silver_sun (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
silver_sun) wrote2023-07-11 08:05 am
silver_sun) wrote2023-07-11 08:05 am
New Horizons (5/6)
New Horizons - Part 5
It is later than usual when Song Lan wakes, the sounds of breakfast being served downstairs in full swing. Across the room Xiao Xingchen’s sleeping mat is empty, as is Wei Ying’s, although their blankets are neatly folded on top.
Gone downstairs to eat rather than just gone. Song Lan sits there for a moment thinking about it. About how, if such an idea of abandonment had even entered his head at all last night, he probably wouldn’t have been able to sleep at all.
Xiao Xingchen is better than that, is his conclusion. Because he is good and kind, and was never intentionally cruel to anyone. Not even to a stupid friend such as himself who failed to explain what he meant properly and had upset him because of it. Never in his life has Song Lan been more sure that he doesn’t deserve him.
The worst part of it all, he thinks as he gets dressed, is that he has no idea how to make things right again between them. Xiao Xingchen has his heart set on keeping Wei Ying with them and any attempt at talking about the difficulties of doing so is unlikely to be well received. Despite this, it is a conversation that Song Lan is certain that they need to have. Unfortunately he also knows that he is nowhere near eloquent enough to manage it properly and that there is a very good chance that if he tries he will destroy their friendship.
Downstairs the inn is bustling with people having breakfast. Xiao Xingchen and Wei Ying are sitting at a table with a good view of the stairs.
They are waiting for him, Song Lan realises, as he is barely half way down the stairs before Xiao Xingchen waves to him, calling out, “Zichen, come sit with us.”
The relief he feels at being included is short-lived as he sits with them. Xiao Xingchen looks incredibly weary, as if he’s barely slept, while in front of him his breakfast is untouched.
Wei Ying however is dipping chunks of youtiao into his soy milk, barely waiting for them to soak it up before eating them. He stops briefly to look at it, smiling like he can’t quite believe it’s all for him, before starting to eat again.
Although he doesn’t know where to start, Song Lan says, “Last night -”
Xiao Xingchen shakes his head. “I don’t want to talk about it. Eat and then we can be on our way.”
Song Lan considers telling him that they should stay another day, that he should spend it resting, because even allowing for a poor night’s sleep Xiao Xingchen doesn’t look well. For the moment however he doesn’t feel like he can contradict him, at least not without making things worse between them. Instead he asks, “Are we going to Jinsha to see if they still need assistance?”
“We.” It’s soft, barely audible, and it is with a fragile hope in his eyes that Xiao Xingchen looks at him and says, “You’re going to come with us?”
“Yes.” Short of Xiao Xingchen telling him that he no longer wants his company, Song Lan cannot think of a single reason why he’d ever let him walk away. “Wherever you go, for as long as you want, I will always be with you.”
“And Turnip!” Wei Ying says hurriedly, dripping soymilk onto the table. “Turnip has to come too.”
“Of course he does,” Xiao Xingchen reassures him, giving him a brief pat on the arm. “Now you should finish your breakfast, we’ve got lots of walking to do.”
He looks at Song Lan, something soft in his eyes, relieved and hopeful, as he says, “You changed your mind?”
The uncomfortable fact is that Song Lan hasn’t. He’s still doubtful that they can live the life they had with a child with them. He is willing to try, willing to change his mind too, if travelling with Wei Ying proves to be feasible. Yet what is best for the child has to come first, even over Xiao Xingchen’s wishes.
He knows he has paused for too long when he sees the hope on Xingchen’s face dim. “I want to try,” he says, hoping it’s not too late already. “This means a lot to you.”
“But you still think I’m wrong.” There is a quiet finality about it, something sad and resigned, as he looks down at the tabletop unable to meet his eyes.
“It isn’t that,” Song Lan says, and it feels too close to a lie for comfort.
“Then say no more,” Xiao Xingchen replies, voice not quite steady. Although whether it’s exhaustion or emotion it’s impossible to tell. “Here is not the time or place.”
It is the truth, although Song Lan doubts that there is ever going to be a good time. He can’t bring himself to argue about any of it right now. He has made Xiao Xingchen cry once already over this and he hopes that it will never happen a second time.
So they have breakfast in silence. Xiao Xingchen eats little, seeming listless, almost ill, as he picks at his food, before returning to their room with Wei Ying to pack for the journey ahead. Which leaves Song Lan to finish his food alone. He doesn’t feel like eating either, but does because it is the right thing to do - they have a long and likely tiring day ahead of them. So despite the fact every mouthful feels like it’s going to choke him, emotions wrapped tight around his throat, he refuses to let even a hint of his distress show on his face.
An hour after waking they are ready to leave. With Wei Ying insisting that he can walk, but wanting to hold onto Xiao Xingchen’s hand, Song Lan finds himself in charge of leading Turnip.
They stop briefly in the market to buy food to take with them for lunch; neither himself or Xiao Xingchen have much knowledge of the area to know whether they are likely to reach another town or village by lunch time.
Then they leave Yiling, passing by the inn that had done such a poor job of keeping track of the child that had been left in their care.
Song Lan considers going in to tell the innkeeper that Wei Ying has been found, then discounts it. They do not owe him such a courtesy and there is nothing to be gained for either Xiao Xingchen or Wei Ying by doing so.
Jinsha and its haunted quarry is about a day and a half of travel to the north east of Yiling. Or at least it would be if it were just them making the journey. Allowing for a slower pace, Song Lan thinks that two days' travel time is reasonable.
After they have been walking for around an hour, Song Lan revises his estimate. The idea that they will reach Jinsha in two days seems to be overly optimistic. Their pace is much slower than he’d thought, Xiao Xingchen seemingly willing to move at the pace of a four year old who is distracted by anything that moves. Turnip doesn’t seem to have any objections to their meandering pace either, enjoying the time to eat plants and grass growing at the side of the road.
The road climbs out of Yiling, the wooded hills between there are Jinsha rising gently at first and then steeper the further they get from the town. After the cold night the morning is surprisingly mild, blue skies with just a few shreds of cloud high above them, make for a pleasant start to their journey.
Travelling with a child is very different from travelling with another adult, Song Lan finds, even apart from the slower pace. Stops needed to eat and go to the bathroom are increased, while the amount of time spent talking is much, much higher.
Not that he is doing any of it. Wei Ying talks almost exclusively to Xingchen, keeping hold of his hand every moment that he can. Even Turnip is spoken to more than himself.
It is to be expected, he tells himself. Of course Wei Ying is going to be hesitant to let Xiao Xingchen out of his sight after what he had been through. Xingchen had been his mother’s shidi, it made sense that he was the one he would cling to, that he saw him as an extension of his family. Of the two of them Song Lan knows that he is the less approachable, the less personable one of them. Usually it doesn’t matter. Today though it is a lonely feeling.
It is worse, he finds, once Wei Ying is tired of walking and is riding on Turnip instead. Because then Xiao Xingchen takes the donkey’s rein, walking alongside it, still answering Wei Ying’s questions about where they are, where they are going, what the mountains are called and if where they are going has more youtiao, because it was really nice.
So Xiao Xingchen, Wei Ying and the donkey all walk together, while Song Lan is left alone, the road empty beside him in a way that he finds almost unbearably sad. All the same he doesn’t try to push in, doesn’t try to walk closer to them, less he finds his company is no longer wanted.
They stop for lunch shortly after noon, eating food that they’d bought with them from Yiling. Song Lan thinks Xiao Xingchen looks better than he had earlier that morning, the mountain breeze has brought a small amount of colour to his cheeks and he eats with them. He’s still a little quiet with him, much of his conversation still seems to be saved for Wei Ying. All the same it feels like agreeing to travel with him was enough to reassure Xiao Xingchen that Song Lan would, in the end, go along with whatever he decided.
Sitting in the sunshine, watching Xiao Xingchen and Wei Ying talk and eat, being included just occasionally in what they are saying feels good. If this is how their life is going to be, it is not unpleasant, he decides, just different. Nothing can stay the same forever, and while Song Lan knows he isn’t always the quickest to adjust to changes, he knows that he is capable of it. Afterall it had been his decision to leave the Baixue temple and venture out into the world.
