An arranged-marriage story for Xichen and Mingjue, in another time and another place.
The Beifeng, the mighty empire of the north, invaded more than a year ago, moving inexorably south and east.
In order to buy peace, the chief of the Lan clan has given the Beifeng warlord a gift, his second oldest son in marriage. However, when Xichen finds out he makes a plan.
He, too, can give a gift to the Beifeng warlord, and he will not regret it.
Notes: Check the tags if you’re concerned about the pairings ;)
For translations of the entirely fictitious Beifeng language, you’ll have to scroll to notes. I’m only going to translate something that’s not clear in the text. Sadly, there’s just not any other good way to do it on Tumblr!
Chapter 23
Xichen has never kissed anyone but Mingjue; he is at first too shocked to react, and then an intrigued, analytical side of his mind registers the differences, the unaccountable differences. Guangyao tastes like salt and wine. He is less demanding than Mingjue in some ways, but there is a fierce intensity in him, like a darting fox on the prowl. Instead of the inexorable heat of Mingjue’s passion, Guangyao’s mouth and hands are the tantalizing flutter of wings, a brush of eyelashes across Xichen’s skin. What does it mean, Xichen wonders, that he is not repulsed by kissing Guangyao as he suspects he should be?
Guangyao makes a soft sound of surprise in the back of his throat and slides his arms around Xichen’s neck, pressing forward with his hips, pushing him back further, and Xichen realizes his intent. With a clanging gong of clarity, it stops being an entertaining experiment. Even if he is distantly curious about what it would be like to bed someone else, it is less appealing without Mingjue to share it with. And no abstract reward is worth this risk to Mingjue’s trust, to his family’s treaty or—he is now fairly certain—to Huaisang’s heart. It is no hardship to plant his feet and untangle Guangyao’s arms from around his neck.
“Guangyao, stop. You’re drunk.” Xichen murmurs, cupping his hands around Guangyao’s shoulders and pushing him gently away. Tousled and flushed, Guangyao looks hurt and vulnerable, and Xichen has a flutter of regret. But this close, he can see a faintly purpling mark on Guangyao’s neck, on the soft skin just under his jawline. “And I do not think you truly want me, do you?”
“You underestimate your appeal, Xichen,” Guangyao says, with a charming smile, smoothly shifting from brittle and aching into an openly flirtatious man Xichen is even less familiar with. He skims slim and agile hands over Xichen’s chest, hooking one finger in the neck of Xichen’s tunic. “I am not too drunk to know what I want.”
“What purpose does this serve?” Xichen asks, truly mystified. There seems to be no value in seducing the Ikarahu commander’s lover, and he is not so vain as to imagine Guangyao does anything without value.
Guangyao blinks slowly at him, glancing up through downcast eyelashes, and his smile holds an enticing promise. Xichen isn’t as immune to the seduction as he ought to be and he moves back a step, putting space between him and this dangerous version of Guangyao.
“Perhaps I am lonely, Xichen,” Guangyao says, taking a half-step toward Xichen. “Ipira’orhew Ikira has made it clear he will not be alone with me, which is flattering, but unhelpful. You, though, are beautiful and, I think, not so uninterested.”
He tips his chin up, lips parting slightly, the invitation clear. Xichen is tired of being the only one who doesn’t seem to know the rules or stakes of this game he is somehow a part of. Unhelpful, Guangyao had said. What did he mean by unhelpful? It seems an important key to unlocking this puzzle, so Xichen accepts the offer, letting Guangyao’s lips meet his and trying to ignore the hands circling his waist.
“How could I possibly be helpful to you, Yao-ti?” he murmurs against Guangyao’s mouth, and Guangyao draws back with a frown, his spine straightening. Xichen expects him to lie or deflect, but instead, Guangyao’s response is unfortunately straightforward.
“Help me...” He lifts his chin and looks Xichen in the eyes, which does not reassure Xichen in the least. “Help me find a way to send the Beifeng home or extend the armistice while my father builds an army great enough to defeat them.”
Xichen steps back, this time more firmly, this time with fear. He had so hoped that Guangyao’s aim was only personal and not political, but of course he was wrong. Of course the Jin chief would not send his son to the Ikarahu without an ulterior motive. Xichen’s father had not, although at least his father was forthright with his goal.
“What you are asking of me...Guangyao, it would endanger…” he is unwilling to share the extent of his fear, and uncertain he knows how this Guangyao will react. “It would endanger the treaty with my clan.”
“If we are successful, it will not matter,” Guangyao says, a strange light in his eyes, and his right hand clenches unconsciously. “Please, Xichen. You do not understand. There is nothing else I can do. I am running out of time, and I am running out of options. I can not fail here.”
Xichen does understand, actually. Perhaps they had not intended to kill him, but Xichen suspects Guangyao’s father has already sent him an impatient message about the consequences of failure. Xichen feels a well of sympathy for Guangyao, but...
“What have you done already?”
Guangyao stiffens, and Xichen is so afraid of the answer, whether it is a truth or a lie.
“Nothing. I have done nothing, which is the problem, Xichen. I have sent my father one message, and his answer was...not satisfied. But I can not...there is no delay he will accept.”
Xichen can not imagine how Guangyao could have sent his father a message without Huaisang noticing. But then he knows. It is the only answer that fits.
“The bridge?”
Guangyao picks up a book, an account ledger, sitting neatly on a shelf and turns it over in his hands, brushing fingers across the rough leather, a tight expression pinching the corners of his mouth into a flat line. “The Ikarahu magic is unique, Xichen. Fascinating and powerful in such a different way than our people’s. My father does not think it holds danger. He values only foot soldiers and cavalry, but...he needed to see. It is a factor to consider if he is to build an army.”
Xichen wonders how intentional it was that tricking the Ikarahu into putting their magic on display also cost Guangyao’s father a bridge, a supply route, and provisions.
“Even if your father can launch a successful attack, the Ikarahu will not turn tail and go home without what they came for,” Xichen points out. “They will fight.”
Guangyao slams the book down, his voice turning bitter and angry. “Do you even know what they came for, Xichen? What they started a war for? What your family sold you for?”
Xichen shakes his head. “Does it matter? You know, do you not? Do you think it unimportant?”
He is angry now too, and frustrated by the lies and secrets of war. It seems like a child’s game of keepaway, and Xichen feels like an unwitting pawn. This time, he will not be used.
“You do not have to stay here, Guangyao. Mingjue will send you home in a week, and you can play maka from the comfort of Jinlin Tai. I will not endanger my family on your word, and…” He squares his shoulders, making a choice. “I will not sacrifice my own happiness for the Jin.”
“Then you have killed me as surely as if you speared me through the heart here and now. My father will not accept anything but success from his eldest son. I have no choice but to do whatever it takes. Whatever I must to be welcomed back home.” His tone has a vicious bite, but inexplicably, a tear slides down his cheek, and he turns away.
“Does inheriting the Jin clan mean so much to you?” Xichen asks. “You have another choice. You could choose to stay with people who care about you.” He ventures into deeper water. “You could choose to stay for Huaisang.”
Guangyao whirls on Xichen, bursting with unconcealed outrage. “How could you possibly understand? Your life in the Cloud Recesses was a dream, a sheltered fantasy. A family who loved you, a clan that respected you, a mother whose memory you were allowed to cherish? You have always had the privilege of your status and position, and you have never known what it was to fear for tomorrow.”
The words twist with venom in his mouth, and Xichen is stunned, taken aback by the accusations he doesn’t understand. They are both the privileged eldest sons of their fathers, both given away to buy peace. Of course he has known despair. Of course he has known fear. Yet, Guangyao’s fury is so raw, Xichen senses he’s missing something vital.
“I am as much a subordinate here as you are, and unlike you, I can never go home,” Xichen reminds him, and Guangyao’s brow furrows before he laughs, as brittle and bleak as the winds that shear through the camp.
“Are you truly that ignorant, Xichen? You are the edas ahora, the beloved husband of Ipira’orhew Ikira, and I assure you, he takes that definition seriously. Ahora’ipa is not a military title like Zewu-Jun, it is a bestowed honor, the acknowledgement of a relationship so dear it has a name. Did you think they were only words? That they meant nothing more than sound? Why would you want to go home, when clearly, your fortune here is never ending, aitapaho?”
He bites off the sentence with a jagged snap, turning the endearment into a curse. Xichen ignores both the spiteful words and the words that twist in painful hope. They’re only a distraction, he thinks, a veil to hide the truth. Until now, he hadn’t been sure, but Guangyao’s determination to hurt him, to turn his eyes away, has convinced him.
“Your fortune could be the same as mine, I suspect. Why can you not accept Huaisang’s affection as real?” Xichen touches the mark on Guangyao’s neck, the darkening love bite he recognizes. “Why can you not accept that your feelings matter too?”
Guangyao flushes and meets Xichen’s eyes. “Affection is a liability, Zewu-Jun.”
Xichen has to smile because finally, Guangyao has backed himself into a corner. “If that was true, you would be seducing Huaisang instead of me. I have no power here and no military knowledge. Could it be that you do not want to use him as I know you could?”
The only answer Xichen gets is an irate exhale, and in the silence, Xichen hears something that stops his heart.
An arranged-marriage story for Xichen and Mingjue, in another time and another place.
The Beifeng, the mighty empire of the north, invaded more than a year ago, moving inexorably south and east.
In order to buy peace, the chief of the Lan clan has given the Beifeng warlord a gift, his second oldest son in marriage. However, when Xichen finds out he makes a plan.
He, too, can give a gift to the Beifeng warlord, and he will not regret it.
Notes: Check the tags if you’re concerned about the pairings ;)
This chapter is rated E for Explicit
For translations of the entirely fictitious Beifeng language, you’ll have to scroll to notes. I’m only going to translate something that’s not clear in the text. Sadly, there’s just not any other good way to do it on Tumblr!
Chapter 21 Earlier
It didn’t take long for Xichen to find Huaisang leaning on a hitching post, watching a herd of horses gallop through the valley on the north side of the encampment. If Xichen hadn’t fully appreciated it when he had first arrived, by now, he understood how seriously the Ikarahu took their horses.
There were four herds, divided for safety and for grazing, and during this winter armistice, the hostlers moved them in a circle between the camp and across the plains to find new pastures in the mornings and afternoons. Between the fields, they ran the horses to preserve their strength, to discourage infighting, and, Xichen heartily believed, because it was so spectacularly beautiful to watch.
He stood silently with Huaisang for a while, the horses a patchwork of color in the distance.
“I never really wanted to come on this campaign,” Huaisang said as the herd thundered in a circle toward them.
If Xichen had not seen them do this before, he would have been terrified to be standing in their path. As they always did, though, the riders driving this river of horseflesh turned the group with shouts and flashing whips. The horses banked, slowing as they swept past Huaisang and Xichen so closely, Xichen could almost have reached out and grazed his hand along their silky flanks. It was only the appearance of danger, and the riders were always in control, guiding the horses whether they realized it or not. The herd slowed as they approached the corrals on the western edge of the camp. Xichen knew they would be walked now, and each would be groomed and brushed and cared for as diligently as though they were people.
