silent unions doomed by fate
bottom yue qingyuan week day 5 | political marriage
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phantom fires still bite at his
stainless, unwrinkled Qiong Ding hems
when he walks along the peak's paths
unseeing; the scorching light of the blaze
still stark against his eyelids
every time he closes his eyes.
he's given up on sleep; has resorted to
applying powders beneath his eyes
(no-one is allowed to know that
Qiong Ding's Yue Qingyuan is fracturing;
that Yue Qi's ghost sinks its clawed hands
into the wounds and presses).
he isn’t anyhow confrontational
not when it comes to his shizun
never when he sees Ju Liaotian's frigid gaze
but – a single stubborn thought remains
if Xiao Jiu's gone, what use is there
and it takes little effort to sneak past
Wan Jian's guards; venture into their libraries
and look for accounts of cultivators
having accidents when fighting,
failing to control the bond between them
and their swords; dying in the process.
everyone should've been content
Xuan Su without a wielder;
Shizun free to choose another head disciple;
the vestiges of Yue Qi finally at peace,
buried beneath cold earth,
looking for Xiao Jiu at the Naihe Bridge.
instead– he shoots up in a Qian Cao bed
with even more wrongness than before,
and there are immortal-binding cables
around his chest in a tight weave;
the taste of defeat on his tongue
Ju Liaotian sweeps into the room
surveys Yue Qingyuan's state
with the coldest of eyes, unthawing
or, rather, turning into even harsher ice)
countenance embodying the tian in his name
(calm, indifferent, unperturbed;
all that which makes a good Sect Leader
all that what Yue Qi has always lacked
that Yue Qingyuan has strived to emulate)
so, he looks to the other man
and braces himself for anything to come
he isn’t sure what Shizun's thinking of him
(he can guess– failure and a let-down;
the most grand disappointment,
they're all things that Yue Qi –
that Yue Qingyuan – has been his whole life)
straightens as much as he can
(his bones creak in protest)
forces his turbulent qi to calm
and says this unworthy one
awaits Shizun's instruction.
a grand hall, screens of gilded gold
silks with the finest embroidery
a figure lounging in finery and splendor,
his robes glimmering with embroidery,
sure in his wealth and power,
and a man in simple robes steps up
says Gongzhu, news from Cang Qiong
their Sect Leader's planning to
replace his disciple – that Yue Qingyuan –
for not bonding with his sword properly;
he just doesn't know how to do so
without making trouble for himself</em>
silk layers shift; the figure hums
(an ancient snake that he is,
poison is still strong in his fangs)
dismisses the spy with a wave of his sleeve
we'll profit from this trouble of his
he muses consideringly, after all,
it isn't often that such grand opportunity
is able to come by. he leans forward
over a scroll; writes out a missive;
stamps it with a finely-made seal;
ah, Ju Liaotian, my offer's too enticing
for you to consider refusing.
he thinks back to the rumors in the sect;
recalls the hushed reports of
Gongzhu, Su-guniang was last seen
exiting Huan Hua and not wearing our colors;
charts out whispers of a demon lord
appearing in the jianghu.
you've picked the wrong person to betray,
he thinks, and– the price shall be paid;
a shame about the Xuan Su Sword
but, hm, what sense even is there
to use a damaged weapon? no, it's better off
to melt it down; reforge it into something new
her final breaths of freedom
sneak around with that demon of hers
the snare will close – and she'll remain
within the gilded courtyards of Huan Hua;
Tianlang-jun betrayed and vanquished.
and orders him to start making preparations
for the grandest of weddings;
Huan Hua, after all, cannot afford
to be seen as anyhow frugal,
not even when the marriage would be a sham.
sunset bathes the sky in red
an auspicious color of festivity and blood
as he strides to the windows; looks out
at the glittering arches of Huan Hua roofs
soon, that red will be celebrating
a happy wedding; a demon lord's demise.
the sight makes something
dangerously content unfurl within him;
as much as he hides away beneath opulence,
he's no stranger to crimson soaking his hands;
they have to strike before Tianlang-jun does so
(Ju Liaotian's lost the sight of that).
what a pair we must make, she thinks,
bitter; the red ropes around their wrists
a mockery of the red string of fate.
(she spares the briefest of thoughts
for his famed cultivation;
what's happened to the Xuan Su Sword?
how come he's now like so,
red cables, and talismans atop his sheath,
lacking in qi and power and freedom?)
she can guess at the truth–
sect politics, that's all there is to it;
an agreement between two powerful men.
their wedding passes by in a haze
she doesn't think of much at all
(one persistent thought– i'd have wanted
another to do the bows with me
he'd light up with an unserious smile
and speak, boisterous, of human customs)
but there are too many schemes
to let something as fickle as fate win;
so she goes along. does the bows
and heads to their private chapters
with her newly-ordained fujun
who looks halfway to fainting all the while
her heart skips a beat; resourceful as she is,
she calculates several ways to take him down
(she'd never trust a cultivator not to plot)
in the end, she doesn't need to;
he speaks of their union's arranged nature
and, very quietly, of his heart being taken.
Cultivator Su surely relates to this, he says
a knowing look in his eyes, so this one
just plans to get himself drunk
and attempt to have a good night's sleep
there's still red rope around his wrist,
just like hers; she reaches for the wine, as well.
the pavilion they're given for married life
is in the heart of Huan Hua–
but its wooden doors creak with age
its carvings absent of fresh lacquer
she lights the few candles they have;
and he pauses to stare at the setting sun.
he's up early in the morning,
glances at her and asks in a quiet voice
would it be okay for this one to put up
a shrine with a memorial tablet?
she considers this. not easily accessible;
they mustn't see your weak points.
and the shrine gets arranged in his study;
a small, almost ascetic thing
absent of much decoration
that she knows Huan Hua would strive for
she watches him inscribe a name on the tablet
two characters, with the steadiest hand
(he leaves all the proper offerings beside it;
spends long evenings gazing at that name
in soundless contemplation)
and all she's able to pray for
is heavens, may i never erect
a similar shrine for Tianlang-jun.