The weather is changeable as well. The clouds start to thicken as the afternoon progresses, the wind growing colder as the likelihood of rain increases. If it had stayed fine, Song Lan thinks that they could have continued walking while there was still light. Now an early finish to the day’s travel is looking more and more likely, the journey to Jinsha taking even longer. It’s concerning and Song Lan has no wish for them to be caught in a storm, but he doesn’t know the area at all, or whether they are likely to be able to find shelter before the weather breaks.
The rain has been falling steadily for about half an hour by the time Song Lan sees an abandoned building ahead. It is far from perfect, but looking back at Xiao Xingchen who has given his cloak to Wei Ying, at how much he is struggling with the cold and wet, he knows that it will have to do. Wrapped in the cloak, which is far too large for him, Wei Ying seems relatively unconcerned by the weather.
They’ve fallen quite a few steps behind him and Song Lan turns back, until he is walking beside Xiao Xingchen. “There is shelter ahead. We can stop for the night.”
“Are we there already?” Xiao Xingchen blinks owlishly, the raindrops which have collected on his eyelashes, dripping onto his face like tears. “I thought there would be more houses.”
“Not yet,” Song Lan replies, deciding not to point out that Jinsha was still more than a day’s journey away. “But we need to get out of the rain. There’s somewhere we can shelter just ahead.”
“Oh. That’s good, it’s so cold.”
A moment later he almost slips, feet sliding on the steep, muddy road. To see him being anything less than poised and graceful, Song Lan finds worrying. Feeling how wet and cold he is, does nothing to ease it. But more concerning still is the pained gasp that escapes Xiao Xingchen as he puts an arm around his shoulder, trying to steady him.
“Don’t fuss, you’ll scare him. It’s only the cold making it ache,” Xiao Xingchen says, flinching away before he can ask what is wrong. It’s said quietly and firmly, leaving him in little doubt that Wei Ying isn’t meant to hear.
It’s not reassuring at all, Song Lan finds, to have him treat him in such a manner, it’s so unlike him that if anything it makes him worry even more. Yet he can’t press the matter without making things worse, because he knows that if he speaks he will make a mess of it. No, all he can do is make sure that Xiao Xingchen is warm and dry, and take the time to eat and rest.
The ruined building is an old temple. Abandoned now for many years, whatever local god had once been honoured there is now long since forgotten. Despite the tumble of stonework and at the front of the building, the rest of it, which has been cut into the base of the cliff that runs along the side of the road, is still mostly whole and more importantly dry.
There are signs that they are not the first to have used the ruin for shelter on the road between Yiling and Jinsha. Rubble has been cleared to make an area for sitting and sleeping, while some of the chunks of broken stonework have been used to make a surround for a fire pit.
It doesn’t take long to gather up enough wood for a fire and light it. There were some who he’d studied and trained with back at the Baixue temple who would consider his use of a talisman to get it started a frivolous, but Song Lan’s only concern is providing warmth so they can all dry their wet clothes. Soon it is burning brightly, casting flickering shadows on the broken columns and worn friezes.
Turnip seems happy enough where he is, a rocky overhang next to the ruin providing shelter from the rain and easy access to the plants and grasses growing around it. Food and shelter, Song Lan thinks, people and animals were not so different in the end either.
They have shelter, so now he will provide food. Qiankun pouches make a life spent on the road much easier. Carrying things for sleeping, cooking and spare clothes would be so much harder otherwise.
He likes cooking for him, likes making him happy, which is why everything since the previous evening has been so hard to bear. Xiao Xingchen being sad or distant or even worse, gone from his life, isn’t something that Song Lan wants to contemplate. He’d found it difficult to make friends as a child, spending far more time in the company of Baixue temple seniors and elders than those of his own age. Xiao Xingchen is the first person who it feels like truly understands him and he cannot bear to lose this connection.
He isn’t a skilled cook, but he can make congee and serve it with pickled vegetables and some salted egg that they have bought from the market. A warm, filling meal is what they all need on a cold, wet evening.
While he cooks, Xingchen sits by the fire with Wei Ying and helps him as he uses the burnt end of a stick to try and write his name on one of the stones.
There is something incredibly domestic about it, something that warms his heart. Perhaps Xiao Xingchen is right, he thinks, watching them, the child’s bright smile at getting the right character, his friend’s look of gentle fondness as he pats the boy’s hair. They have managed a day’s travel without incident, and while it had been slow, the child would grow up and be able to walk faster.
The true test will be when they reach Jinsha and if their services are still required. A simple haunting where the spirit can be liberated, can be given relief about whatever it is that holds them there, would be the best outcome. A quarry owner was likely to be wealthy enough to be able to provide them with food and accommodation for a few days as well as paying them for their services.
Perhaps if they take jobs such as this for the next few years they can make it work, Song Lan thinks later as he watches Xiao Xingchen get Wei Ying ready for bed. They could try places further south, even go down to the coast that was many days of travel beyond Yunmeng. The winter would be milder there, they could still spend most nights camped out under the stars to save money. If they went far enough they’d reach the sea. Had Xingchen ever seen it? He wonders. Had Wei Ying?
The child has been with them barely more than a day, yet it doesn’t seem strange to Song Lan that he is thinking of a future with him in it. It is the future Xiao Xingchen clearly wants, a future that he will try to make happen whether he has to raise Wei Ying alone or not. Leaving him to struggle alone isn’t something that he will allow to happen.
It has been a long day for a child as young as Wei Ying, and he is soon asleep, the toy donkey held tight.
“He’s such a good child,” Xiao Xingchen says, as he sits on the floor beside him, where he’d been telling about how there were mountains that had snow on them even in the middle of summer. He brushes Wei Ying’s untidy hair back out of his face and makes sure the blanket is tucked securely around him, so he doesn’t get cold in the night. “All he’s been through, and he still can smile so easily.”
“He will be alright,” Song Lan says, not wanting Xiao Xingchen to dwell on any thought about how the child would have been if he’d spent much longer on the streets or what could have befallen him if he had. “He is safe now, you found him.”
Nodding a little absently in place of a reply, Xiao Xingchen stands. There is little grace to it, and he sways unsteadily, barely staying upright as he presses a hand over his eyes.
Song Lan is on feet in a moment. Remembering his pained reaction to an arm about his shoulder, he steadies him with a hand beneath his elbow, moving in close enough that he can catch him if he were to stumble or fall. “What’s wrong?”
Xiao Xingchen leans against him before answering. “I’m so tired,” he says finally, letting his head rest against Song Lan’s shoulder. “It’s making me dizzy. I think I could fall asleep right here.”
While Song Lan knows that he must mean that he is so weary he could sleep standing up, there is a brief moment where all that comes to mind is that he means held in his arms. It makes him feel strange, warm and nervous all at the same time.
It brings to mind things that Song Lan isn’t sure he can ask for. Things that he’s not sure he wants. Which is a lie. He does want. He wants to suggest they place their sleeping mats together so that they can share blankets, where they can lie together, warm and safe as the weather turns colder.
Even that is not the whole truth, there are other things that he’s even less sure about. Of how he wants to hold him in ways that aren’t only about warmth on winter nights, how he wants to look at him, not just his graceful sword forms, but at him. He doesn’t know what to do with such thoughts or the feelings that they give him. So as much as he can he pushes them down, away where they don’t trouble him too much and where Xiao Xingchen won’t be bothered by them either.
He looks at Xiao Xingchen, at the dark sweep of his eyelashes now that his eyes are closed. As much as he likes him close like this, he needs to be able to rest properly, and he can’t do that standing up.
“You cannot sleep here,” he says, gently tapping his cheek to wake him. “Go to bed now. I will wash up and put things away. Do not trouble yourself with anything other than rest tonight.”
Xiao Xingchen doesn’t move, just sighs softly, his head still against Song Lan’s shoulder. “You are so good to me.”
The warm, fluttering, confusing feeling in his chest is back, and Song Lan can feel embarrassed heat crawling up his neck - he hopes it is too dark for Xiao Xingchen to notice. “You are a good person, it is no more than you deserve.”
The only response this time is a slow, sleepy nod against his shoulder.
Keeping an arm about him, Song Lan guides Xiao Xingchen over to his sleeping mat and helps him sit down. He considers asking whether he needs him to check his arm before he falls asleep, if being warm again has stopped it aching or if there is anything else he might need. But rest, he decides, is more important than answering his questions.