“Why did you?” Xichen asked, pressing Huaisang about his mood more than he usually would.
Huaisang sidestepped, dodging what Xichen was truly asking. “I couldn’t say no. I will finish what we started but...I’m ready for something else.”
He sounded unusually discouraged, and Xichen patted his hand. He couldn’t think of calming words for Huaisang when his own thoughts were filled with clanging anxiety, spinning eddies of ice and snow. He was afraid he didn’t have the option of something else, or, if there was something else, Xichen was afraid he wouldn’t like it. Two months ago, he had thought he knew where his life was headed, but now...now he wasn’t entirely sure what Mingjue’s plan was for him. And after seeing such clear evidence that Guangyao’s interests were not merely political, Xichen was worried that some other arrangement might be determined for him. He wished he had someone to talk to. He wished he could talk to Wangji.
“If I wrote to my brother, would you find someone to deliver the letters?” he asked, swallowing the shame of asking a question he should have voiced months ago.
Huaisang tipped his head like his hawk, eyebrows snapping together. “Of course, Xichen. You...we would never keep you from your family.”
Xichen nodded, already planning the words to write. He had taken too long, and he couldn’t even remember what he was waiting for. No, he did know. He hadn’t wanted to face the consequences of leaving and then, later, the difficulty of explaining why he didn’t want to return. He would send letters tomorrow. He didn’t know if his brother would forgive him for leaving or forgive him for his silence, but it was time to find out. He couldn’t spend his life running only in a circle.
A smile flitted across Huaisang’s face, but it couldn’t quite disguise the sadness in his voice. “I miss my family too, Xichen. I miss my home. I know you lived on a mountain, but you have not seen datik like ours. They will take your breath away. Do you know what the sunrise looks like from the top of a mountain?”
For once, Xichen didn’t allow the change of subject to distract him. He pushed back, one act of bravery spurring another. “Why did you leave the tent?”
This time Huaisang’s quirked smile seemed authentic. “I could ask you the same.” He shrugged. “I thought Guangyao would be an opportunity, but I might have been wrong. He is unpredictable and chaotic.”
Unpredictable and chaotic were not words Xichen would have used. He had always thought of Guangyao as cautious and purposeful, if not always fully honest, and he wondered what Huaisang had seen that he hadn’t.
“Qingyang says he has reasons of his own for being here,” Xichen offered, and Huaisang snorted.
“Of course he does. But his actions don’t make any sense.” Huaisang paused and chewed thoughtfully on his lip. “Not as far as I can tell. If he is a spy…well, if I was a spy, I would do things differently. And if I was a prisoner, I would also do things differently.”
“Was your mission with the bridge a success?” Xichen asked, wondering if that was what Huaisang was referring to. He also found it strange that Guangyao would help the Ikarahu.
“Yes, it was,” Huaisang answered with a frown. “I am certain it was.”
He pulled his kitingi fan from his belt and snapped it open, spinning it in circles, flipping it between his hands, obviously pondering something. Xichen watched and waited, but with a sigh and a frown, Huaisang eventually put the fan away. His most glib smile settled on his lips, a smile meant to hide his true thoughts, and Xichen knew the conversation was over.
“Shall we make anakau suffer a little longer? We don’t get many sunny days, and I feel like a ride.”
Xichen’s lips twitched. He would not have worded it quite that way, and yet...
“What a remarkable idea, anati. I haven’t ridden in days,” he agreed and together, they trailed along behind the horses all the way back to camp. Xichen audaciously borrowed Mingjue’s black mare and followed Huaisang in a pounding gallop across the hard-packed plains.
By now, he was a skilled rider; not as confident as any of the Ikarahu, but enough that he could let muscle memory keep him on the horse’s back while the pace and the cold cleared his mind and settled his doubts. He thought about his future. He thought about what he needed and what he was willing to give up. And he thought about whether he was a coward who would walk away or a man who would fight for what he wanted.
By the time Xichen returned to his tent, he was tired and sated in a way he had not felt in some time, and he was able to shove aside the flood of anxiety that tried to whirl back when he saw Mingjue waiting for him. He was barefoot, braids loose around his shoulders, wearing only pants. Xichen was absolutely certain he intended to look as irresistible as possible. He did not miscalculate. Xichen wanted him immediately, wanted to claim every part of him.
Well, why should he not?
Throwing his belt and coat on the floor, he reached Mingjue in three long strides and pushed him back onto the bed, straddling his hips and kissing him with teeth and fangs. He gripped the flesh of Mingjue’s shoulder with one hand, fingers agile from playing the guqin. The other hand, strong from wielding a sword, wrapped around Mingjue’s thigh and Xichen ground down on him, hard enough that Mingjue hissed, cupping his hands around Xichen’s buttocks and arching under him.
Xichen’s heart sang as Mingjue matched his force and ardor without question. He only tried to roll Xichen over once, his voice already halfway to pleading, but Xichen didn’t relent. If he belonged to Mingjue, then Mingjue would also belong to him.
When Mingjue was desperate, bucking wildly underneath him, Xichen kicked off his pants without bothering to fully undress and crawled forward.
“Open your mouth, ahoraho,” he said, relishing how eagerly Mingjue obeyed.
Xichen caressed his face, the straight slope of his nose, the lines around his eyes, the creases in his cheeks that hid the dimples he loved so much as he fucked Mingjue’s willing mouth. Mingjue’s hands on Xichen’s hips urged Xichen to thrust harder, and Xichen did, wanting to mark every piece of Mingjue as his, his, his.
Before the gnawing ache of climax could overtake him, Xichen grabbed a handful of Mingjue’s braids and yanked, angling his head back and wresting a moan from Mingjue that vibrated around his cock and through his gut. Mingjue’s fingers dug into Xichen’s back as he sucked him further into his mouth, forcing his cock against the back of his throat, sending sparks shooting through Xichen’s entire body. With a satisfied groan, Mingjue swallowed, once, twice, the tension nearly keeling Xichen over. The third time Mingjue swallowed, the tightly bruising band around his heart released its grip, and Xichen saw stars dancing in his eyes as the world dissolved in white cloud of pleasure.
He was dimly aware of falling to the side, closing his eyes to bathe in the fading warmth that still pulsed through him. Mingjue curled tightly around Xichen whispering endearments, stroking his hair, nuzzling his neck. He used the other hand to unfasten Xichen’s robes and rubbed his stomach when he finally got them undone. Xichen almost laughed at how much of him Mingjue was trying to touch at once.
“Ah, Xichen, I am sorry. I know I should not tease,” Mingjue murmured, soft breath tickling Xichen’s ear. “But I love when you are fierce.”
“You meant for me to be jealous so I would…ravish you?” Xichen asked. He couldn’t decide if he was annoyed or not. Maybe a little annoyed.
Mingjue snuggled closer to Xichen, and despite his pique, Xichen turned toward the scent of earth and cedar.
“I did not mean it, but I did not dislike it. You shine like the sun when you are defending what is yours, my bright heart.” Mingjue’s hand reached the arch of Xichen’s hip bone and traced the line lower.
“Do you want him as a lover?” Xichen asked, trying to sound as though it didn’t matter, but it did matter. In that moment, it was the only thing that mattered.
Mingjue leaned up on one elbow to regard him, his perceptive expression reminding Xichen that for all his gentle ways, he was not a fool.
“No. If he had come to me before you, I might have...considered it,” he answered cautiously. “But he did not, and so it is no matter. There is only you now.”
Mingjue’s expression shifted, as if he wanted to say more. Xichen wondered if he would ask the same question.
“If you wish him, or wish us both, I will not argue, aitapaho,” he said finally, his fingers skimming circles on Xichen’s chest.
Xichen intended to deny it immediately, but something about Mingjue’s expression gave him pause. It was unusually guarded and neutral, and Xichen felt he owed him honest consideration.
It was true that Guangyao was attractive, intelligent, cultured—all the things Xichen would have looked for in a partner or second spouse when he was heir to the Cloud Recesses, difficulties with inheritance and politics aside. Perhaps if he was a better man, Xichen thought, he would be generous enough to share Mingjue with someone he liked well enough. But he was certain he didn’t have that kind of unselfishness in him.
Xichen knew the unpredictability of war, even if he preferred not to think of it. He knew the Ikarahu would return to the mountains someday. He knew eventually, things would change between him and Mingjue. Whatever time they had together, Xichen wanted to keep it for himself.
And then, of course, there was Huaisang. Xichen still wasn’t certain what the extent or truth of Huaisang’s interest was, but he did not wish to cause any impediment if it was real.
“I do not. He is not you, ahoraho,” Xichen said, taking Mingjue’s hand and kissing the knuckles, touching the tiny nicks and scars from years of carrying a sword and pulling a bow. “No one is you.”
Mingjue threw his leg over Xichen and rubbed against him, hard still or hard again, his fingers trembling in Xichen’s hair. “I want to see you ride me tonight, Huan. Every night. You, and no one else.”
He should be past blushing at Mingjue’s shameless words, but Xichen knew his cheeks had reddened, and he was chagrined to realize that he was as insatiable as Mingjue. He retrieved the bottle of oil and climbed on top of Mingjue’s solid form, to let him be a bulwark against all of Xichen’s uncertainty. He wanted to trust this love, at least.
Leisurely, meticulously, he pulled his robes off, basking in the light of Mingjue’s heated gaze. With a slow smile of his own, he poured oil onto his hand, slicking his fingers.
“I will,” he agreed. “But first, I want to taste you, ahoraho.” He kissed Mingjue’s throat, raking teeth across his collarbone, licking the salt from his skin and trailing his lips in a path down his broad chest.
“And touch you.” Xichen slid back to straddle the hard muscle of Mingjue’s thighs, rubbing his thumb across Mingjue’s lips, pushing between them when they parted. Mingjue closed his eyes with a muted whimper, biting down, the hard tip of his tongue asking Xichen for more.
“And hear you,” Xichen said, before he agreed to more, closing his hand around the hot velvet of Mingjue’s cock with a rough, decisive stroke. He did, indeed, love the sounds Mingjue made, the faltering exhale of Xichen’s name, a rumbling moan, the quickening of his breath.
This is what I never knew I always wanted, Xichen thought, lips and hands stoking the smoldering fire in Mingjue’s eyes. To be yours and no one else’s, he thought, settling back and joining their bodies slowly, agonizingly, sublimely slowly. As you are mine, and no one else’s, he thought, smiling with love, exulting in the satisfaction of their union.
A story for Xichen and Mingjue, in another time and another place.
The Beifeng, the mighty empire of the north, invaded more than a year ago, moving inexorably south and east.
In order to buy peace, the chief of the Lan clan has given the Beifeng warlord a gift, his second oldest son in marriage. However, when Xichen finds out he makes a plan.
He, too, can give a gift to the Beifeng warlord, and he will not regret it.
