would've taken the effort to be offended. Instead, he hums in response. It's not factually wrong, he couldn't deny it if he tried.
She mouths an 'oh' and shifts the conversation elsewhere.
"It's getting better," said Mu Qingfang, voice as quiet as a whisper. "I talked to Shen-shixiong earlier. It was—difficult—but I think we've come to some sort of agreement."
Qi Qingqi's expression softens. "Do want to talk about it?"
He shakes his head and offers an apologetic smile. A flash of worry passed through her eyes as she pours them both more liquor.
Bits of information always find themselves spoken, nonetheless, falling like snow at the cusp of winter. Qi Qingqi doesn't comment on it, and for that, he thanks her.
“Qi-shijie.”
“Hm?”
“I need you to help me look for someone.” Mu Qingfang says the next part in a whisper, “Someone, Zhangmen-shixiong can’t know.”
Xian Shu—despite being so reclusive—kept good records of the outside world. Specifically young ladies with notable backgrounds and a high potential for cultivation. It’s part of their recruitment system nobody but Xian Shu’s Peak Lord and her close disciples knew. Something along the lines of confidentiality and extensive background checks.
Qi Qingqi’s eyes had taken a new shade. These kinds of matters are delicate, one even the Sect Leader skirt around with caution. Xian Shu lives up to its reputation in more than one way.
She places her hands down, lifting her chin up slightly, "And who should this person be?"
"Qiu Haitang, daughter of the late Head of the Qiu and previously affiliated with Tian Yi Overlook," he says.
Disbelief paints her face. "You—you understand what you're asking for, right?"
He does. A major sect looking into another's disciple was never good news. An ex-disciple, of all things. Unless handled carefully, it'll end up a diplomatic nightmare or a cold war that'll bring nothing but discord. To do it without the Sect Leader or the other sect's knowledge was a surefire way to end up with a few generations of unspoken tension. The debacle when Shang Qinghua suggested an investigation into the disappearance of Huan Hua's previous Head Disciple was still fresh in everybody's mind.
"She was my late friend's ex-fiancee." A sigh escapes, one that Qi Qingqi can't decipher. "I need to let her know, and apologize. It's trivial, but if Qi-shijie could, this shidi would appreciate it."
Qi Qingqi mouths another 'oh' and offers a slight reassuring smile. "I'll see what I can do."
There's a burning sensation under his throat the wine doesn't wash away.
-
"Mu-shixiong?"
"Is there something this shixiong can help with, Shang-shidi?" Mu Qingfang places his armful of scrolls down.
Shang Qinghua was a strang man, one who knows too much for his own good yet too little to be considered a genius. Mediocre cultivation with only a surprisingly nuanced understanding in mathematics to back it up.
There's also this layer of frost that follows the blue-robed man wherever he went.
The An Ding Peak Lord looks at him sheepishly, fingers drumming on a worn book. "Shen-shixiong and I have been working on this project—there's been some complication with the plant." Shang Qinghua says plant with a skittish voice, tugging at the collar of his robes.
It wasn't new for other Peak Lords to request his assistance on such matters. Mu Qingfang is one of the most knowledgeable person on Cang Qiong when it comes to herbology after all. Only the previous Qian Cao Lord and Shen Qingqiu could try challenging that.
Shen Yuan could too.
"Ah, do you want to come in?" Mu Qingfang opens the door, and Shang Qinghua offers him a smile of gratitude before stepping in. "Though this shixiong's afraid he can't help unless Shang-shidi is more specific."
-
Of course, Luo Binghe still breathed. Breathed exactly how the two men with arms reaching towards a world beyond this universe had implied in their words. It never stopped the grief, but the unsaid words were there . They fueled every action, every moment of silence.
Those eyes, one in all the wrong shades of red and all the grief and the misery and the anger and the confusion, met his when Shen Yuan lets himself be taken in custody. It leaves an unpleasant feeling in his throat that trickles down to paranoia. He knows there's no true danger to Shen Yuan's life, Shen Qingqiu's body, but it sticks with him.
Huan Hua Palace never held any favorable position in his heart, and this part was the one to sink any goodwill he holds. Resentment was not a good color on him, but it seeps deep into his heart.