With Xiao Xingchen asleep, Song Lan tidies up, cleans the things from cooking. Decides what to make for their breakfast. He makes sure there is enough firewood inside for the morning, and that the fire is built up enough not to burn out in the night. He listens to the wind and rain outside, glad that they have shelter and each other. Finally he starts his own nightly routine. To let down his hair and comb it, to fold his clothes neatly for the morning and spend some time before sleeping on mediation.
He feels better tonight, calmer at least, he decides, when he is done with his routine. He can show Xiao Xingchen that he is serious in supporting his choice to bring Wei Ying with them in his actions. Offering practical help will surely be better than any awkward attempts at trying to explain himself.
Finally, he lays down. Tomorrow with any luck the rain will have stopped and they will have another good day of travel. Perhaps he can walk closer to them and try to join in with conversation occasionally.
~
It is dark when Song Lan wakes, the wind still howling outside, the rain near torrential, and Wei Ying is pulling frantically on his sleeve.
“Song-dage, Song-dage, wake up!”
The fire is just a deep red glow of embers, but there is enough light for him to see the fear on the child’s face.
He blinks, mind feeling addled from sleep. “A-Ying, what is wrong?”
“It’s Xiao-dage, he won’t get up.”
Remembering how tired Xingchen had been, Song Lan thinks perhaps it is unsurprising that he had slept through Wei Ying trying to wake him. “Let him sleep. He is tired. The bad weather cannot harm us here.”
“But he’s outside.” Wei Ying tugs on his sleeve again. “He’s fallen over and it’s raining and he’s getting wet.”
“Outside?” Song Lan looks over at Xiao Xingchen’s sleeping mat. Even in the dim firelight, he can see that it’s empty. What possible reason could he have had to go out into such awful weather? Surely if he heard someone in distress or some kind of threat he’d have woken him?
“He’s not getting up,” Wei Ying says, sounding as if he might start to cry. “I don’t know what to do.”
“You woke me, that was the correct thing to do,” Song Lan says, trying not entirely successfully to push down the rising tide of fear in him. “You must stay here where it is dry. I will bring him back inside.”
Wei Ying nods, still looking scared, the little grass donkey clutched to his chest.
The weather outside is awful, but Song Lan doesn’t bother getting fully dressed, doesn’t bother with anything apart from his shoes, before he steps out into the driving wind and rain. His clothes are soaked through before he’s taken more than a few steps, the wind bitingly cold against his skin.
He shields his eyes, trying to see in the wet and dark. He tries calling out, “Xingchen! Xingchen, where are you?”
There is no response, the wind and rain drowning out other sounds. There is no way of telling if he has been heard or, if he has, whether he has failed to hear it. He presses on, certain that Xingchen cannot have gone far, not if Wei Ying had been aware that he was on the ground. The child hadn’t seemed overly soaked or likely to wander too far from them on such a night.
A thought comes to him - the donkey. Maybe Xiao Xingchen had gone to check on the creature or Wei Ying had, perhaps he was there. Skirting the rubble at the front of the building, Song Lan calls out again, but still there is no answer.
A few more steps and he sees it. On the ground, barely visible in the gloom and heavy rain, is a patch of grey-white. It’s still, unmoving, and for a moment Song Lan is frozen in place. The fear at what he’ll find rendering him unable to do anything. Then the patch moves, trying to stand, but falling back, too weak or hurt to manage it.
Alive. Relieved, terrified still at what he will find, Song Lan rushes over, heedless of the tangle of vegetation that catches and snags at his clothes.
Xiao Xingchen is slumped against one of the fallen columns that had once provided a terrace at the side of the temple. Clinging to it, he’s trying to stand, but he’s shaking so badly that his legs won’t support him.
Putting an arm around him, Song Lan lifts to his feet and holds him close, so he cannot fall again. “I am here.”
“Here? Zichen, where…” He stops, sounding confused, as he trembles almost violently in Song Lan’s arms. “Oh, air, that was it. I felt dizzy, I thought that air would…” He trails off again, making a small whimpering sound before he says, “I feel so strange.”
Despite the cold and wet night, Song Lan can feel Xiao Xingchen burning against him. “You have a fever,” he replies, “You must come back inside and rest.”
“I can’t. I can’t move. I tried, ” Xiao Xingchen says, sounding distressed as he sags against him. “I’ll fall.”
“You won’t. I have you.” Even with help he doubts Xiao Xingchen will be able to walk. The only reasonable course of action, he decides, is to not allow him to walk at all - he’ll carry him.
It isn’t difficult to lift him or to hold him in his arms. Although in retrospect, Song Lan thinks a moment later, telling him what he was going to do should have featured in the plan. As, confused by being suddenly swept off his feet, Xiao Xingchen starts to struggle, nearly tripping them both over into the mud.
“Stop.” Song Lan holds on to him. “I’ve got you, calm yourself.”
It takes a moment, but Xiao Xingchen stops, going still and quiet in his arms. Song Lan gives him a little more time to get used to being held before he starts to move, to carry him back inside.
The warmth of the weight in his arms, the feeling of his breath against neck, where Xiao Xingchen’s head rests against his shoulder, reassures him. Where there is life there is hope, all he needs to do is keep his head, not panic about anything and then things will be alright.
Practical, dependable, sensible. These are the things that Song Lan hopes that people think about him. Right now he needs to be practical, organised. He needs to get Xiao Xingchen inside, use a talisman to give light, build up the fire again for warmth, needs to get him out of his wet clothing and check the wound on his arm which is the most likely cause of his sickness. He needs to calm Wei Ying as well, who is standing at the open entrance of the ruin, watching them with big, frightened eyes, his toy trailing from his hand.
“Xiao-dage!”
“Is safe.” It helps to speak it aloud. “We only need to get dry.”
It doesn’t take much to kindle the embers back to life, the bright flames soon lighting up the room and casting flickering shadows on its walls. Warmth flooding out, driving away the chill night air.
Focus on one task at a time, do not think past that, Song Lan tells himself. Do what needs to be done, do not dwell on the unnecessary. He helps Xiao Xingchen out of his soaking clothes, wrapping him in a blanket and then a cloak, before dealing with his own wet clothing. Wei Ying helps as much as he can, picking up the wet clothes and trying to squeeze the water out of them, draping them over piles of stones near the fire so that they can start to dry.
With the immediate tasks of warmth, light and removing wet clothes dealt with, Song Lan knows that the next thing he needs to do is check the wound the yaoguai had left on Xiao Xingchen’s arm. It is not something he wishes Wei Ying to see, there will be time when he is older, if he follows in his parents footsteps and becomes a cultivator, for knowing of wounds. For now he has no wish to frighten him or place himself in a position where not only is he trying to treat Xiao Xingchen, but is also having to deal with an upset child at the same time.
Taking the last of the wet clothes from him and wringing it out, Song Lan says, “A-Ying, go back to bed now. It is late.”
Wei Ying looks at him, then at Xiao Xingchen, and then down at the ground, his feet shuffling in the dust, like he’s not sure if he’s done something wrong. “I just wanted to help.”
“You have,” Song Lan says, not wanting him to feel like either his efforts or himself are unwanted. Without him Xingchen would still be out in the rain. “We’re proud of you. But it is late and you are tired. Little children should be asleep now.”
Wei Ying rubs his eyes, determined to stay awake. “But Song-dage, Xiao-dage isn’t well and I want to help too and...”
“He also needs to go to sleep,” he replies, before Wei Ying can finish. “I will make sure he drinks some medicine before he goes to bed. Do not worry. He will be better soon”
“I’ll be fine,” Xiao Xingchen says. Sitting on his sleeping mat, the cloak and blanket wrapped about him, he is still shivering, eyes hazy with tiredness and fever. “Zichen will look after me. He’s very good. Very handsome.”
Despite everything, Song Lan feels a twist of utter embarrassment at his words. He has never thought of himself as being that or had any conceit that anyone else would find him pleasing to look at. He doesn’t consider himself ugly, just nothing out of the ordinary. No, Xiao Xingchen is the handsome one, beautiful and elegant, graceful and gentle, with a kind and generous spirit. It is only because he is running a fever that he has said such a thing.
Half asleep, Wei Ying goes over to Xiao Xingchen and hugs him. “I’ll be good.” He hugs a little tighter. “Don’t go away.”