Notes: Check the tags if you’re concerned about the pairings ;)
For translations of the entirely fictitious Beifeng language, you’ll have to scroll to notes. I’m only going to translate something that’s not clear in the text. Sadly, there’s just not any other good way to do it on Tumblr!
Chapter 19 Earlier
They may have been technically in an armistice, but it did not escape Xichen’s notice that the scouts still patrolled, and groups of Ikarahu soldiers still rode out in the evenings. Trust, Xichen thought, but not without contingency.
Still, it meant that Xichen had less to do during his days. He still spent mornings with the healers and time working with Mingjue, but there were fewer injuries to heal and fewer decisions to make. It had been too cold to sword fight, sometimes even too cold to ride. It hadn’t taken long for him to grow bored with so many idle afternoons.
Fortunately, Guangyao had expressed interest in deepening his knowledge of the guqin, and it became a welcome distraction in Xichen’s day. Xichen had been uncertain of the wisdom of befriending him at first, but Guangyao made no demands of him and kept a respectful distance, letting Xichen guide their conversations, and eventually, Xichen found that he liked the man’s quiet, thoughtful company.
Sometimes they spoke of poetry, as they had discovered a mutual appreciation for the poetry of Mu Bai, one of the greatest pastoral poets in their country’s history. Sometimes they shared tea and talked about the strange world they had found themselves in and the peculiarities of living in an army camp.
And sometimes, they spoke of home.
Obliquely, of course. Xichen preferred not to share details of his family, and Guangyao was, if anything, more reticent about his life in Jinlin Tai. But they could speak of their cities, the infrastructure, the people, their day-to-day tasks. As much as Xichen valued Qingyang and Huaisang, it wasn’t the same as having a friend who understood the position and life he’d left. Guangyao could laugh with Xichen about the famously disastrous contract between the Wen and the Zhao two decades ago that ended with the dissolution of two marriages, the return of the silk dowry that had already been made into dresses, and a vow that the Wen would never drink Zhao tea again. He sympathized with the failed compact between Xichen’s uncle and Yunmeng, although in the end, that alliance had been made stronger through a triad of exchanges that cost the Cloud Recesses fewer concessions. He told funny stories of bickering merchants in Jinlin Tai and Xichen told stories of escaped goats. It made him miss his home both less and more to talk about it, and he thought he saw the same wistfulness in Guangyao.
Today, however, at the time they usually sat to play, he was surprised to find Guangyao’s tent occupied with other people.
Mingjue was sitting in a chair, leaning over a map on the table. Qingyang was holding a brush over a map she seemed to be guarding, never fond of anyone touching her maps, and especially not fond of Guangyao around them. He had, only once, debated the placement of a territory border, and she clearly had not forgiven him. Guangyao and Huaisang were having an animated discussion about...something Xichen didn’t catch because as soon as Mingjue saw him, he grinned, mouth tipping up at one corner, eyes crinkling at the corners, and Xichen’s focus narrowed to the beloved shape of his face.
“Aitapaho, come. Sit,” Mingjue beckoned.
Xichen set down his guqin and sat in the chair next to Mingjue, which Mingjue moved closer, cupping the nape of Xichen’s neck to kiss his forehead and nose, the warmth of his mouth spreading slowly across Xichen’s skin. Always so demonstrative, Xichen thought, but he couldn’t help smiling.
“Are you finished?” Huaisang asked, with a disgruntled huff. “Guangyao was just explaining the route the Jin supply chain takes from Ganyu, and I would very much like to discuss how we can remove it.”
“No no, please continue. I am taking note of the different shades of red Huaisang has turned for mixing colors later,” Qingyang interrupted, laughing when Huaisang flicked a map weight in her direction.
Xichen folded his hands in his lap serenely. “I would not interrupt your work. I can not speak for your brother.”
Mingjue’s hands closed around Xichen’s, and he pulled them to his mouth, blowing hot air on Xichen’s chilled fingers, grazing the knuckles with his lips and looking at Xichen in a way that made his stomach flop agreeably. “I do not interrupt you either,” he said, and Huaisang snorted.
Xichen tilted a smile in his direction, and Mingjue sat back, pleased with himself, still holding Xichen’s hands. “Go on, Guangyao,” he encouraged magnanimously. “We are all here.”
Guangyao appeared as annoyed by the interruption as Huaisang, but he only let out a small, aggravated sigh and began pointing to spots on the map again. Qingyang marked the path he indicated with swift, light touches. Xichen could see that they were marking a route leading north from Jinlin Tai and skirting the coast to a tiny harbor on the sea.
“Will destroying it not violate the armistice, anati?” Xichen asked Huaisang.
He reached out to Kitingi, standing on the padded leather perch Guangyao had made for her, feathers fluffed around her. She closed her eyes in avian rapture as Xichen scratched the back of her neck, and Xichen peeked at Guangyao out of the corner of his eye.
His face was perfectly relaxed, and he seemed entirely unconcerned that he was giving the enemy of his father valuable military intelligence. Was it genuine? A dangerous ruse? Xichen couldn’t read the small expressions of his face easily. Or rather, he didn’t always understand what he saw on Guangyao’s face. They sometimes twinged against the back of his mind like an untuned guqin string, and he couldn’t be sure if what he saw was true or calculated.
It was Guangyao who answered. “No, not if the disruption is a natural disaster. There is allowance in the agreement for the inherent unpredictability of nature. The caravan travels over this bridge.” He pointed to a river on the map. “It is guarded well, but if there was a sudden flood and the river overran its banks, who would be to blame? The next time it rains, the bridge could very well be washed away, and it would be an insurmountable setback. If the timing was right, someone enterprising might even find the supplies from the next caravan washed downstream.”
Qingyang turned what looked like the start of a laugh into a grimace, and Huaisang’s eyes widened in mock horror. “Guangyao, do you think the Ikarahu can create rain?"
It wasn’t quite fair to say they could create rain, nor could they stop it, as Xichen had found. But they could make the air fill with water from one part of the river and move it to another, and it would, Xichen thought, look a lot like rain. Especially to the Jin.
Guangyao flushed and shrugged, and Huaisang laughed, a quick chuckle. “That clever bit of advice comes very close to admitting you know more about our magic than you have previously acknowledged.”
To Xichen, he sounded admiring, but Guangyao dipped his head and hunched his shoulders away from Huaisang as though he expected a reprimand. “You cannot fault me for being observant.”
Huaisang bumped his arm against Guangyao’s, and the man looked up in surprise. “It wasn’t an insult, it was a compliment. I’ll be more clear in the future. This has...you have been a great help.”
The expression on Guangyao’s face was, for a moment, so unguarded, so stunned, Xichen wondered if it was the first compliment he’d ever received.
“Yes, Yao-ti, thank you,” Mingjue agreed, and he leaned forward, catching Guangyao’s attention and waiting until he nodded acknowledgement with a tentative smile before sitting back and folding his arms thoughtfully.
“Whatever magic you use, if it is possible, aim for subtlety, Oringa’anhu Ikira,” Guangyao added. “My father is not an idiot.”
“Are you sure?” Huaisang asked, and Qingyang looked away, eyes dancing with mirth. “But I find subtlety so overrated.”
“I am.” Guangyao‘s words were tight and clipped. “You would be an idiot if you underestimate him.”
“Ah, Yao-ti,” Mingjue smiled indulgently. “Aurakat is often an idiot, but he is not a fool. Da ati eko anha, Aurakat? Roka et kindio di amau daku?” he asked, glancing back at Guangyao. “Heti pia amau daku.”
Huaisang clicked his tongue and grumbled, “Em ekos auha kindio eta iraminga, anakau.”
He didn’t seem truly offended by Mingjue’s question, and Xichen glanced at Guangyao to see if understood Mingjue’s meaning. Guangyao’s face seemed relaxed, but for one fleeting moment, his fingers flexed and his jaw tightened, long enough for Xichen to be certain. He did realize that Mingjue was including him as one of their people to protect. Strangely, though, he did not seem pleased and Xichen wondered why.
“Is this a good idea?” he asked, and Huaisang tipped his head curiously.
“Why wouldn’t it be, Xichen? It’s such minor magic, anakau could do it himself, but if it makes you feel better, I will order him to take a squad.” He grinned impishly and Mingjue shook his head.
“He teases. We will be careful, aitapaho.” He looked smug, and Xichen sighed but didn’t argue. They were a formidable team, and he trusted that they knew what they were doing. And yet, he couldn’t help thinking they were taking such a risk based on the word of a man they barely knew.
A few days later, though, Xichen had a different reason to be displeased.
He should not have intruded. It was ill-bred of him to enter Guangyao’s tent without permission, but he thought of him as a friend he could share worry with, and Mingjue had been gone for several days, longer than he had expected.
Evidently, he had returned.
Mingjue was sprawled on the wood floor of the tent in only his tunic and pants, his armor in a heap next to him. Huaisang was perched on a pillow, back to the door, but he turned to acknowledge Xichen with a brisk nod. Guangyao was standing barefoot on Mingjue’s back, as graceful as a dancer, walking in tiny, careful steps next to his spine. He stopped and shifted, bending at the knees to press his weight down, and Mingjue let out a heartfelt groan that pierced Xichen with an icy dagger.
Guangyao looked up and tipped his head, noticing Xichen watching.
“You will have to teach this…” Mingjue groaned again and Xichen’s lips tightened. “...massage to our healers, Yao-ti.”
Without looking away, Guangyao smiled, toothy and inviting, his dimples like punctures in his cheeks. “I am yours to command, Ipira’orhew Ikira.”
Xichen’s eyes widened, unable to comprehend why Guangyao was looking at him like that, and yet speaking to Mingjue the way he was. It was unsettling, and he let his glance slide away, down at Huaisang, who was looking up at Guangyao, eyebrows drawn together in a pensive frown.
Mingjue chuckled, a flat and pained sound. “I command you...to teach…this...” he said between grunts as Guangyao dug his toes into the muscle on Mingjue’s lower back.
“Then I will do whatever you want,” Guangyao answered, lifting on the balls of his feet at the curve of Mingjue’s buttocks, like he was about to jump, before settling back on his heels. He lightly stepped back to the floor and Mingjue rolled over, twisting his neck and back on the floor like a wriggling puppy.
“What do you think I want, Yao-ti?” he asked softly, stretching his head to the side and raising his eyebrows.
Huaisang stood so quickly he knocked the pillow across the room. “I want dinner,” he huffed and stormed out.
Perhaps “storm” was too dramatic of a word. He walked the way he always did, with a lilting step and a smirk at Xichen, but there was something tight in his jaw Xichen did not like. He felt the same tension on his own face. Guangyao didn’t look at Huaisang, not even when he slapped open the tent flap, instead, fixing his gaze on the ground just beyond Mingjue’s shoulder. Mingjue met Xichen’s eyes, though, like he had just noticed him, like he wanted to ask something, like he would say something that mattered. Xichen didn’t wait for him to collect the words.
“My apologies for interrupting, Ipira’orhew Ikira, Jin-gongzi.”