For Qiu Haitang to show up now, when the cacophony of old and yet-to-be gods have already buried the man she looks for, was dry luck. Mu Qingfang does not resent her. No, it is everything she symbolizes as she stands on that platform that he resents.
She's beautiful, in all the ways Shen Qingqiu had described. Red-rimmed eyes are laden with a very real trauma that brings guilt that shouldn't be his up Mu Qingfang's throat. The coat around her shoulders weigh down more than they should and a glistening sword around her hip.
Shen Yuan looks at her with panicked eyes and furrowed brows. A resigned reluctance that knows more than it should.
Orchestration was never something Mu Qingfang was fond of. For this, though, he'll have to make do. Shang Qinghua is a bumbling of a thousand ideas with no bite behind it, and it's up to him to sharpen.
"I will deliver The Sun and Moon Dew Flower soon," Mu Qingfang mutters to Shen Yuan as he passes by, low and soft. "Shang-shidi says it's ready."
Shen Yuan nods but doesn't reply. Even then, the shadow of the Qing Jing disciple he once knew, notices the gesture.
-
Their plan works. Mu Qingfang looks away.
-
Shen Qingqiu doesn't return to Cang Qiong with them. Neither does Shen Yuan, and Zhangmen-shixiong doesn't weep. Nobody does besides young Qing Jing disciples.
The An Ding Peak Lord stops by, with this month's list supply and their budget. There's something else though, always is when one of his martial siblings visit.
The man in slate blue robes waved his hands with a shaky smile, and the air around them grows tense. Mu Qingfang does not know the whole story, the complete secrets between Shen Yuan and Shang Qinghua—the knowing smiles and strange words they shared. That was his ignorance.
"Ah, Mu-shixiong, I—I can't stay in Cang Qiong." It takes a moment for him to process the other man's words. "I'm a traitor."
Oh.
Mu Qingfang takes a long look at the other man. At that time, he doesn't think Shang Qinghua breathed once. It should hurt, like the stinging betrayals of children's tales. Inevitable, is what this is.
"And I suppose I can't change your mind?"
"I'm sorry."
-
A trickling feeling tells him their plans will come to completion soon. Mu Qingfang descends Qian Cao the day the War God returns empty-handed. Left behind were only vague letters and the address of a town bordering the demon world.
He arrives without complications, dodging the demons with practiced ease. There, on top of the mountain, laid the seeds Shang Qinghua planted.
The spiritual energy on top of this place was strange, a pool of it condensed around the flower. It's good; he'd gotten here in time.
Rolling clouds fall over the sky and rainwater washes away the dark soil. He could make out now, the figure of a man.
Finally, finally .
"M—mu-shixiong?" a weak, hoarse voice calls out, "We s—succe—eded."
"It's been three years."
-
"We're going back to Cang Qiong?"
Mu Qingfang shakes his head, "I need you to meet someone first. Now tell me, Shen-shidi, what do you know about Qiu Haitang."
Shen Yuan nods, sucking in a breath before he quickened his pace. The man who crawled out of the mud was so very like the stranger in his shixiong's body yet not. With short hair and frail limbs and eyes that don't quite work, but none of the forced grace.
"Qiu Haitang was the result of the original's crime."
"Did Shang-shidi not tell you?"
Shen Yuan shakes his head. "I doubt he remembers."
"Qi-shijie was kind enough to arrange this visit for us." Mu Qingfang cast a quick look at Shen Yuan's face. "Nobody is truly that simple, Shen-shidi."
The other man grips the hem of his robes, eyebrows furrowed. Qiu Haitang is waiting in the next town over, an hour from here on sword, and Mu Qingfang doubts the two of them are even ready.
It was silence for the rest of the trip. That was for the best.
-
Qiu Haitang takes one look at them and puts a sword to their face. Since the trial, she'd lost color to her face, the shaky stability made from seething.
"Lady Qiu." He brings himself to a smile. "It seems I have a lot to explain."
Shen Yuan looks like he's about to run, if the time Mu Qingfang silent with him had any worth. He doesn't run though, and he brings a cheap folding to his face.
"Well? Say it."
A breath.
"Qiu Jianluo was planning to marry you."
A smack. The woman in reds and yellows points her sword to Mu Qingfang's neck. Warm blood trails down his skin like scarlet rivers.