“I won’t.” Xingchen sounds like he might cry as he pats his hair. “A-Ying, never think that. I’ve only just found you. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Neither of us will,” Song Lan says, “Now it is time for you to sleep. You can talk again in the morning.”
It is late and it doesn’t take long in the end for Wei Ying to sleep again. Wrapped in his blanket by the fire, the toy donkey held tight, as if he’s afraid that it might also disappear if he doesn’t hold on. It is understandable, he has lost so much for someone so young, but it hurts in a way that is too familiar to Song Lan. He barely remembers his own family, but the ache for them when he’d been young, when he’d see other children with their parents, grandparents or aunts and uncles had been real and painful. Wei Ying for all his smiles would feel the same pain and loss.
“You’re good with him,” Xiao Xingchen says, as Song Lan turns his attention to him. “Kind.”
“He is a good child. Clever, sensible. He woke me so I could help you.” He doesn’t want to dwell on what would have happened if Wei Ying hadn't been there. If Xiao Xingchen had wandered out into the night, if he’d lain there collapsed in the cold, wet night until morning. Alone and sick, getting worse. He closes his eyes, trying to block out the likely progression of that, of what he would have found hours later. No, those are nightmare thoughts that he doesn’t want to give form lest they return and haunt his dreams.
“Zichen? Are you sick too?”
A hot, trembling hand has taken hold of his, even now trying to offer comfort. Song Lan opens his eyes and looks at him. He cannot voice his fears, cannot burden him. “I am tired, that is all.”
Song Lan looks at the bandage still wound around Xingchen’s upper arm, at the neat knot he tied it with back in Fu Rongxi’s house in Fuling. He feels sick. Sick and angry. Why had Xingchen not taken better care of himself? How could he be so careless about his own wellbeing? Most of the anger however is directed at himself, why hadn’t he made sure that Xiao Xingchen took good care of the wound? Why hadn’t he made sure the cut was redressed properly each night? Why hadn’t he used more of the salve when he’d dressed the wound? Why had he saved some for later and then not taken the time to use it? Why had he allowed him to disregard his health so much? Why had he not been firmer with him? Or more caring?
Although Song Lan is trying to be careful, Xiao Xingchen can barely keep from crying out as he peels off the bandage, the fabric having stuck to the wound.
With the bandage removed Song Lan can see that while part of the wound has started to heal, the deepest part of it is still open and weeping, the inflamed skin around it red and swollen with infection.
Even the most careful of touches to inspect it is too much and Xiao Xingchen gasps and pulls away, nearly toppling over on the mat.
“I have to clean it,” Song Lan says, as he steadies him, letting him lean against him, all the while dreading what must come next. He feels sick at the mere thought of it, of the blood and corruption on his hands, of how much pain he is going to cause.
“Can you…can you just not?”
The weakness of Xiao Xingchen’s voice, the fear in it, makes his heart ache for him. If they didn’t have Wei Ying with them, Song Lan knows what he would do. He would wrap him in a cloak and fly him back to Yiling where a doctor would treat him. He cannot leave the child, abandon him when he has already lost so much, not that Xiao Xingchen would allow him to. This is where the security of having a sect to fall back on would help. Where they could send up a flare and call for aid. There is no help coming however, all they have is each other. He can’t fail him. “It cannot heal like this,” he says as gently as he can. “It must be done. I will try to be gentle.”
Xiao Xingchen nods, but the fear remains in his fever-bright eyes.
Song Lan had learnt a little about healing at the Baixue temple, his teachers there knowing that in his chosen life of a rogue cultivator there would be occasions when it would be needed. All the same he feels horribly unprepared as he gathers up what he needs. A bowl of warm water, and cloth, a talisman to provide light. Medicinal herbs steeping in water for tea he can drink afterwards. A fresh bandage and salve to dress the wound once it is clean.
He places a hand high on Xiao Xingchen’s shoulder, fingers against the back on his neck, a light pressure that he hopes might feel reassuring. “I will start now.”
There is no response, but Song Lan can feel him lean into his touch, and he hopes that he’s finding some comfort in it.
It takes only a few minutes to clean the wound, but by the time he is finished Song Lan’s hands are shaking almost as badly as Xiao Xingchen’s whole body is. He wants to scrub his hands, the feel of his friend’s blood drying on them making him feel lightheaded and physically sick.
Any hope that Xiao Xingchen’s silence had been because he’d been careful to avoid causing too much pain is dashed as he sees his face. His eyes are closed, tears of pain trickling down his fever flushed cheeks. Worse though is the realisation that the only reason he has been silent is that he’s been using the edge of the cloak as something to bite down on, to prevent him crying out and waking Wei Ying.
“It is clean now,” Song Lan says, wishing he could take away his pain. He places a hand on the back of Xiao Xingchen’s neck again, fingers stroking the soft, heated skin. “I will be finished soon. Then you can rest”
Xiao Xingchen nods, a shaky movement, and leans into his touch.
There is no way to stop the sting of the salve. Even though Song Lan had done as Xiao Xingchen had wanted and purchased something that hopefully wouldn’t hurt quite as badly, the wound is already so sore and inflamed that anything making contact with it is painful.
Through the cloth held in his mouth, Xiao Xingchen groans, breathless from the flaring pain. He tenses, body going rigid, breath seizing, before he slumps limply to the ground.
“Xingchen?” Song Lan gathers him into his arms. Heart racing, fear clawing at him every part as bad as when he’d seen his still, collapsed form out in the rain. “Xingchen, please…”
He can’t stop his hands from shaking as he takes the edge of the cloak from Xiao Xingchen’s mouth. Warm breath flows over his hands.
Alive.
Xiao Xingchen had fainted. He’d fainted, but he would be alright. Closing his eyes, Song Lan forces himself to take steadying breaths, slow and deep, in through the nose, out through the mouth. He thinks of his first teacher at the Baixue temple who taught him this when he’d been just a small child, barely any older than Wei Ying. How he’d given him away to deal with things when all his feelings and thoughts got too big for him, when touches or dirt or sounds got too much for him.
Steadier, Song Lan quickly finishes applying the salve and bandages up the wound. He has just tied the cloth when Xiao Xingchen stirs, small pained sounds escaping him as consciousness returns.
“Lie still,” he says, “You must rest. I will get you some medicine to drink.” Regardless of how hard they have both trained or how well developed their golden cores are for their age, there is still a limit to how long you can draw on it continuously before it is depleted, before you have to stop and allow yourself to rest and recover. Xiao Xingchen had pushed himself to that limit, past it, and now he is suffering for it.
“I can’t.” He sounds almost in tears as he clings to him. “It hurts. I feel so…” He stops with a whimpering sound, curling in on himself. “Zichen, please…”
It’s awful and terrifying to see him like this, to feel so utterly helpless, to be able to do so little. “I have you,” Song Lan says, carefully moving Xiao Xingchen so that he is lying with his head pillowed on his lap. He hasn’t tried sharing energy with anyone before, but he knows the theory of it, knows that it might help.
Stroking Xiao Xingchen’s hair, Song Lan focuses on the flow of energy in his own body, how it moves from his golden core and outward along his meridians. To use it for healing is more directed than the sharp bursts that are needed for fighting or for powering a talisman. It’s something slow and sustained, a deep flowing river rather than the bright burst of lightning.
For a moment he thinks that he is going to fail, that the energy will gather at his fingertips and go no further. Then he can feel the weak ebb and flow of Xiao Xingchen’s own depleted energy against his own, rippling eddies separate at first then merging like the water from two streams converging. Then it is flowing into him, accepted and welcomed.
Xiao Xingchen looks up at him, something like wonder in his eyes. “Zichen…”
“Rest.” It’s hard to organise his thoughts to talk at the same time, but there is such a sense of closeness to Xiao Xingchen that it doesn’t feel like words should be necessary.
Time passes, although Song Lan can’t tell if it is minutes or hours, but gradually Xiao Xingchen relaxes into sleep, the awful shivering that had accompanied his fever diminishing.
Whether this is a good sign, he has no way of knowing, as the fever still seems to be burning as hot as before. He hopes that it is.
Weary, Song Lan’s eyes slowly close despite his best efforts to stay away. The flow of energy gradually stops and he drifts to sleep, his fingers still gently stroking Xingchen’s hair.