Xichen found it depressingly simple to hide the chill in his voice and the hurt in his eyes behind the half smile of ingrained civility that had always protected him. The ingrained civility also thought he should explain himself. It told him he should offer plausible excuses for leaving. But he didn’t. He just followed Huaisang out into the cold.
Notes:
Da ati eko anha, Aurakat? Roka et kindio di amau daku. Heti pia amau daku? = Can you do it, Aurakat? Without endangering our people? Any of our people?
Em ekos auha kindio eta iraminga, anakau. = I would not endanger the armistice, elder brother.
A story for Xichen and Mingjue, in another time and another place.
The Beifeng, the mighty empire of the north, invaded more than a year ago, moving inexorably south and east.
In order to buy peace, the chief of the Lan clan has given the Beifeng warlord a gift, his second oldest son in marriage. However, when Xichen finds out he makes a plan.
He, too, can give a gift to the Beifeng warlord, and he will not regret it.
Notes: Check the tags if you’re concerned about the pairings ;)
This chapter is rated E for Explicit
For translations of the entirely fictitious Beifeng language, you’ll have to scroll to notes. I’m only going to translate something that’s not clear in the text. Sadly, there’s just not any other good way to do it on Tumblr!
Chapter 18 Now
The warm afternoon starts to fade, but no one seems inclined to leave these hours of peace, this almost-utopia. It’s easy, here in this bubble of quiet, to forget who they are.
Mingjue walks with Xichen to the lake’s edge. He picks a handful of flat rocks and flicks them at the water, skipping the stones across the surface. Xichen smiles and raises his eyebrows, spinning his own rocks as far as Mingjue, earning a dimpled grin he doesn’t resist kissing.
Tall dry grasses brush their legs as they stroll further around the lake, and Xichen holds out his hand, running his fingers through the weeds that remind him of springtime, remind him that if he was home, he would be helping farmers schedule the planting season, livestock grazing, irrigation changes, next year’s rotations. He doesn’t actually wish he was there now, but he misses it anyway. It is only nostalgia, he thinks, but he wishes it was simpler to just dismiss it from his mind.
The water reflects the sky in warped ripples that look like sound. Mingjue points out a silent crane in the reeds, hoping not to be noticed, and they pass ducks congregating under a pine tree whose branches sag into the water. Xichen wraps his arms around Mingjue’s waist inside his fur-lined coat and adjusts his tunic, sliding it up to touch the skin on Mingjue’s back, settling his thumbs in the dips on either side of his spine. He is pleased by the way Mingjue laughs deep in his chest and touches Xichen’s cheekbone, smoothing his thumb across the ridge. He gazes into Xichen’s eyes, turning serious at whatever he finds behind them.
“I am sorry,” he says suddenly, too sorrowfully, too unlike himself.
Xichen feels a chill from the water, the wind, the words—they are twined together and can’t be separated.
“Etikuntiga? For what?”
Instead of answering, Mingjue frowns, tangling a lock of Xichen’s hair around his finger, letting it slip away, twisting it again, letting it go, again and again. He seems to be thinking, and Xichen doesn’t want to repeat his question, but he is afraid, and it’s hard to stand still in a pool of fear.
“I have done...poa ahinu.” There is terrible regret in his voice, and Xichen scrambles for a translation.
“Many...bad?” No, ainu is bad. He doesn’t know ahinu.
“Bad things,” Mingjue corrects, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against Xichen’s, the familiar gesture of affection feeling more like resignation this time, like waiting for punishment. “I have done many bad things. To you. Your people. I can not explain, and I do not know how to say I am sorry.”
Xichen doesn’t do him the disservice of laughing away his remorse. He doesn’t know the answer either.
“Ahoraho, you have never harmed me,” he says finally. “I can not forgive you for anything else, although if I could, I would.” He doesn’t say because I love you. He knows Mingjue would return his sentiment, even mean it, but there is a chasm of obligation between them. His love and Mingjue’s are two different creatures, and to say the words would call attention to the inequality. Xichen doesn’t know if he’s protecting himself or Mingjue, but either way, he can’t lay out his heart so bare.
Mingjue kisses him, rough and searching, seeking something specific. Xichen doesn’t have absolution, but he kisses Mingjue just as firmly, tightening his arms and digging his fingers into the pliant flesh of Mingjue’s back. Mingjue pulls Xichen’s hips against him, grinding against his thigh, and Xichen stiffens and pulls back with a smile, not a rejection, only not wanting to be seen. Mingjue leads him further under the pine tree until Xichen is fairly sure they’re hidden from view on the other side of an old trunk and draping limbs.
“Shh,” he tells Xichen with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, that’s still too contrite, and Xichen can’t bear it. He doesn’t know what Mingjue intended, but he wants to show Mingjue, even if he is too much of a coward to say it, that he is loved and forgiven.
Xichen kneels in the soft carpet of dead needles before Mingjue, ignoring his hoarse, “Xichen, no, wait,” and unties Mingjue’s pants enough to wrap his mouth around his cock in one deep suction of hard tongue, soft lips, and wet throat that makes Mingjue’s knees buckle. It was such a surprise, he is not yet fully hard, and Xichen loves that he can take him in completely, feel him stiffen against his throat, coax him with his hands. Mingjue leans against the tree and covers his mouth, holding back the moans that want to escape, but Xichen is relentless. Love, he thinks. He loves Mingjue. And whatever pain he feels, whatever melancholy haunts the caverns of his heart, Xichen will take it away if he can.
Xichen fills his hand with the power of his gift and lays it on Mingjue’s stomach, channeling the soothing magic into Mingjue the way he does with Sikunadis. Mingjue gasps, and bucks against Xichen’s mouth, hissing his name.
Xichen meets his eyes and Mingjue looks almost panicked, almost close to tears, out of control in a way Xichen has never seen. His hand clenching involuntarily in Xichen’s hair is the only warning before his climax explodes through him, and Xichen gladly takes that too, holding Mingjue steady as he shudders uncontrollably, licking his still-beautiful softening cock and kissing the lines of muscle that curve around his hip bones until Mingjue slumps to the ground.
“Aitapaho, what...what you did...ah Xichen, why are you so kind to me?” Mingjue stammers, still catching his breath, brushing his fingers over Xichen’s face as though memorizing the planes.
Xichen wants to laugh. Kindness hasn’t been his first thought, but he had wondered if he could soothe Mingjue’s sadness like he could heal a cut or scrape. He hadn’t known if it would help or if Mingjue would understand. But he had.
“Because you are kind,” he says. “Because you deserve kindness.”
With a sigh, Mingjue pulls him into a hug and does not let go for a very long time.
They walk the rest of the way around the lake before they rejoin the others, who don’t seem to have even noticed their absence. Titakau looks like she is sleeping, curled up next to Qingyang, who is reading and thoughtlessly looping Titakau’s pair of long braids through her hands. Huaisang and Guangyao are engrossed in maka, a strategy game Xichen hates playing. It’s not because he isn’t good at it. He used to love to play with his brother, but it is the one thing Huaisang is truly, deeply, passionately serious about, and it takes all the joy out of the rare times Xichen can outmaneuver him. Luckily, Guangyao is very good at it too, and he has proven to be a more enjoyable opponent for both Huaisang and Xichen.
Maka is also, curiously, one of the few things the Ikarahu have in common with Xichen’s people, and he wonders whether it was the Ikarahu who brought the game south, or whether his people took it over the mountains. When did everything go wrong between their lands? Before he came to live with them, Xichen had known so little about the Ikarahu, not the simplest basics of their language, not even their name for themselves. If more had been shared between their cultures, would there have been a war?
It occurs to him how much more Guangyao knows than he did, and he curses himself for never caring about what happened beyond the Cloud Recesses and beyond what affected him directly. He has been a fool for too long.
The winter light turns into long shadows, and there’s a snippy new cut to the wind by the time Huaisang stretches, looks around, and decides it’s time to leave. Once they’re packed up to return, Mingjue pulls Xichen behind Liebing to kiss him soundly, pretending the world contains only them, and no one else can see them here. Xichen clutches him tightly, hoarding every minute of Mingjue he can.
It is, perhaps, the reason they don’t notice the approaching horses until right before the soldiers attack.
“Anakau!” Huaisang screams, and there is the sound of metal clashing, but Mingjue is already reacting, drawing Kaumadis as he runs, Xichen right behind him.
Without thinking, Xichen heads for Qingyang and Titakau, blocking a rider who is thrusting a heavy spear at them. Spinning Sikunadis, he swings the sword toward the man, releasing a wave of blinding power from the iraho and immediately channels more into the blade. Xichen’s magic rocks the man backward, throwing him from his horse. Xichen slaps the horse on its rump with the flat of the sword, sending it running back the way it had come.
He does not want to kill this man, who he now recognizes is wearing the insignia of the Jin clan. But the man leaps to his feet and charges, and Xichen has only seconds to make a choice. He brushes the spear aside and runs the man through, giving him, at least, a swift and merciful death. He feels sorrow and a twinge of guilty betrayal, but it is not enough. Not enough to die for. Not enough to sacrifice his friends for.
Xichen is torn between staying to protect Qingyang and Titakau and finding Mingjue, but Titakau grabs the spear and hoists it.
“Ereda,” she tells him. “Ema outam eti eko.”
Xichen runs toward the sound of fighting. It must have been a scouting party, Xichen thinks, although they are very far from Jinlin Tai. There are only ten or twelve men, and already four have fallen, including the one Xichen killed. One of the Ikarahu guards is on the ground, injured or dead, Xichen can’t tell, and the other two are with Mingjue, guarding his back against the majority of the soldiers.
Huaisang has shoved Guangyao behind him, holding off one of the soldiers, but Xichen watches helplessly, too far away to help, as a second Jin soldier runs to the attack.
“Oridit!” Xichen yells in Orera, knowing Huaisang and Guangyao will understand him, and hopefully the Jin man will not.
Guangyao spins too late, and the soldier stumbles forward, shock and horror on his face as his sword slides deep into Guangyao’s chest. He mouths something Xichen can’t hear and Guangyao cries out in pain, falling to his knees. Huaisang lunges furiously at the man he is fighting, sword flashing across the Jin soldier’s throat. He kicks him away viciously before turning to the man who stabbed Guangyao.
The man holds up his hands, but Huaisang either doesn’t see or doesn’t care. He crooks his fingers, and flings what looks like a solid boulder of magic at the man, throwing him into the trunk of a tree. Xichen has no doubt that the dull crunching sound he makes on impact is a death sentence, and the man slides bonelessly to the ground.
“Mik! Xichen, nahima!” Huaisang shouts, panic and fear reverting him to his native tongue. He braces Guangyao, holding him up, careful not to jar his injured right side. “Yao-ti, mik, mik, mik, dak anot ainu?”
Guangyao’s skin is already pale and waxy, and he is fighting for every gurgling breath. Xichen tosses Sikunadis to Titakau, who catches it gracefully. Qingyang takes the spear and they move to guard positions. Xichen reaches inside Guangyao’s robes to press his hand against the wound, testing it with his magic. It is deep, and he heals the punctured lung immediately, knowing that to be the greatest danger. The blood is still flowing more swiftly than Xichen likes to see, but nothing else vital is damaged, and there are no broken bones.