"You! What are you saying!" Olive green fabric curls in her hands.
"He would kill your current fiance," he continues, "after turning the slave boy into less than a mangled corpse. There are scars on my Shixiong's body I reckon you must've known about."
Her face morphs, and the sword pressed against his neck falls. She is screaming, he thinks, years of seething pouring out at once into. Qi deviation won't be a surprise.
"Lady Qiu—" Shen Yuan sucks in a deep breath.
"Meet your fiance's killer."
Rest. Mu Qingfang tries to bring a placid smile to his face as he introduced Shen Yuan.
"I know fair well who killed Shen Jiu."
"And it was not Luo Binghe. The man you knew died a long time ago."
Her face warps into confusion, the tight grip on him loosened. Stale air lingers, Qiu Haitang steps back, the red and yellow robes losing its color. Drops of light from the window are harsher now, as the sun grazes the horizon.
“Shen Jiu died, I died.” The other man tilts his head as if it was such a curious thing. “Then I woke up here.”
Mu Qingfang tells her of a dying man's last words. Of apologies doused in bitter self-loathing
The last rays of the sunset does not feel warm in his skin. There's too much left lingering.
“Why.” Qiu Haitang has lived too long, put too much of her life into this. “Why are you telling me this?”
It can't, it can't be. She did not almost drive an innocent man to his death. Why should she believe the word of another big-name cultivator? That man who claims he isn't Shen Jiu looks at her in the way a stranger would, and there's not a single mannerism she could say is similar.
"This daozhang here is simply a fool who holds the dead above himself."
-
Mu Qingfang leaves Shen Yuan in Qiu Haitang's home despite the other man's protests. It's unclear though, whether if it's out of a desire to return to Qing Jing or fear of the woman in red and yellow.
Everything will be according to the plan. There's no room for mistakes, contingencies be damned.
Stars dance his vision as the promise of returning home grows closer. How he again, desperately wishes this had all been a dream, and he'll wake up the next morning to see his Shen Qingqiu.
They're waiting for him, the memories of Qing Jing. Shen Yuan did a good job of preserving his shixiong's Peak, he's infinitely grateful for that. Hurling winds, against Mu Qingfang's skin silences.
Black trails dance his vision. He hadn't known what happened after this, but the next time Mu Qingfang wakes up, Luo Binghe is looking right back at him.
Yes, he must be delirious right now.
"Cultivator Mu," a deep voice says, "this one has heard of all your medical accomplishments. Surely, you'll be able to wake my shizun from his sleep."
Oh.
There are demons in the shadows, watching them. Tendrils of fine ash curling on the polished wood. Mu Qingfang suppresses a smile, things might go faster than what he had planned.
"I cannot revive a dead man, Luo Binghe. You are thinking of the demonic arts."
"But Cultivator Mu has yet to see his patient. Isn't it against Qian Cao rules to make an uninformed diagnosis?" Luo Binghe's hands trail to his sword, words taking a new tone. "This one will take you there."
It wasn't a request in the slightest as the half-demon walks down into the winding corridors. Huan Hua Palace had been brighter than this, if his memories serve correct, in dripping opulence.
The further walked, the more demons Mu Qingfang becomes acutely aware of, surrounding them with vivid eyes. He is led through ornate double doors after ornate doors till they arrive at what could be the most opulent room of Huan Hua.
A children's tale, generations old, from a farming village deep in the once unified was the first thing he recalls. It tells of an Imperial Concubine whose lips as red as blood, hair black as night, and skin as fair as freshly fallen snow. Of an eternity of deathless sleep on a crystal bed and a wicked cult that ate her heart.
Then there was Shen Qingqiu, lifeless behind silk curtains and as beautiful as he had always been. Mu Qingfang staggers before dragging himself, breathless, towards an empty shell that was once his shixiong.
His skin was ice. Only the dying hum of Luo Binghe's spiritual energy kept rot from seeping in.
"He is dead , Luo Binghe. Shen Jiu is dead."
-
Mu Qingfang leaves Huan Hua Palace with a corpse in his arms and the embrace of demons not far behind. In shades of indigo, does the sky dance but the wind does not sound.