Part 6 - last part = https://silver-sun.dreamwidth.org/270936.html
It is later than usual when Song Lan wakes, the sounds of breakfast being served downstairs in full swing. Across the room Xiao Xingchen’s sleeping mat is empty, as is Wei Ying’s, although their blankets are neatly folded on top.
Gone downstairs to eat rather than just gone. Song Lan sits there for a moment thinking about it. About how, if such an idea of abandonment had even entered his head at all last night, he probably wouldn’t have been able to sleep at all.
Xiao Xingchen is better than that, is his conclusion. Because he is good and kind, and was never intentionally cruel to anyone. Not even to a stupid friend such as himself who failed to explain what he meant properly and had upset him because of it. Never in his life has Song Lan been more sure that he doesn’t deserve him.
The worst part of it all, he thinks as he gets dressed, is that he has no idea how to make things right again between them. Xiao Xingchen has his heart set on keeping Wei Ying with them and any attempt at talking about the difficulties of doing so is unlikely to be well received. Despite this, it is a conversation that Song Lan is certain that they need to have. Unfortunately he also knows that he is nowhere near eloquent enough to manage it properly and that there is a very good chance that if he tries he will destroy their friendship.
Downstairs the inn is bustling with people having breakfast. Xiao Xingchen and Wei Ying are sitting at a table with a good view of the stairs.
They are waiting for him, Song Lan realises, as he is barely half way down the stairs before Xiao Xingchen waves to him, calling out, “Zichen, come sit with us.”
The relief he feels at being included is short-lived as he sits with them. Xiao Xingchen looks incredibly weary, as if he’s barely slept, while in front of him his breakfast is untouched.
Wei Ying however is dipping chunks of youtiao into his soy milk, barely waiting for them to soak it up before eating them. He stops briefly to look at it, smiling like he can’t quite believe it’s all for him, before starting to eat again.
Although he doesn’t know where to start, Song Lan says, “Last night -”
Xiao Xingchen shakes his head. “I don’t want to talk about it. Eat and then we can be on our way.”
Song Lan considers telling him that they should stay another day, that he should spend it resting, because even allowing for a poor night’s sleep Xiao Xingchen doesn’t look well. For the moment however he doesn’t feel like he can contradict him, at least not without making things worse between them. Instead he asks, “Are we going to Jinsha to see if they still need assistance?”
“We.” It’s soft, barely audible, and it is with a fragile hope in his eyes that Xiao Xingchen looks at him and says, “You’re going to come with us?”
“Yes.” Short of Xiao Xingchen telling him that he no longer wants his company, Song Lan cannot think of a single reason why he’d ever let him walk away. “Wherever you go, for as long as you want, I will always be with you.”
“And Turnip!” Wei Ying says hurriedly, dripping soymilk onto the table. “Turnip has to come too.”
“Of course he does,” Xiao Xingchen reassures him, giving him a brief pat on the arm. “Now you should finish your breakfast, we’ve got lots of walking to do.”
He looks at Song Lan, something soft in his eyes, relieved and hopeful, as he says, “You changed your mind?”
The uncomfortable fact is that Song Lan hasn’t. He’s still doubtful that they can live the life they had with a child with them. He is willing to try, willing to change his mind too, if travelling with Wei Ying proves to be feasible. Yet what is best for the child has to come first, even over Xiao Xingchen’s wishes.
He knows he has paused for too long when he sees the hope on Xingchen’s face dim. “I want to try,” he says, hoping it’s not too late already. “This means a lot to you.”
“But you still think I’m wrong.” There is a quiet finality about it, something sad and resigned, as he looks down at the tabletop unable to meet his eyes.
“It isn’t that,” Song Lan says, and it feels too close to a lie for comfort.
“Then say no more,” Xiao Xingchen replies, voice not quite steady. Although whether it’s exhaustion or emotion it’s impossible to tell. “Here is not the time or place.”
It is the truth, although Song Lan doubts that there is ever going to be a good time. He can’t bring himself to argue about any of it right now. He has made Xiao Xingchen cry once already over this and he hopes that it will never happen a second time.
So they have breakfast in silence. Xiao Xingchen eats little, seeming listless, almost ill, as he picks at his food, before returning to their room with Wei Ying to pack for the journey ahead. Which leaves Song Lan to finish his food alone. He doesn’t feel like eating either, but does because it is the right thing to do - they have a long and likely tiring day ahead of them. So despite the fact every mouthful feels like it’s going to choke him, emotions wrapped tight around his throat, he refuses to let even a hint of his distress show on his face.
An hour after waking they are ready to leave. With Wei Ying insisting that he can walk, but wanting to hold onto Xiao Xingchen’s hand, Song Lan finds himself in charge of leading Turnip.
They stop briefly in the market to buy food to take with them for lunch; neither himself or Xiao Xingchen have much knowledge of the area to know whether they are likely to reach another town or village by lunch time.
Then they leave Yiling, passing by the inn that had done such a poor job of keeping track of the child that had been left in their care.
Song Lan considers going in to tell the innkeeper that Wei Ying has been found, then discounts it. They do not owe him such a courtesy and there is nothing to be gained for either Xiao Xingchen or Wei Ying by doing so.
Jinsha and its haunted quarry is about a day and a half of travel to the north east of Yiling. Or at least it would be if it were just them making the journey. Allowing for a slower pace, Song Lan thinks that two days' travel time is reasonable.
After they have been walking for around an hour, Song Lan revises his estimate. The idea that they will reach Jinsha in two days seems to be overly optimistic. Their pace is much slower than he’d thought, Xiao Xingchen seemingly willing to move at the pace of a four year old who is distracted by anything that moves. Turnip doesn’t seem to have any objections to their meandering pace either, enjoying the time to eat plants and grass growing at the side of the road.
The road climbs out of Yiling, the wooded hills between there are Jinsha rising gently at first and then steeper the further they get from the town. After the cold night the morning is surprisingly mild, blue skies with just a few shreds of cloud high above them, make for a pleasant start to their journey.
Travelling with a child is very different from travelling with another adult, Song Lan finds, even apart from the slower pace. Stops needed to eat and go to the bathroom are increased, while the amount of time spent talking is much, much higher.
Not that he is doing any of it. Wei Ying talks almost exclusively to Xingchen, keeping hold of his hand every moment that he can. Even Turnip is spoken to more than himself.
It is to be expected, he tells himself. Of course Wei Ying is going to be hesitant to let Xiao Xingchen out of his sight after what he had been through. Xingchen had been his mother’s shidi, it made sense that he was the one he would cling to, that he saw him as an extension of his family. Of the two of them Song Lan knows that he is the less approachable, the less personable one of them. Usually it doesn’t matter. Today though it is a lonely feeling.
It is worse, he finds, once Wei Ying is tired of walking and is riding on Turnip instead. Because then Xiao Xingchen takes the donkey’s rein, walking alongside it, still answering Wei Ying’s questions about where they are, where they are going, what the mountains are called and if where they are going has more youtiao, because it was really nice.
So Xiao Xingchen, Wei Ying and the donkey all walk together, while Song Lan is left alone, the road empty beside him in a way that he finds almost unbearably sad. All the same he doesn’t try to push in, doesn’t try to walk closer to them, less he finds his company is no longer wanted.
They stop for lunch shortly after noon, eating food that they’d bought with them from Yiling. Song Lan thinks Xiao Xingchen looks better than he had earlier that morning, the mountain breeze has brought a small amount of colour to his cheeks and he eats with them. He’s still a little quiet with him, much of his conversation still seems to be saved for Wei Ying. All the same it feels like agreeing to travel with him was enough to reassure Xiao Xingchen that Song Lan would, in the end, go along with whatever he decided.
Sitting in the sunshine, watching Xiao Xingchen and Wei Ying talk and eat, being included just occasionally in what they are saying feels good. If this is how their life is going to be, it is not unpleasant, he decides, just different. Nothing can stay the same forever, and while Song Lan knows he isn’t always the quickest to adjust to changes, he knows that he is capable of it. Afterall it had been his decision to leave the Baixue temple and venture out into the world.