“Huaisang, I will heal him. Go help your brother,” Xichen orders, but Huaisang shakes his head mutely, his expression blank. “Aurakat,” Xichen says more firmly, and Huaisang’s chin snaps up, still defiant. “Ereda. Nahima eko Mingjue. Ako.”
He does not say because I can’t, but Huaisang finally seems to understand. With a frown, he releases Guangyao and goes, and Qingyang takes his place, bracing Guangyao as Xichen heals him.
“He knew me,” Guangyao whispers, and Xichen nods. It was what he had suspected.
“I do not think he meant to strike you,” Xichen says, and Guangyao tries to shake his head but grimaces in pain.
“No,” he agrees scornfully. “I should be relieved that at least they were not here to kill me.”
Xichen wants to ask Guangyao if he thinks his father would try to kill him, and why, but he doesn’t want Guangyao to waste his strength. When he meets Qingyang’s eyes, she nods, teeth clenched. She, at least, would not doubt it, he thinks.
“Perhaps they are here for your horse,” Guangyao says, managing a reedy, but Xichen has to strain to hear his rasping words. “Your Liebing used to be my father’s, you know. Only the finest possessions for...”
His voice trails off as he bites back a pained grunt, and Xichen touches a hand to his forehead, adding a second stream of magic to ease the hurt.
When the sound of fighting abruptly stops, Xichen looks up to see Huaisang and Mingjue—safe, they are safe—with the two Ikarahu soldiers. The third is lying motionless, and when Mingjue checks him, he closes his eyes and shakes his head, motioning the other two soldiers to secure the dead man to his horse for transport.
Xichen is sick. This day that had started so beautifully has turned so ugly, and even though his friend will heal, Xichen is shaken by the possibility of what might have been. No one interrupts him as he heals Guangyao, but Mingjue rests a hand on the back of his neck, rubbing a soothing circle. When Xichen takes his hand away from Guangyao’s shoulder, the skin is as smooth and unblemished as it had been.
“You are very skilled, Zewu-Jun,” Guangyao tells him faintly. “But why am I so tired?”
Xichen pats his hand. “Thank you, Guangyao. You were injured badly and lost a great deal of blood, so you may feel weak for some time. Can you ride?”
Guangyao’s eyes flutter shut as he considers, but eventually, he shakes his head.
“Aurakat, will you ride with Yao-ti?” Mingjue asks. “I do not wish him to fall.”
It makes sense, Xichen thinks. After all, Huaisang is the lightest, and it will put the least strain on his horse. It will leave Mingjue free to guard them, as they are down a soldier. But he can’t help but think that Mingjue looks calculating. Perhaps Huaisang is not the only brother who can scheme.
Huaisang nods, even though he looks unusually anxious, and Mingjue lifts Guangyao, helping him sit in front of Huaisang. Xichen doesn’t think the man is feigning this weakness; he doesn’t think Guangyao would ever intentionally show true weakness. The ride back is uneventful, although slower than the ride out had been, and when they get back, Guangyao has fallen asleep, leaning back against Huaisang’s shoulder.
It seems that being stabbed has made Qingyang dislike Guangyao less. She and Titakau help him into his tent, staying, Titakau says, to ensure he doesn’t slip into an unwakeable sleep. Huaisang looks caught between two minds, as if he wants to follow them, but instead, he turns away. Mingjue catches his arm before he can flee.
“Aurakat, we must end this,” he says gently, “Heto romi heti romi eidar.”
Huaisang’s eyes close. He looks forlorn and heartsick, and Mingjue pulls him into a quick hug before letting him go.
It is one of those things Xichen doesn’t understand, and they aren’t willing to explain yet. He waits as Mingjue hands the reins of the horse carrying the dead man to the other soldiers, resting a hand on the man’s head with a frown. He murmurs something that sounds like “mau ato.” My fault. Xichen doesn’t know what to say, so he only takes Minjgue’s hand and leads him to his tent. There will be work to do tomorrow, but tonight, he needs to be held and loved, and he suspects Mingjue does too.
Xichen hopes that someday they’ll trust him enough to share the grief that brought them south.
Notes:
Ereda. Ema outam eti eko. = Go. We’re behind you.
Mik! Xichen, nahima! = Shit! Xichen, help me!
Yao-ti, mik, mik, mik, dak anot ainu? = Yao-ti, shit, shit, shit, how bad is it?
Ereda. Nahima eko Mingjue. Ako. = Go. Help Mingjue. Please.
Heto romi heti romi eidar. = One way or the other (literally one road or another road).
A story for Xichen and Mingjue, in another time and another place.
The Beifeng, the mighty empire of the north, invaded more than a year ago, moving inexorably south and east.
In order to buy peace, the chief of the Lan clan has given the Beifeng warlord a gift, his second oldest son in marriage. However, when Xichen finds out he makes a plan.
He, too, can give a gift to the Beifeng warlord, and he will not regret it.
Notes: Check the tags if you’re concerned about the pairings ;)
For translations of the entirely fictitious Beifeng language, you’ll have to scroll to notes. I’m only going to translate something that’s not clear in the text. Sadly, there’s just not any other good way to do it on Tumblr!
Chapter 17 Earlier
Xichen didn’t see Jin Guangyao again for days, largely because Mingjue barely let him leave his tent, as though trying to reassure Xichen that Jin Guangyao’s presence created no change. It was less reassuring than he intended, because Xichen thought that if his position here with Mingjue was wholly secure, perhaps he wouldn’t need so much reassuring.
Still, he couldn’t pretend he didn’t enjoy Mingjue’s presence seeping into every empty space of his life. Xichen had already learned that it was as earth-shattering to give pleasure as it was to receive it, and he had spent the winter months making a very thorough exploration of Mingjue’s body. There was almost no end to the things Mingjue was willing to let Xichen try, and he was, himself, remarkably inventive.
But he loved the small domesticity of Mingjue in the morning almost as much, of waking next to him, listening to the way his breathing shifted so suddenly from asleep to awake. He always seemed surprised to find Xichen with him, surprised and delighted, stretching his arms and pulling Xichen to him the same way every day.
With the siege temporarily eased, Mingjue was less busy, and most of what he did was familiar to Xichen, the work of running a city rather than commanding an army. There were internal conflicts to settle, supplies to organize, and plans to make for the future. Mingjue did most of it from the comfort of Xichen’s bed, to the great amusement of his generals. As Mingjue’s grasp of Yuyan and Xichen’s skill in Orera improved, Mingjue began asking Xichen’s opinion about everything, from the small issues of disagreements between the horse trainers and romantic entanglements gone awry, to the bigger and less exciting problems of crop rotation, food storage, and waste removal.
It wasn’t all work. In the down times, he fed Xichen rare mountain plums, massaged his back with jasmine cream and sweet-smelling oils, and braided Xichen’s hair in complicated twists and plaits, as doting a lover as Xichen could ever have imagined, and he reveled in being cared for. The only indulgence Xichen truly felt guilty about involved the copper tub.
Prior to winter, the huge tub had been used mostly for washing clothes. When it had been warmer, Xichen had bathed the way the rest of the Ikarahu did: very quickly in the cold river. Once the weather shifted, bathing tents were set up near the river and a team of Ikarahu mages moved and warmed water for baths. It was still cold, but warmer than Xichen’s bathing at home would have been in winter.
It was not, however, Mingjue’s preference. He liked hot baths and decided to convert Xichen to his point of view.
It took dozens of people to move water from the river on the eastern side of the camp to the huge cauldron that sat on a magical fire in the center of camp. No one seemed to mind obliging their commander, although Xichen found it embarrassing that everyone knew when he bathed. Mingjue had just laughed and asked how it was different than bathing in the communal tents, and Xichen didn’t have an answer for that.
He was immediately won over when he sank into water hot enough to sting, and he nearly cried with happiness. Apparently, the sound he made was such that Mingjue stripped and joined him, settling Xichen in front of him and washing his hair with gentle fingers until Xichen could no longer stand the positively provoking way his body was rubbing against Xichen’s under the water. Xichen rolled over to provoke him back, sloshing water over the sides of the tub in a flurry of kisses. Mingjue’s solution was even messier, pulling Xichen out of the tub and tossing him onto the bed, which made Xichen laugh and shiver at the heat in Mingjue’s eyes. Luckily, the copper tub kept the water warm enough to still be enjoyable after their not-so-brief interlude.
It was almost enough to make him forget the flutter of Jin Guangyao’s long eyelashes when he looked at Mingjue.
Despite Mingjue’s efforts to keep him distracted, Xichen had seen and even talked to Guangyao in the common areas of camp, usually with Huaisang hovering nearby. But sometimes Jin Guangyao was sitting alone, always watching the men and women around him but never interacting. Xichen couldn’t help wondering what Jin Guangyao did to occupy his time.
Xichen finally decided to take the initiative. He couldn’t ignore the man forever. The next time he saw Jin Guangyao alone, leaning on a hitching post and watching the munaku training, he stopped.
“Jin-gongzi, I notice you are fond of the munaku. Have you seen the eagles hunting as well?” Xichen asked, and Jin Guangyao’s smile filled his face.
“Zewu-Jun, this one has only seen them in the distance. Oringa’anhu Ikira says they are too dangerous to approach. They are magnificent, even from afar, although this one would be willing to take the risk.”
He seemed to be watching Xichen’s face carefully, as though gauging his reaction, and Xichen wondered what he was looking for. He made an impulsive decision.
“Jin-gongzi, would you allow me to share a pot of Zhao tea with you tomorrow? I do not know if you have had Ikarahu tea yet, but...it is likely not what you are used to, and it is always a pleasure to drink good tea with someone who appreciates it.”
Jin Guangyao blinked in surprise and then chuckled. “Indeed, Zewu-Jun, this one has tried the...tea. It would be an honor to avoid sampling it again.”
Xichen laughed despite himself. At least they had that in common.
He’d taken Jin Guangyao one of the many potted plants Mingjue had gifted him in the autumn along with the tea. When he arrived, Jin Guangyao was writing at a table piled high with books, something else they had in common. Even though Xichen still found Jin Guangyao more cautious than necessary, always correcting his course to avoid any offense, he was easy to talk to, never at a loss for words, and Xichen’s dislike thawed. It was harder to hate someone he didn’t know.
However, the first time Jin Guangyao visited Xichen, more than two weeks after he arrived, was entirely without warning on a bath day. Jin Guangyao had shown himself to be so unflaggingly proper in every other way, his unannounced appearance at the tent entry came as an unwelcome shock. It wasn’t precisely rude, but it set Xichen off balance, and he had to scramble to recover.
“Zewu-Jun, the camp is so large! There must be a thousand tents. This one struggled to find this tent, only to discover how near it is after walking down many other rows,” Jin Guangyao laughed, bright and winsome as he shook snow off his clothes, and it helped erase Xichen’s annoyance at being interrupted.