Returning to Cang Qiong is the only option now, but not without Shen Yuan or Qiu Haitang. This was a mess.
-
"You."
"Yes, me."
The chairs are as nice as ever.
Mu Qingfang does not doubt that he looks like a beggar at this moment. Perhaps a murderer if you were to count the corpse lying in his arm.
It takes a moment before either Qiu Haitang or a disheveled Shen Yuan could fully take in the picture. The moment they do, a terror crawls itself into the atmosphere, and he's a little surprised Qiu Haitang has yet to pull out a sword.
"Mu-shixiong," Shen Yuan's voice breaks slightly, "Your plan."
An emphasis was placed on 'your'.
"It was completed quicker than I had thought, a small altercation on the road involving an ex-disciple." Mu Qingfang gently sets his shixiong's body down.
The other man flinches at his words, and it's obvious what Shen Yuan is thinking. Before a word is spoken though, silencing talismans and those barriers he has no true knowledge of are erected. The demons are far too smart for their own good.
With vague assurances in his head, Mu Qingfang turns to look at his audience of two.
"Are you about to tell me this isn't Shen Jiu once more?"
"No."
A strike of metal on metal, qi saturating the surrounding area like a heavy blanket. It's Shen Yuan who mutters under his breath like it's a far off play.
"You knew, yet you still have the audacity to bring him here!"
"I knew."
"Let me go then."
He doesn't.
Mu Qingfang shoots Shen Yuan a look. "It'll be best if you didn't hear it from my mouth."
They start from the beginning. A vessel of a wandering soul recites a tale embroidered in the ash of a man looking beyond the dead's rivers.
A tale of a wretched boy and his no-good brother. Of broken bones and lonely cell in a manor far too wide. A naive girl with sewage at her feet that binds the wretched boy in chains.
A loss of innocence, perhaps. Hand prints, gashes. Trailing, trailing and the wretched boy's hands are soaked in blood and oil.
Awful, isn't it?
-
Qi-shijie stares at him with a pointed look that shouldn't mean anything good. That was to be expected.
"Luo Binghe says Cang Qiong would be razed to the ground unless Shen Qingqiu's body would return by the waning moon."
"That's soon." In three days.
She places her hands to her hips, her head held high.
"Now must this shijie ask why you have a corpse in your lap and ah, those two?"
There's a Qiu Haitang, sitting in the far corner and barely containing a hurricane, and Shen Yuan trying to hold his head high. He had filled them in on everything, at least the amount of which he deemed necessary.
"I will give Shen-shixiong his rest." A finality.
Qi Qingqi only nods, placing a hand on his shoulder, and it was now time to confront Cang Qiong.
-
Pass Qian Cao's main hall was a workshop, where the smell of freshly cut wood and incense cling to those who visit. The Peak Lord orders the best one, intricately carved mahogany inlaid with soft green silk.
"Xiao-Jiu… he's here?" Zhangmen-shixiong doesn't sit still.
"No," Mu Qingfang said, "but he'll be gone soon."
Elsewhere
-
For all his faults, Shen Qingqiu knows there is no one to truly forgive him. Yue Qingyuan looks past him to see a young child who could only wait, Liu Qingge couldn’t see beyond the fanciful green robes, the disciples only knowing the person in the bamboo hut.
He is content like this (he isn’t).
There is little to wish for in the position of a Peak Lord and all to give. Shen Qingqiu spends his days idle with paperwork, the only source of entertainment. The disciples know better than to act out, know better than to let it out.
Besides the Sect Leader, the other Peak Lords maintain their distance; their relationship was lukewarm at best. Loneliness was not a stranger to him.
Cang Qiong accepts him with begrudging arms under Yue Qingyuan’s pleas, with another mentor who looks to only see themselves on him. Life had a way of repeating itself.
He is alive and he is fed, and the blood on his hands conceals itself behind a silk folding fan. The number of bones he counts on his skin lessens with time, the person staring back in the mirror's reflection is almost unrecognizable. The other disciples seem to agree at least. He is a wealthy scholar, a graceful immortal.
-
When he meets Mu Qingfang for the first time, it was with indifference. A face with nothing spectacular, never that good with a sword. Qian Cao has it's importance and making enemies there wouldn't do.
That changes too.