The weather is changeable as well. The clouds start to thicken as the afternoon progresses, the wind growing colder as the likelihood of rain increases. If it had stayed fine, Song Lan thinks that they could have continued walking while there was still light. Now an early finish to the day’s travel is looking more and more likely, the journey to Jinsha taking even longer. It’s concerning and Song Lan has no wish for them to be caught in a storm, but he doesn’t know the area at all, or whether they are likely to be able to find shelter before the weather breaks.
The rain has been falling steadily for about half an hour by the time Song Lan sees an abandoned building ahead. It is far from perfect, but looking back at Xiao Xingchen who has given his cloak to Wei Ying, at how much he is struggling with the cold and wet, he knows that it will have to do. Wrapped in the cloak, which is far too large for him, Wei Ying seems relatively unconcerned by the weather.
They’ve fallen quite a few steps behind him and Song Lan turns back, until he is walking beside Xiao Xingchen. “There is shelter ahead. We can stop for the night.”
“Are we there already?” Xiao Xingchen blinks owlishly, the raindrops which have collected on his eyelashes, dripping onto his face like tears. “I thought there would be more houses.”
“Not yet,” Song Lan replies, deciding not to point out that Jinsha was still more than a day’s journey away. “But we need to get out of the rain. There’s somewhere we can shelter just ahead.”
“Oh. That’s good, it’s so cold.”
A moment later he almost slips, feet sliding on the steep, muddy road. To see him being anything less than poised and graceful, Song Lan finds worrying. Feeling how wet and cold he is, does nothing to ease it. But more concerning still is the pained gasp that escapes Xiao Xingchen as he puts an arm around his shoulder, trying to steady him.
“Don’t fuss, you’ll scare him. It’s only the cold making it ache,” Xiao Xingchen says, flinching away before he can ask what is wrong. It’s said quietly and firmly, leaving him in little doubt that Wei Ying isn’t meant to hear.
It’s not reassuring at all, Song Lan finds, to have him treat him in such a manner, it’s so unlike him that if anything it makes him worry even more. Yet he can’t press the matter without making things worse, because he knows that if he speaks he will make a mess of it. No, all he can do is make sure that Xiao Xingchen is warm and dry, and take the time to eat and rest.
The ruined building is an old temple. Abandoned now for many years, whatever local god had once been honoured there is now long since forgotten. Despite the tumble of stonework and at the front of the building, the rest of it, which has been cut into the base of the cliff that runs along the side of the road, is still mostly whole and more importantly dry.
There are signs that they are not the first to have used the ruin for shelter on the road between Yiling and Jinsha. Rubble has been cleared to make an area for sitting and sleeping, while some of the chunks of broken stonework have been used to make a surround for a fire pit.
It doesn’t take long to gather up enough wood for a fire and light it. There were some who he’d studied and trained with back at the Baixue temple who would consider his use of a talisman to get it started a frivolous, but Song Lan’s only concern is providing warmth so they can all dry their wet clothes. Soon it is burning brightly, casting flickering shadows on the broken columns and worn friezes.
Turnip seems happy enough where he is, a rocky overhang next to the ruin providing shelter from the rain and easy access to the plants and grasses growing around it. Food and shelter, Song Lan thinks, people and animals were not so different in the end either.
They have shelter, so now he will provide food. Qiankun pouches make a life spent on the road much easier. Carrying things for sleeping, cooking and spare clothes would be so much harder otherwise.
He likes cooking for him, likes making him happy, which is why everything since the previous evening has been so hard to bear. Xiao Xingchen being sad or distant or even worse, gone from his life, isn’t something that Song Lan wants to contemplate. He’d found it difficult to make friends as a child, spending far more time in the company of Baixue temple seniors and elders than those of his own age. Xiao Xingchen is the first person who it feels like truly understands him and he cannot bear to lose this connection.
He isn’t a skilled cook, but he can make congee and serve it with pickled vegetables and some salted egg that they have bought from the market. A warm, filling meal is what they all need on a cold, wet evening.
While he cooks, Xingchen sits by the fire with Wei Ying and helps him as he uses the burnt end of a stick to try and write his name on one of the stones.
There is something incredibly domestic about it, something that warms his heart. Perhaps Xiao Xingchen is right, he thinks, watching them, the child’s bright smile at getting the right character, his friend’s look of gentle fondness as he pats the boy’s hair. They have managed a day’s travel without incident, and while it had been slow, the child would grow up and be able to walk faster.
The true test will be when they reach Jinsha and if their services are still required. A simple haunting where the spirit can be liberated, can be given relief about whatever it is that holds them there, would be the best outcome. A quarry owner was likely to be wealthy enough to be able to provide them with food and accommodation for a few days as well as paying them for their services.
Perhaps if they take jobs such as this for the next few years they can make it work, Song Lan thinks later as he watches Xiao Xingchen get Wei Ying ready for bed. They could try places further south, even go down to the coast that was many days of travel beyond Yunmeng. The winter would be milder there, they could still spend most nights camped out under the stars to save money. If they went far enough they’d reach the sea. Had Xingchen ever seen it? He wonders. Had Wei Ying?
The child has been with them barely more than a day, yet it doesn’t seem strange to Song Lan that he is thinking of a future with him in it. It is the future Xiao Xingchen clearly wants, a future that he will try to make happen whether he has to raise Wei Ying alone or not. Leaving him to struggle alone isn’t something that he will allow to happen.
It has been a long day for a child as young as Wei Ying, and he is soon asleep, the toy donkey held tight.
“He’s such a good child,” Xiao Xingchen says, as he sits on the floor beside him, where he’d been telling about how there were mountains that had snow on them even in the middle of summer. He brushes Wei Ying’s untidy hair back out of his face and makes sure the blanket is tucked securely around him, so he doesn’t get cold in the night. “All he’s been through, and he still can smile so easily.”
“He will be alright,” Song Lan says, not wanting Xiao Xingchen to dwell on any thought about how the child would have been if he’d spent much longer on the streets or what could have befallen him if he had. “He is safe now, you found him.”
Nodding a little absently in place of a reply, Xiao Xingchen stands. There is little grace to it, and he sways unsteadily, barely staying upright as he presses a hand over his eyes.
Song Lan is on feet in a moment. Remembering his pained reaction to an arm about his shoulder, he steadies him with a hand beneath his elbow, moving in close enough that he can catch him if he were to stumble or fall. “What’s wrong?”
Xiao Xingchen leans against him before answering. “I’m so tired,” he says finally, letting his head rest against Song Lan’s shoulder. “It’s making me dizzy. I think I could fall asleep right here.”
While Song Lan knows that he must mean that he is so weary he could sleep standing up, there is a brief moment where all that comes to mind is that he means held in his arms. It makes him feel strange, warm and nervous all at the same time.
It brings to mind things that Song Lan isn’t sure he can ask for. Things that he’s not sure he wants. Which is a lie. He does want. He wants to suggest they place their sleeping mats together so that they can share blankets, where they can lie together, warm and safe as the weather turns colder.
Even that is not the whole truth, there are other things that he’s even less sure about. Of how he wants to hold him in ways that aren’t only about warmth on winter nights, how he wants to look at him, not just his graceful sword forms, but at him. He doesn’t know what to do with such thoughts or the feelings that they give him. So as much as he can he pushes them down, away where they don’t trouble him too much and where Xiao Xingchen won’t be bothered by them either.
He looks at Xiao Xingchen, at the dark sweep of his eyelashes now that his eyes are closed. As much as he likes him close like this, he needs to be able to rest properly, and he can’t do that standing up.
“You cannot sleep here,” he says, gently tapping his cheek to wake him. “Go to bed now. I will wash up and put things away. Do not trouble yourself with anything other than rest tonight.”
Xiao Xingchen doesn’t move, just sighs softly, his head still against Song Lan’s shoulder. “You are so good to me.”
The warm, fluttering, confusing feeling in his chest is back, and Song Lan can feel embarrassed heat crawling up his neck - he hopes it is too dark for Xiao Xingchen to notice. “You are a good person, it is no more than you deserve.”
The only response this time is a slow, sleepy nod against his shoulder.
Keeping an arm about him, Song Lan guides Xiao Xingchen over to his sleeping mat and helps him sit down. He considers asking whether he needs him to check his arm before he falls asleep, if being warm again has stopped it aching or if there is anything else he might need. But rest, he decides, is more important than answering his questions.