And then Jin Guangyao saw Mingjue sitting cross-legged on the bed, his still-damp braids loose around his shoulders. It was obvious the moment Guangyao noticed him, because his posture changed slightly, as though a rope was pulled taut inside his body, and he bowed respectfully.
“Ipira’orhew Ikira, this one did not expect such an honor.”
Mingjue was eating a plum, cutting into it with the sharp blade of a small curved dagger, and he nodded at Jin Guangyao with a smile. Xichen took that to mean he didn’t mind Jin Guangyao’s presence, so he invited the man to join them. Xichen had been playing the guqin before Jin Guangyao arrived, and he wasn’t sure if he should continue, but Mingjue grinned beseechingly at him.
“Edas ahora, will you finish the song?”
Xichen sat back down behind the instrument, settling his fingers against the strings. Jin Guangyao chose one of the large cushions in front of Xichen to sit on, but only after darting an assessing look at Mingjue that was altogether too interested.
“Zewu-Jun is a master musician,” Jin Guangyao exclaimed, his dark eyes alight with what looked like genuine admiration when Xichen finished a song about peonies fading in summer.
“Thank you, Jin-gongzi,” Xichen replied, unable to be informal in the face of this man’s unflinching politeness.
“Do you play?” Mingjue asked, laying back against the bed pillows and crossing his ankles.
He popped a piece of plum in his mouth and raised his eyebrows curiously. He looked relaxed and decadent, and, in Xichen’s opinion, gorgeous. Xichen was not surprised by the minute flare of Jin Guangyao’s nostrils and fleeting lift of his eyebrows before he shook his head regretfully.
“Only a little. This one’s skill is minor by comparison. My talents lie elsewhere.” He looked away with a flush, and added, “I write poetry, sometimes.”
Xichen played through two more songs before Mingjue stretched, back arched, arms above his head, catching both Xichen and Jin Guangyao’s full attention. He got up and kissed Xichen’s forehead, touching a thumb to his lips. “Da iko auha, Ahora’ipa.”
To Xichen’s surprise, he ruffled the top of Jin Guangyao’s head on his way out. “I see you, too, Guangyao.”
The look that passed over Jin Guangyao’s face was mostly baffled. But not entirely.
“He does have that effect,” Xichen murmured, trying to repress the flare of irritation.
Jin Guangyao instantly schooled his expression into neutrality. “He is different than this one expected,” he said flatly, and then added with a deferential tip to his head, “Zewu-Jun, may this one ask? What does Ahora’ipa mean?”
It was an interesting question, as Xichen was quite sure Jin Guangyao knew precisely what the endearment meant. But perhaps he was asking for the deeper understanding of the phrase, which Xichen himself was still not fully sure of.
“It means ‘well loved,’ and it seems to be the Ikarahu equivalent to Zewu-Jun. When my family arranged the treaty with the Ikarahu, one of the terms was that I would be given…” Xichen paused, trying to be mindful of the lie he is about to tell. “I would be given ‘equal status.’ I believe it is in acknowledgement of my rank as my father’s heir and commander.”
Although it was true that the contract specified that he was “given in equal status,” Xichen had never understood why he was granted a title, as he knew perfectly well the title was not part of the agreement for Wangji, nor was it part of the rewritten contract Xichen created. Perhaps it had been in an earlier draft of the negotiations, but to ask would make it clear that he deceived the Ikarahu without his family’s knowledge, and he was still not certain how that news would be received. If nothing else, it would disclose how he had lied to them, and he was not eager to face that revelation.
Jin Guangyao nodded thoughtfully, a small crease between his eyes. “It is a title, then. Undoubtedly one that has been earned, given the way it is said around camp.”
Xichen felt his cheeks heating, and he was quick to soften the possible insult that, despite their similar status and station, Jin Guangyao was given no title by the Ikarahu, “Ipira’orhew Ikira is fond of endearments for people he knows well. Ahora’ipa, treasured one, beloved man…it is just his way.”
Jin Guangyao smiled, wider than Xichen had seen before. “You are different than I expected as well,” he said, creasing the dimples into his cheeks.
The shift to informality took Xichen by surprise, as did the implication that Jin Guangyao had expectations of Xichen. How could he have known anything about Xichen other than gossip?
“Your brother sends his regards,” Jin Guangyao said softly, and Xichen jolted upright, standing before he could take a breath.
He dropped to the ground next to Jin Guangyao and gripped his hand. “You have seen Wan...Hanguang-Jun?” he asked, hoping, hoping.
“No, Zewu-Jun,” Jin Guangyao said kindly. “I wrote to him to congratulate him on being made heir of the Lan clan and again when my father...when I was asked to come here.”
He has already been announced as heir. Of course his father would not delay. Wangji must hate it, Xichen thought, and his heart sank when he realized that all he had done was lock his brother in a second prison instead of the first.
No, he could not believe that. At least at home, Wangji would have the chance for happiness with his archer. Here, there would have been no hope. Wangji was fair and just, and he would learn to be a fine leader of the Lan clan.
“Did he...send anything...for me?” The question feels childish, and he knew it was unfair to expect his brother to send a message when Xichen had not, but he was filled with an overwhelming sense of loss for the conversations he would never have with his brother. This was the closest he had been to Wangji in months; he couldn’t help asking.
Did he imagine the hesitation?
“No, Zewu-Jun, but he did say he had not heard from you since you left?” Jin Guangyao said tentatively, the question in his voice inviting Xichen to explain.
Xichen felt guilty for suspecting him of hiding something. It was Xichen who was hiding. He couldn’t even explain it. He couldn’t explain all the letters he wrote and discarded, the words he did not dare share with his brother. Wangji would never believe him. I am sorry I deceived you. I am happy here. And even if I was not, you are safe.
In the end, he had written only once to his father, shortly after his birthday, saying the words he knew would protect his brother and the Cloud Recesses. This is my choice. I am safe. Evidently his father had not chosen to share that with Wangji, which is an anger Xichen can not show Jin Guangyao. For the first time, he wonders if he made a mistake in not trying to convince Wangji that he was happy. He hadn’t wanted to drive a wedge between his father and brother, and he hadn’t been certain if Wangji would believe anything he said. No, he knows Wangji. He would be angry with Xichen for deceiving him, but he was prudent and thoughtful, and he would never endanger the Cloud Recesses. A contract was a contract, no matter how much he might hate it. Understanding of the ramifications and his natural cautiousness would keep Wangji from taking any action.
“I left abruptly and...I was angry,” he said, hoping Jin Guangyao would accept his equivocation. “Anything I said now would be a disappointment to them.”
Jin Guangyao’s peals of laughter sounded forced from him, and he covered his mouth. Xichen raised his eyebrows, puzzled.
“Oh, Zewu-Jun,” he finally managed, “It is only that...I have never considered what it would be like to not disappoint my family.”
It was such a terrible thing to say, Xichen felt it must be the truth. He wanted to reassure Jin Guangyao, but he didn’t know this man or his family, and he didn’t want to appear either cruel or condescending.
“My brother would not be disappointed in me, but I did not want to put him in the position of having to tell my father that I was not unhappy,” he said, exchanging a truth for a truth.
“No, you do not seem to be.”
Jin Guangyao looked around the tent speculatively and Xichen flushed. He was not ashamed. He was not. He had not expected to ever feel anything but loneliness and resentment, and what he had found was, at the very least, friendship and acceptance. Xichen didn’t think there was any nobility in seeking out unhappiness, but it was difficult to admit his contentment to this man who was his countryman.
“Of course, I mean no judgement, Zewu-Jun,” he added, understanding Xichen’s reaction. “But if you would like the company of someone who can, perhaps, appreciate your situation, I would take comfort in having a friend who can appreciate mine.”
The words meant one thing, Xichen thought. But the slow smile and the sidelong look said something quite different indeed.
Notes:
Da iko auha, Ahora’ipa. = I will return, Ahora’ipa
I know wip Wednesday isn’t QUITE the thing here that it is on Twitter but if you read “soaring, carried aloft on the wind” and asked for Wangji’s perspective...you’ll be happy to know I started that story.
A story for Xichen and Mingjue, in another time and another place.
The Beifeng, the mighty empire of the north, invaded more than a year ago, moving inexorably south and east.
In order to buy peace, the chief of the Lan clan has given the Beifeng warlord a gift, his second oldest son in marriage. However, when Xichen finds out he makes a plan.
He, too, can give a gift to the Beifeng warlord, and he will not regret it.
Notes: Check the tags if you’re concerned about the pairings ;)
For translations of the entirely fictitious Beifeng language, you’ll have to scroll to notes. I’m only going to translate something that’s not clear in the text. Sadly, there’s just not any other good way to do it on Tumblr!
Chapter 16 Now
It rains for a week as spring approaches, great sheets of water that turn the Ikarahu camp into rivers of mud. Everyone is miserable, dirty, and fractious. Huaisang and Guangyao get into an argument that ends in shouting, and they stop talking to each other for three days, taking turns complaining to Xichen. Even Mingjue seems altered—pensive and solemn, his boisterous affection distracted by thoughts he doesn’t share. Xichen spends most of his time reading and avoiding people, huddling under blankets by his warm brazier.
But once the storms pass and all the water seeps back into the ground, the end of winter turns sunny and clear, as if the gods are apologizing for their earlier tantrum.
After so many days inside, Xichen welcomes Huaisang’s suggestion of a day’s ride into the foothills to the west of the camp. He’s aware that there is likely a secondary reason for the suggestion—with Huaisang, there is rarely only one reason—but the chance to feel the wind on his face overrides any care he has for Huaisang’s schemes.
They are a larger group than Xichen expected: himself, Huaisang, Guangyao, Qingyang, Titakau, and three guards. But of course they would need guards. Even Huaisang would not be so incautious as to risk their safety, and now that he considers it, three guards seems like fewer than Mingjue would have insisted on. Xichen wonders if Huaisang made his brother aware of his plans.
After only a few minutes of riding, a rolling canter that, on Liebing’s light feet, feels almost as smooth as walking, Xichen slows at the sound of pounding hoofbeats behind them.
“Aurakat! Wingani! Roka eneti di eta hira om ga tega ehi heromu,” Mingjue yells, pulling up his horse in front of Huaisang and forcing him to stop.
“Three soldiers for four people is plenty, anakau,” Huaisang argues. “Unless you think Xichen is incapable of defending himself.”
It is a low blow, and Xichen has to bite his lip to keep from laughing at Mingjue’s consternation.
“I did mention we were having a picnic. What did you think that meant?” Huaisang asks with a flippant smirk.
“Will you come with us, ahoraho?” Xichen asks, distracting Mingjue, who looks ready to tackle Huasiang off his horse. “If you are not too busy?”