With Xiao Xingchen asleep, Song Lan tidies up, cleans the things from cooking. Decides what to make for their breakfast. He makes sure there is enough firewood inside for the morning, and that the fire is built up enough not to burn out in the night. He listens to the wind and rain outside, glad that they have shelter and each other. Finally he starts his own nightly routine. To let down his hair and comb it, to fold his clothes neatly for the morning and spend some time before sleeping on mediation.
He feels better tonight, calmer at least, he decides, when he is done with his routine. He can show Xiao Xingchen that he is serious in supporting his choice to bring Wei Ying with them in his actions. Offering practical help will surely be better than any awkward attempts at trying to explain himself.
Finally, he lays down. Tomorrow with any luck the rain will have stopped and they will have another good day of travel. Perhaps he can walk closer to them and try to join in with conversation occasionally.
~
It is dark when Song Lan wakes, the wind still howling outside, the rain near torrential, and Wei Ying is pulling frantically on his sleeve.
“Song-dage, Song-dage, wake up!”
The fire is just a deep red glow of embers, but there is enough light for him to see the fear on the child’s face.
He blinks, mind feeling addled from sleep. “A-Ying, what is wrong?”
“It’s Xiao-dage, he won’t get up.”
Remembering how tired Xingchen had been, Song Lan thinks perhaps it is unsurprising that he had slept through Wei Ying trying to wake him. “Let him sleep. He is tired. The bad weather cannot harm us here.”
“But he’s outside.” Wei Ying tugs on his sleeve again. “He’s fallen over and it’s raining and he’s getting wet.”
“Outside?” Song Lan looks over at Xiao Xingchen’s sleeping mat. Even in the dim firelight, he can see that it’s empty. What possible reason could he have had to go out into such awful weather? Surely if he heard someone in distress or some kind of threat he’d have woken him?
“He’s not getting up,” Wei Ying says, sounding as if he might start to cry. “I don’t know what to do.”
“You woke me, that was the correct thing to do,” Song Lan says, trying not entirely successfully to push down the rising tide of fear in him. “You must stay here where it is dry. I will bring him back inside.”
Wei Ying nods, still looking scared, the little grass donkey clutched to his chest.
The weather outside is awful, but Song Lan doesn’t bother getting fully dressed, doesn’t bother with anything apart from his shoes, before he steps out into the driving wind and rain. His clothes are soaked through before he’s taken more than a few steps, the wind bitingly cold against his skin.
He shields his eyes, trying to see in the wet and dark. He tries calling out, “Xingchen! Xingchen, where are you?”
There is no response, the wind and rain drowning out other sounds. There is no way of telling if he has been heard or, if he has, whether he has failed to hear it. He presses on, certain that Xingchen cannot have gone far, not if Wei Ying had been aware that he was on the ground. The child hadn’t seemed overly soaked or likely to wander too far from them on such a night.
A thought comes to him - the donkey. Maybe Xiao Xingchen had gone to check on the creature or Wei Ying had, perhaps he was there. Skirting the rubble at the front of the building, Song Lan calls out again, but still there is no answer.
A few more steps and he sees it. On the ground, barely visible in the gloom and heavy rain, is a patch of grey-white. It’s still, unmoving, and for a moment Song Lan is frozen in place. The fear at what he’ll find rendering him unable to do anything. Then the patch moves, trying to stand, but falling back, too weak or hurt to manage it.
Alive. Relieved, terrified still at what he will find, Song Lan rushes over, heedless of the tangle of vegetation that catches and snags at his clothes.
Xiao Xingchen is slumped against one of the fallen columns that had once provided a terrace at the side of the temple. Clinging to it, he’s trying to stand, but he’s shaking so badly that his legs won’t support him.
Putting an arm around him, Song Lan lifts to his feet and holds him close, so he cannot fall again. “I am here.”
“Here? Zichen, where…” He stops, sounding confused, as he trembles almost violently in Song Lan’s arms. “Oh, air, that was it. I felt dizzy, I thought that air would…” He trails off again, making a small whimpering sound before he says, “I feel so strange.”
Despite the cold and wet night, Song Lan can feel Xiao Xingchen burning against him. “You have a fever,” he replies, “You must come back inside and rest.”
“I can’t. I can’t move. I tried, ” Xiao Xingchen says, sounding distressed as he sags against him. “I’ll fall.”
“You won’t. I have you.” Even with help he doubts Xiao Xingchen will be able to walk. The only reasonable course of action, he decides, is to not allow him to walk at all - he’ll carry him.
It isn’t difficult to lift him or to hold him in his arms. Although in retrospect, Song Lan thinks a moment later, telling him what he was going to do should have featured in the plan. As, confused by being suddenly swept off his feet, Xiao Xingchen starts to struggle, nearly tripping them both over into the mud.
“Stop.” Song Lan holds on to him. “I’ve got you, calm yourself.”
It takes a moment, but Xiao Xingchen stops, going still and quiet in his arms. Song Lan gives him a little more time to get used to being held before he starts to move, to carry him back inside.
The warmth of the weight in his arms, the feeling of his breath against neck, where Xiao Xingchen’s head rests against his shoulder, reassures him. Where there is life there is hope, all he needs to do is keep his head, not panic about anything and then things will be alright.
Practical, dependable, sensible. These are the things that Song Lan hopes that people think about him. Right now he needs to be practical, organised. He needs to get Xiao Xingchen inside, use a talisman to give light, build up the fire again for warmth, needs to get him out of his wet clothing and check the wound on his arm which is the most likely cause of his sickness. He needs to calm Wei Ying as well, who is standing at the open entrance of the ruin, watching them with big, frightened eyes, his toy trailing from his hand.
“Xiao-dage!”
“Is safe.” It helps to speak it aloud. “We only need to get dry.”
It doesn’t take much to kindle the embers back to life, the bright flames soon lighting up the room and casting flickering shadows on its walls. Warmth flooding out, driving away the chill night air.
Focus on one task at a time, do not think past that, Song Lan tells himself. Do what needs to be done, do not dwell on the unnecessary. He helps Xiao Xingchen out of his soaking clothes, wrapping him in a blanket and then a cloak, before dealing with his own wet clothing. Wei Ying helps as much as he can, picking up the wet clothes and trying to squeeze the water out of them, draping them over piles of stones near the fire so that they can start to dry.
With the immediate tasks of warmth, light and removing wet clothes dealt with, Song Lan knows that the next thing he needs to do is check the wound the yaoguai had left on Xiao Xingchen’s arm. It is not something he wishes Wei Ying to see, there will be time when he is older, if he follows in his parents footsteps and becomes a cultivator, for knowing of wounds. For now he has no wish to frighten him or place himself in a position where not only is he trying to treat Xiao Xingchen, but is also having to deal with an upset child at the same time.
Taking the last of the wet clothes from him and wringing it out, Song Lan says, “A-Ying, go back to bed now. It is late.”
Wei Ying looks at him, then at Xiao Xingchen, and then down at the ground, his feet shuffling in the dust, like he’s not sure if he’s done something wrong. “I just wanted to help.”
“You have,” Song Lan says, not wanting him to feel like either his efforts or himself are unwanted. Without him Xingchen would still be out in the rain. “We’re proud of you. But it is late and you are tired. Little children should be asleep now.”
Wei Ying rubs his eyes, determined to stay awake. “But Song-dage, Xiao-dage isn’t well and I want to help too and...”
“He also needs to go to sleep,” he replies, before Wei Ying can finish. “I will make sure he drinks some medicine before he goes to bed. Do not worry. He will be better soon”
“I’ll be fine,” Xiao Xingchen says. Sitting on his sleeping mat, the cloak and blanket wrapped about him, he is still shivering, eyes hazy with tiredness and fever. “Zichen will look after me. He’s very good. Very handsome.”
Despite everything, Song Lan feels a twist of utter embarrassment at his words. He has never thought of himself as being that or had any conceit that anyone else would find him pleasing to look at. He doesn’t consider himself ugly, just nothing out of the ordinary. No, Xiao Xingchen is the handsome one, beautiful and elegant, graceful and gentle, with a kind and generous spirit. It is only because he is running a fever that he has said such a thing.
Half asleep, Wei Ying goes over to Xiao Xingchen and hugs him. “I’ll be good.” He hugs a little tighter. “Don’t go away.”