With a huff, Mingjue scowls at Huaisang one more time before falling back to join Xichen. They ride in silence for a while, in part because Xichen is at a loss for words. Without the army, without the camp, he’s not sure what to talk about. He has rarely felt awkward around Mingjue, but he suddenly can’t think of a single thing to say. Instead he watches his friends. Qingyang laughs at something Titakau says, and Xichen can see Titakau smiling, even from here. Ahead of them, Huaisang pokes Guangyao in the shoulder and points to something in the distance, the silhouette of a huge eagle eventually gliding into sight, banking above them and heading north, toward the mountains. Guangyao watches the path of the bird until it disappears from sight.
“Poets in my country speak of your land as empty and barren, but I think they have never been here,” Mingjue says suddenly, breaking the silence. “There is beauty in your plains and hills, as there is in our datik.”
Xichen blinks at him, taken aback by Mingjue’s interest in poetry as much as his continued insistence that the mountains of Xichen’s home are mere hills.
Mingjue grins, reading Xichen’s expression. “They are not even covered in snow, Xichen. But tell me, do your poets write of Ikara?”
They do, and Xichen tells him that Ikara is seen as a mystical place, frightful and wild, with giants of men who ravage maidens and warrior women who wield dark magic. Mingjue roars with laughter.
“Xichen, you are kindio touha...more danger...hm...more dangerous...than most of our people. Although I do not know how it is possible. How do your people grow strong drinking the weak tea?”
Xichen pretends to be offended as he explains the supremacy of delicate, aged white tea. After so many months, it is unexpectedly charming to see yet another side of Mingjue. Xichen hadn’t fully appreciated how heavily caring for the well-being of so many people weighs on Mingjue. Within the encampment, Mingjue is always kipakau, always the general. But the further they get from the city of tents, the less he seems like a commander and more like an ordinary man Xichen doesn’t know well enough yet.
They enter a copse of pine trees, and Xichen is subdued by the beauty of this evergreen forest. Even though it is not yet true spring, there is the whisper of wind in the boughs, bird song all around him, and the peace of it inhabits him like home. When they emerge into a clearing on the other side of the woods, a quiet lake with the remains of summer reeds on its shores lays before them. Xichen nearly asks how Huaisang knew it was here, because it is clearly his intended destination.
“Time for lunch!” Huaisang announces as he dismounts, and with an unnecessarily dramatic gesture, he sets up a large flame burning in the grass.
Even with no wood to sustain it, the flame produces heat, fueled by the magic in the air. Xichen and Guangyao exchange a look. It is another reminder of how different Ikarahu magic is, and Xichen wonders how long the fire can last.
The ground is dry, if cold, and they unpack thick wool blankets to sit on. Their three guards’ horses had been carrying baskets of food, all designed to be eaten cold, as well as jars of ale and water, and Xichen is amused at how carefully Huaisang has prepared this adventure.
Huaisang whistles and Kitingi joins them, although she settles on Guangyao’s shoulder, not Huaisang’s, and bites his hair affectionately. He hands her tiny pieces of food he usually has at the ready. Guangyao’s face softens as it always does around Kitingi, and he scratches the top of her head, smoothing her feathers as she eats. Xichen thinks she might prefer Guangyao even to Mingjue these days.
Titakau whispers something to Qingyang, and Qingyang laughs. “I don’t know, auhani. I’ll ask. Why doesn’t she fly away? She isn’t tethered like the other munaku.”
“I feed her too well,” Huaisang jokes, but Mingjue gives her a true answer.
“Aurakat only pretends he does not care,” he explains, smirking at Huaisang as though revealing a deep, dark secret, and Huaisang throws a cup at him. “He raised her from a chick. She could leave any time, but she stays for love.”
They finish eating, and then they sword fight. It would have been a strange way to pass the afternoon in the Cloud Recesses, but Huaisang claims to be cold after their meal and challenges his brother to a duel, a match even Xichen has never seen before. It shouldn’t have been a contest, but once they start, it’s obvious that Huaisang has learned from spending his life sparring with Mingjue. He knows every counter to every move, and he even pulls out his kitingi fan as an extra distraction, blocking Kaumadis with hard swipes and spinning the sharp blades of the fan in front of Mingjue’s face. It doesn’t seem likely that he’ll win, but he keeps Mingjue on his toes until Mingjue laughingly dodges a parry and picks Huaisang up, slinging him over his shoulder and depositing him back onto a blanket by Guangyao.
“Enough! You will have me dancing for hours, anati,” he says and looks as though he intends to sit too, but Xichen stands.
“Will you dance with me, ahoraho?” he asks, drawing Sikunadis, and Mingjue’s eyes darken.
Xichen likes that look on Mingjue’s face. He turns his back to the rest of the group, biting his lip and giving Mingjue a private smile he intends to convey just how much. Mingjue shakes his head.
“You do not fight fair, aitapaho,” he complains with a wink.
It is not a serious bout, not in the tall dry grass, and not after Mingjue has already sparred with Huaisang, but Xichen never tires of learning how he can use Sikunadis differently than an ordinary sword. As Huaisang had suspected, the sword responds to his magic, filling like a well, holding the power for as long as necessary and allowing Xichen to recover his strength. And when he pushes in more power than the sword can hold, the release is magnified, a brilliant explosion of darkness and light that can fling even a shielded attacker away.
Xichen would not say he is showing off, but at first, he lets Mingjue take more risks and get closer than usual, leaning back to let Kaumadis glide past his face, flipping sideways to evade strikes, and putting even more speed into his parries. When he realizes Mingjue is tiring, he runs his fingers across the back of Mingjue’s neck as he spins behind him, grinning when Mingjue groans and falters.
He wins against Mingjue easily and far too quickly, only using enough of the power reserves inside Sikunadis to buzz against Mingjue when he tags him on the back first, then the stomach. Mingjue falls to the ground, laughing and raising his hands in defeat. He holds Xichen’s gaze just long enough to promise rewards when they get back to camp, long enough to make Xichen grin foolishly.
“Guangyao? Do you wish to fight with me?” Xichen asks, not wanting to leave anyone out, and Guangyao deliberates before shaking his head.
“I am no expert, and Zewu-Jun is. I might only be able to keep up with Oringa'anhu Ikira,” he says, entirely serious, smiling only when Huaisang realizes he’s been insulted and reacts with mock outrage.
Qingyang declines as well, but to Xichen’s surprise, Titakau agrees to fight, borrowing Huaisang’s sword. She has excellent form and technique, and she is nearly as quick as Xichen. She catches him off guard twice, forcing him to scramble to block. They end the match in a draw, and Xichen compliments her skill. She ducks her head and tells him that her father is a swordsmith, and she has held a sword since she was a baby.
“Ei kamhawa mau peita ei eta ino iro tiato, gani ora anot inko paketau sima auha di Ipira'orhew Ikira. Et paketau di sima eta kipakau,” Titakau says, smiling shyly.
Qingyang translates, “My father was embarrassed when I became a healer, but now he is so proud that I am in service to Ipira'orhew Ikira. Everyone is proud to serve the crown prince.” With a quick grin that lights her eyes, Qingyang adds, “I am as well, you know.”
Mingjue makes a sound of dismissal and shakes his head, but he’s smiling. There is a thoughtful crease in Guangyao’s eyebrows for a split second before Kitingi leaps off of his shoulder with a sudden scream, flapping high into the air and wheeling to dive into the nearby underbrush. Huaisang and Guangyao follow her to see if she snared whatever she was hunting.
Xichen is curious about which part of Titakau’s words intrigued Guangyao, but he lets the thought go when Mingjue wraps a blanket around him and kisses Xichen’s cheek, sitting next to him with a sigh. Xichen pulls Mingjue’s hand under the blanket and rubs his thumb over Mingjue’s knuckles, leaning against him to absorb his warmth. He wonders what his father or brother would think of how easily he shows and accepts affection like the Ikarahu. He had never minded the formal distance his family kept in the Cloud Recesses. It had felt respectful and unintrusive. But now he craves the simplest touch; there is a space inside him that can never be full enough. Wangji would probably look away in embarrassment, he thinks. Or, remembering the look on Wangji’s face when he talked about his archer, maybe not. He can’t hide his smile and he decides not to ruin his day by thinking about what his father’s reaction might be. Perhaps he is an unfilial son, but he is glad his father will never have the chance to disapprove.
Guangyao and Huaisang finally retrieve a chattering Kitingi from the bush clutching a finch in her claws, and somehow, they are arguing. It’s only been minutes, and Xichen can’t understand how they’ve already found something to disagree about.
“An ambush will not work,” Guangyao says as they rejoin the group, unhooking the two birds and setting the little finch free. “I don’t care if your hawk is always successful. You’ve been camped outside of Jinlin Tai for months. They know you’re here.”
“That’s why it will work, Guangyao,” Huaisang explains, patient to the point of condescension. “They expect us to continue the siege or bring the whole army. We’ve tried waiting patiently. A frontal assault will result in too many casualties. Perhaps we need a different strategy.”
Guangyao’s eyes narrow, and he frowns. “Perhaps you should stop pestering them entirely.”
Huaisang’s grin is swift and careless, but his voice softens. “You know we won’t. Perhaps they should give in.”
Xichen wonders if they realize how obvious it is that they aren’t only talking about Jinlin Tai anymore.
Notes:
Aurakat! Wingani! Roka eneti di eta hira om ga tega ehi heromu. = Aurakat! You idiot! This is not enough men for safety.
A story for Xichen and Mingjue, in another time and another place.
The Beifeng, the mighty empire of the north, invaded more than a year ago, moving inexorably south and east.
In order to buy peace, the chief of the Lan clan has given the Beifeng warlord a gift, his second oldest son in marriage. However, when Xichen finds out he makes a plan.
He, too, can give a gift to the Beifeng warlord, and he will not regret it.
Notes: Check the tags if you’re concerned about the pairings ;)
For translations of the entirely fictitious Beifeng language, you’ll have to scroll to notes. I’m only going to translate something that’s not clear in the text. Sadly, there’s just not any other good way to do it on Tumblr!
Chapter 15 Earlier
Huaisang looked nervous, and it was not an expression that sat easily on his face. He paced in Xichen’s tent, ignoring his questions until Xichen finally set down his book and grabbed Huaisang’s arm.
“Anati, I am going to throw you out of my tent and into a snowbank if you do not tell me what bothers you.”
It was an idle threat, and they both knew it. Xichen was far too happy to do any such thing, and everyone knew it. He did try not to walk through every day with a foolish smile on his face, but he knew he failed most of the time, especially the days he woke to the sight of Mingjue’s face next to his. Especially on the days Mingjue stopped to see Xichen while he was working in the hospital to kiss his forehead. Especially on the days they put on their warmest clothes and rode out across the frozen plains together. Xichen was not so childish as to think they would never have any conflicts, but he was also not so naïve as to think the love he felt was common. It certainly wasn’t something he’d ever seen before.
Huaisang sank down onto a round pillow and sighed. “Anakau wants me to tell you something, but I’m a coward, and I don’t want to.”
Huaisang was in no way a coward, but he looked truly miserable, and Xichen’s heart stopped. All he could think was that Huaisang had heard some news about his family, or something terrible had happened to his brother, and his grip on Huaisang’s wrist tightened.