“I won’t.” Xingchen sounds like he might cry as he pats his hair. “A-Ying, never think that. I’ve only just found you. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Neither of us will,” Song Lan says, “Now it is time for you to sleep. You can talk again in the morning.”
It is late and it doesn’t take long in the end for Wei Ying to sleep again. Wrapped in his blanket by the fire, the toy donkey held tight, as if he’s afraid that it might also disappear if he doesn’t hold on. It is understandable, he has lost so much for someone so young, but it hurts in a way that is too familiar to Song Lan. He barely remembers his own family, but the ache for them when he’d been young, when he’d see other children with their parents, grandparents or aunts and uncles had been real and painful. Wei Ying for all his smiles would feel the same pain and loss.
“You’re good with him,” Xiao Xingchen says, as Song Lan turns his attention to him. “Kind.”
“He is a good child. Clever, sensible. He woke me so I could help you.” He doesn’t want to dwell on what would have happened if Wei Ying hadn't been there. If Xiao Xingchen had wandered out into the night, if he’d lain there collapsed in the cold, wet night until morning. Alone and sick, getting worse. He closes his eyes, trying to block out the likely progression of that, of what he would have found hours later. No, those are nightmare thoughts that he doesn’t want to give form lest they return and haunt his dreams.
“Zichen? Are you sick too?”
A hot, trembling hand has taken hold of his, even now trying to offer comfort. Song Lan opens his eyes and looks at him. He cannot voice his fears, cannot burden him. “I am tired, that is all.”
Song Lan looks at the bandage still wound around Xingchen’s upper arm, at the neat knot he tied it with back in Fu Rongxi’s house in Fuling. He feels sick. Sick and angry. Why had Xingchen not taken better care of himself? How could he be so careless about his own wellbeing? Most of the anger however is directed at himself, why hadn’t he made sure that Xiao Xingchen took good care of the wound? Why hadn’t he made sure the cut was redressed properly each night? Why hadn’t he used more of the salve when he’d dressed the wound? Why had he saved some for later and then not taken the time to use it? Why had he allowed him to disregard his health so much? Why had he not been firmer with him? Or more caring?
Although Song Lan is trying to be careful, Xiao Xingchen can barely keep from crying out as he peels off the bandage, the fabric having stuck to the wound.
With the bandage removed Song Lan can see that while part of the wound has started to heal, the deepest part of it is still open and weeping, the inflamed skin around it red and swollen with infection.
Even the most careful of touches to inspect it is too much and Xiao Xingchen gasps and pulls away, nearly toppling over on the mat.
“I have to clean it,” Song Lan says, as he steadies him, letting him lean against him, all the while dreading what must come next. He feels sick at the mere thought of it, of the blood and corruption on his hands, of how much pain he is going to cause.
“Can you…can you just not?”
The weakness of Xiao Xingchen’s voice, the fear in it, makes his heart ache for him. If they didn’t have Wei Ying with them, Song Lan knows what he would do. He would wrap him in a cloak and fly him back to Yiling where a doctor would treat him. He cannot leave the child, abandon him when he has already lost so much, not that Xiao Xingchen would allow him to. This is where the security of having a sect to fall back on would help. Where they could send up a flare and call for aid. There is no help coming however, all they have is each other. He can’t fail him. “It cannot heal like this,” he says as gently as he can. “It must be done. I will try to be gentle.”
Xiao Xingchen nods, but the fear remains in his fever-bright eyes.
Song Lan had learnt a little about healing at the Baixue temple, his teachers there knowing that in his chosen life of a rogue cultivator there would be occasions when it would be needed. All the same he feels horribly unprepared as he gathers up what he needs. A bowl of warm water, and cloth, a talisman to provide light. Medicinal herbs steeping in water for tea he can drink afterwards. A fresh bandage and salve to dress the wound once it is clean.
He places a hand high on Xiao Xingchen’s shoulder, fingers against the back on his neck, a light pressure that he hopes might feel reassuring. “I will start now.”
There is no response, but Song Lan can feel him lean into his touch, and he hopes that he’s finding some comfort in it.
It takes only a few minutes to clean the wound, but by the time he is finished Song Lan’s hands are shaking almost as badly as Xiao Xingchen’s whole body is. He wants to scrub his hands, the feel of his friend’s blood drying on them making him feel lightheaded and physically sick.
Any hope that Xiao Xingchen’s silence had been because he’d been careful to avoid causing too much pain is dashed as he sees his face. His eyes are closed, tears of pain trickling down his fever flushed cheeks. Worse though is the realisation that the only reason he has been silent is that he’s been using the edge of the cloak as something to bite down on, to prevent him crying out and waking Wei Ying.
“It is clean now,” Song Lan says, wishing he could take away his pain. He places a hand on the back of Xiao Xingchen’s neck again, fingers stroking the soft, heated skin. “I will be finished soon. Then you can rest”
Xiao Xingchen nods, a shaky movement, and leans into his touch.
There is no way to stop the sting of the salve. Even though Song Lan had done as Xiao Xingchen had wanted and purchased something that hopefully wouldn’t hurt quite as badly, the wound is already so sore and inflamed that anything making contact with it is painful.
Through the cloth held in his mouth, Xiao Xingchen groans, breathless from the flaring pain. He tenses, body going rigid, breath seizing, before he slumps limply to the ground.
“Xingchen?” Song Lan gathers him into his arms. Heart racing, fear clawing at him every part as bad as when he’d seen his still, collapsed form out in the rain. “Xingchen, please…”
He can’t stop his hands from shaking as he takes the edge of the cloak from Xiao Xingchen’s mouth. Warm breath flows over his hands.
Alive.
Xiao Xingchen had fainted. He’d fainted, but he would be alright. Closing his eyes, Song Lan forces himself to take steadying breaths, slow and deep, in through the nose, out through the mouth. He thinks of his first teacher at the Baixue temple who taught him this when he’d been just a small child, barely any older than Wei Ying. How he’d given him away to deal with things when all his feelings and thoughts got too big for him, when touches or dirt or sounds got too much for him.
Steadier, Song Lan quickly finishes applying the salve and bandages up the wound. He has just tied the cloth when Xiao Xingchen stirs, small pained sounds escaping him as consciousness returns.
“Lie still,” he says, “You must rest. I will get you some medicine to drink.” Regardless of how hard they have both trained or how well developed their golden cores are for their age, there is still a limit to how long you can draw on it continuously before it is depleted, before you have to stop and allow yourself to rest and recover. Xiao Xingchen had pushed himself to that limit, past it, and now he is suffering for it.
“I can’t.” He sounds almost in tears as he clings to him. “It hurts. I feel so…” He stops with a whimpering sound, curling in on himself. “Zichen, please…”
It’s awful and terrifying to see him like this, to feel so utterly helpless, to be able to do so little. “I have you,” Song Lan says, carefully moving Xiao Xingchen so that he is lying with his head pillowed on his lap. He hasn’t tried sharing energy with anyone before, but he knows the theory of it, knows that it might help.
Stroking Xiao Xingchen’s hair, Song Lan focuses on the flow of energy in his own body, how it moves from his golden core and outward along his meridians. To use it for healing is more directed than the sharp bursts that are needed for fighting or for powering a talisman. It’s something slow and sustained, a deep flowing river rather than the bright burst of lightning.
For a moment he thinks that he is going to fail, that the energy will gather at his fingertips and go no further. Then he can feel the weak ebb and flow of Xiao Xingchen’s own depleted energy against his own, rippling eddies separate at first then merging like the water from two streams converging. Then it is flowing into him, accepted and welcomed.
Xiao Xingchen looks up at him, something like wonder in his eyes. “Zichen…”
“Rest.” It’s hard to organise his thoughts to talk at the same time, but there is such a sense of closeness to Xiao Xingchen that it doesn’t feel like words should be necessary.
Time passes, although Song Lan can’t tell if it is minutes or hours, but gradually Xiao Xingchen relaxes into sleep, the awful shivering that had accompanied his fever diminishing.
Whether this is a good sign, he has no way of knowing, as the fever still seems to be burning as hot as before. He hopes that it is.
Weary, Song Lan’s eyes slowly close despite his best efforts to stay away. The flow of energy gradually stops and he drifts to sleep, his fingers still gently stroking Xingchen’s hair.
Part 6 - last part = https://silver-sun.dreamwidth.org/270936.html