“Tell me,” he whispered hoarsely.
“We have had an offer from the Jin clan, an offer of good faith. They wish us to end our current advancement on their city and consider negotiations. I do not wish to accept anything…” Huaisang paused, his face darkening. “I’m sorry, I can’t explain more, but we are considering it, at least for the duration of winter. It would buy us time.”
Xichen let out a whooshing breath of relief, but Huaisang looked unhappy still.
“It is an offer like...like the Lan clan made.”
Xichen sat back and instinctively pulled on the stony, impassive mask he had not needed in months. “Mingjue wants to accept?”
Did he have a right to feel betrayed? Icy fingers crawled up Xichen’s back as he considered the terms of the treaty. For his pleasure. Given first consideration. In equal status. Pledge of life bond. No, they were breaking no terms, but he had thought…
It didn’t matter what he had thought. He reminded himself of the facts. He was a gift, not a choice. And he had no choices either. He could not go home to his father.
Xichen dug his thumbnail into his palm to focus his thoughts and still his expression into neutrality, but he must have looked betrayed, because Huaisang shook his head, words rushing out of him.
“It would not be like you. No one could be like you. There are reasons this is important, and they don’t have anything to do with you. Anakau is not happy with me, but it...I think we should accept a conditional agreement, a trial period of sorts, as though we are seeing if the situation suits. It would only be for three months, and it would not be real, Xichen. You are not being replaced.”
This last was said with such guilty vehemence, some of Xichen’s hurt faded, but not all of it. Perhaps not replaced, but he can’t imagine this won’t change things.
“I think we need to do this,” Huaisang added. “We won’t get another opportunity to...well, anyway, anakau told me I had to talk to you about it first. If it helps, I think he’s punishing me.”
It did not help. Xichen still felt wounded, creeping apprehension slithering around his gut. He should not have become so accustomed to his life over the past few months. He should not have forgotten what his role was here. He didn’t want this, but there was nothing he could say. No matter what he felt, no matter what he believed Mingjue felt, in truth, Xichen was only a visitor here.
“You do not need my permission, Huaisang,” Xichen reminded him, aiming for serenity but not quite managing to keep the disappointment entirely of his voice, and Huaisang sagged.
“I know, but I wanted you to know before...before he arrives. If I didn’t believe it was necessary…” He ran his fingers over his hair, disrupting some of it from his braid. Standing swiftly, he stalked to the door, but paused and turned back. “I think of us as friends and brothers, Xichen, and I hope you can forgive me.”
He disappeared, and Xichen hoped so too.
When Mingjue came for dinner, he hovered in the doorway, hands behind his back, uncertainty stamped on his face, until Xichen sighed and beckoned him in.
“This is not for me,” he said quietly, without moving. “You are...angry?
The worst part was, Xichen wasn’t. He believed Huaisang. He knew the brothers had secrets. And he loved Mingjue. He could trust them for a little while longer, he thought, ignoring the voice that said you have no other option.
“No. Just worried,” he said, mostly truthfully, and then Mingjue moved, crushing Xichen in his arms and tucking his face against Xichen’s neck.
“Komi auha, edas ahora,” he murmured, and Xichen let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, sinking himself deeper into Mingjue’s embrace like a slowly submerging stone.
Evidently, the Jin clan expected their offer to be accepted, because the Jin emissary—it makes it easier for Xichen to think of him in political terms—arrived by the end of the next week. Huaisang asked Xichen to attend the greeting, and Xichen only agreed for the chance to silently observe the Jin man. He noted with unkind satisfaction that Mingjue’s face was still filled with storm clouds when he looked at his brother.
It was disappointing, though, that Jin Guangyao, the man Huaisang said was the eldest son of the Jin clan chief, was more appealing than Xichen wished he was. He was a little taller than Huaisang and looked to be Xichen’s age or even younger, with fine, delicate features and large soft eyes that reminded Xichen of the deer who lurked around the horse yards, hoping to steal their grain.
Jin Guangyao bowed deeply to Mingjue, spine stiff, shoulders straight. “Chifeng-Zun, this one is willing to serve in any way necessary to ensure peace for three months as agreed. Or longer.”
Mingjue’s expression didn’t change and he didn’t respond to Huaisang’s translation immediately, but Xichen thought his eyes had an appraising look in them, hopefully only curious about Jin Guangyao’s rigorous formality and not interested in his perfect skin and full mouth. Jin Guangyao looked up at him from lowered eyelashes, a curve of a smile on his lips, and Mingjue arched an eyebrow.
“Ti erodino anot auha. Eina et nagita di pia ti?” Mingjue asked Huaisang, and Huaisang frowned at him.
Neither of them was looking at Jin Guangyao, so only Xichen saw his reaction to Mingjue’s blunt assessment—He looks weak. What use is he? Anger flashed across his eyes, disappearing as swiftly as one of Wangji’s moods, and Xichen realized that if nothing else, Jin Guangyao spoke enough Orera to be insulted. How interesting.
Huaisang led them to Jin Guangyao’s tent, near Xichen’s. It was smaller and there were spells set in twisting lines of metallic thread on the door flap. Xichen had been learning about the Ikarahu magic since his birthday, hoping to use Sikunadis to its full potential. Their magic was more ambient than innate, theoretically unlimited in scope, and skilled users could form fire-like towers of heat, shift piles of dirt, control bodies of water, or cause great gusts of wind. However, it was slower and more difficult to access than Xichen’s power, requiring complex drawings in air or on surfaces to hold the magic or precise positioning of the hands and fingers.
The magic could also be stored in small amounts in the metal Sikunadis was made of, and Ikarharu craftsmen used thin wires of it in weaving, in books, in healing tools, even in the bridles they used to break wild horses. Xichen wasn’t able to pull magic from the air, ground, or water the way the Ikarahu did yet—Huaisang thought he would eventually be able to learn the skill—but he could activate the woven spells. The ones on Jin Guangyao’s tent were, to Xichen’s eyes, very clearly a lock.
Jin Guangyao frowned at the guards. “Is this one a prisoner?”
Huaisang laughed merrily. “No, you aren’t a prisoner, Guangyao. The guards are for your safety, of course.”
The man’s chin tilted up slightly when Huaisang said his name, although Xichen wasn’t sure if it was offense at the informality or if he suspected the lie. Two interesting things, he thought.
Xichen had heard Kitingi crying overhead as they walked, but Huaisang always seemed to know when she wanted to land. He held up a hand before they entered Jin Guangyao’s new home, and with a rustle of wings, she was there, alighting so swiftly it was as though she had appeared from nowhere.
“Oh,” Guangyao said, and for a single breath, there was something different on his face, a look of naked wonder, a sudden tempest of intelligence that turned into curiosity. “She’s beautiful.”
Huaisang’s expression sharpened. “How do you know Kitingi is a female?”
“Males have black eye masks,” Guangyao said absently, without taking his eyes from Kitingi, and Kitingi preened one outstretched wing, accepting his admiration as her due.
“You are very observant, Guangyao. Where did you learn about munaku?” Huaisang asked with a casual grin.
He set Kitingi on Xichen’s shoulder and Jin Guangyao’s fingers twitched, as though he wanted to lift his hand to intercept her, but as quickly as the impulse had compelled him, it passed, and he straightened, the calm sea returning to his face.
Instead of answering Huaisang, he bowed to Xichen with a dazzling smile that showed off perfect white teeth and dimples that made him look younger. “Although we have never spoken, this one is familiar with your reputation. Would this one be allowed to visit Zewu-Jun?”
“Zewu-Jun is not a prisoner either, Guangyao,” Huaisang said before Xichen could answer. “When he is not with Ipira’orhew Ikira, he is generous enough to spend time helping our healers, though, so don’t be offended if he’s hard to find.”
Jin Guangyao’s smile was tight, and he nodded understanding. Xichen thought he truly did understand Huaisang’s meaning. He felt sorry for this man, who seemed gentle and polite and ill-suited to be a political prisoner.
“Is Ipira’orhew Ikira the title Chifeng-Zun would prefer?” Jin Guangyao asked blandly, and Huaisang waved his hand dismissively.
“It doesn’t matter one way or the other. Whichever is easier for you to say.”
Jin Guangyao took a moment to digest this, and then asked, “Does Huaisang have a title he would prefer?”
Xichen was startled. He had never thought to ask if Huasiang had a title. Huaisang seemed startled too, and Xichen thought he might not answer.
He pursed his lips thoughtfully, but eventually replied, “I do not necessarily prefer it, but my title is Oringa'anhu Ikira.”
Hidden Cat Lord, Xichen translated in his head without smiling as he wanted to. It seemed fitting.
Jin Guangyao rolled the words around, faster with the unfamiliar tones than Xichen had been. “It is pleasing to say. If there is no objection, this one will use it.”
Huaisang turned with a careless shrug, taking Xichen’s elbow to lead him out of the tent, but the expression on his face was not one Xichen had ever seen before.
“I don’t like him,” Qingyang told him over dinner, sniffing her cup of white tea.
Xichen had found that the Ikarahu actually liked their bitter, dark tea. For months, he had despaired of ever drinking anything palatable again until the day Mingjue presented him with a jar of delicate white tea that smelled like summer and was immediately recognizable as one of the finest Zhao teas. Xichen hoarded it fiercely, but he was willing to share it with Qingyang, because she, at least, would appreciate it.
Although she still taught him Orera, Qingyang had recently begun spending her free time in the company of Titakau, the Ikarahu healer who was teaching Xichen her tribe’s way of using tiny needles to alleviate pain and adjust energy flow. The woman had watched Qingyang with huge dark eyes for months and had eventually worked up the courage to do more than look. Xichen was happy for Qingyang, whose feet seemed to be drifting on air, but he missed her and was not above bribing her with tea. Selfishly, he wanted her opinion on Jin Guangyao.
He took a sip and held it in his mouth before asking, “Do you know him?”
“I have met him. He’s considered charming and handsome.” She shrugged as if they were rumors she couldn’t personally verify, and Xichen suppressed a smile. “I’m not sure anyone knows him. More importantly, and more unfortunately, I know the Jin chief. At best, Guangyao is an agent of his father. At worst, he is a true son of his father.” She shuddered and took another sip.
“It would be better if he was a spy?” Xichen asked, and Qingyang noded without elaborating. “Do you think that is likely?”
She shrugged. “Who knows, but he is too clever and too self-possessed to be here for any reason but his own. I don’t trust him, and you shouldn’t either.”
Xichen nodded and thanked her for her advice. He trusted Qingyang, but Xichen couldn’t bring himself to condemn the man for his father’s sins, whatever they might be, as Xichen hoped no one would think he was like his father.
In only a few words, she had confirmed what Xichen thought about Jin Guangyao. He was clever and composed. He was handsome and polite. He was undoubtedly there for some concealed purpose. And now, Qingyang had made Xichen even more curious about what exactly it was.
Notes:
Komi auha, edas ahora. = I am sorry, beloved husband.
