Chapter Text
At long last, the Cang Qiong party was moving out.
People were lining the streets to watch them go, throwing petals and paper confetti before the departing carts as if commemorating a wedding procession; the remaining kidnapping victims had been found, apparently due to Xiao Jiu's suggestion of asking filthy bums about their filthy hideouts, so now he was once again being treated like hot shit for thinking of the obvious.
Qiu Jianluo watched, his jaw tight, as the carriages went past his window— puppet horses, no drivers, but now surrounded by real horses with real riders. Any moment now, he kept thinking, despite himself; any moment now.
Any moment now, something would happen, and normalcy would be restored to the world. Maybe the cart would turn. Maybe a horse would spook. Maybe one of the riders would push a sword into the right carriage, at the right spot, and pull it back streaked in red. Maybe lightning would fall from the heavens, maybe a fire would burst, maybe there would be an outcry, a realization of a mistake. Maybe the farewell crowd would turn into a furious mob and tear the cultivators apart. Maybe the cultivators would kick him out and laugh and reveal they'd meant for him to be bait all along and now that it was done he was no longer of interest and best tossed away, back to where he belonged.
Any moment now. He knew better, but still he waited.
The carriages and the extra cultivators in their horses passed the Qiu compound by, giving no sign and paying no heed. The crowd followed in a smear of amorphous noise. The day was getting hot.
Father, Mother and A-Tang walked back in, flushed with excitement, A-Tang still holding the bright kerchief she'd been waving about. Her cheeks were red, her eyes were bright and moist, and Jianluo wanted to punch something.
They'd already arranged for her to attend the next entrance test for Cang Qiong without so much as seeking Jianluo's opinion. But Xian Shu, he'd been assured, was a women-only peak, onto which not even the sect leader of Cang Qiong was permitted to tread; even Xiao Jiu, regardless of his ostensible or true future role, could only stand at their gates like a beggar and hope for a word.
Family members were sure to have privileges, though. It hadn't been mentioned, but it went without saying, really. Qiu Jianluo clung to that privilege with both hands in these uncertain times; someday, when he came to visit, he would be invited into the peak of Immortal Beauties, and Xiao Jiu would be left to starve outside like the dog he was.
(The cheers of the crowd had grown distant. Sometimes his ears mistook them for the sound of rain.)
(Any moment now.)
Father retired to his office; given the entire circus their life had turned into, his work had fallen behind. Mother bustled off cheerfully to her courtyard. A-Tang made to follow.
“Do you want to play?” He blurted out, surprising himself. Technically, he had to handle that pile of paperwork Father had dumped onto him, and there was a great deal of studying to do besides… but he couldn't remember when he'd last played with her at all, and that realization chafed.
A-Tang gazed over her shoulder at him, her eyes filled with something deep and painful and unknowable.
“Sorry, Brother,” she said. Her fingers twisted and knotted at the kerchief in her hands. “I'm… a little tired, right now.”
She curtsied to him, already a little lady, and ran off after Mother; belatedly, Jianluo realized that the pain in her eyes, which had seemed so startlingly alien to him, had been disappointment.
Poor Tang-er! She must have really wanted to play, but these eventful days had drained her so! Once, she would have insisted on playing even while nodding off on her feet. Ah, this maturity was bittersweet. She shouldn't have to grow. She shouldn't have to leave. She shouldn't have to miss A-Jiu.
Unfilial wretch, ungrateful cretin, traitorous bastard, Qiu Jianluo chanted in his head, stalking the corridors, following the sound of cheers. A-Tang was crying. She misses you so! She cherishes you so! At the furthermost window, he squinted into the blistering horizon, trying to divine the crowd's mood through the vague swell of what he assumed were raised hands. The results were inconclusive.
Shouldn't the little beast be able to tell? If he had any true talent as a cultivator, shouldn't he somehow feel it in the air? Shouldn't a presentiment come over him, a knowledge of the heart he was breaking, of the value of that which he was in the process of so carelessly abandoning? Did he even care about A-Tang's feelings at all?
(Any moment now.)
The air was still and muggy. His office felt like being smothered under a sweaty armpit. By lunchtime, he had accomplished fuck all; pockets of cheering had sprouted across the street, but they had less to do with the departure of Cang Qiong's representatives than with an excess of free time and drink among commoners. Competing songs battled for the dregs of his attention.
He gave up on the office and went to the dining hall. From there he could hear something being deep-fried in the kitchen; it sounded like a distant cheer. He lost approximately half his appetite. The other half of it had turned into a gaping abyss hollowing him up from the inside. He had an urge to bite the table.
Mother and A-Tang ate in their courtyard.
He stalked over to the servants' quarters, kicked a few rolled-up mats. Found a couple of assholes who didn't look busy enough and told them to fight. Tore a bamboo leaf into progressively thinner strands as the two fools punched unenthusiastically at each other.
They kept stopping to look at him, and when they did, he sat and stared until they resumed.
“Young master,” said the head servant, not sparing his underlings the barest glance, “Young Master Song has come to visit.”
“Tell him to fuck off,” ordered Qiu Jianluo, but less than an incense stick later he stalked into the receiving room in lieu of clawing his way out of his own skin, and was unsurprised to find Mother entertaining Song Fucking Fuguang.
God. He looked so dopey, so punchable. Jianluo yearned to shove his thumbs into those stupid eyeballs.
“What now?” He demanded, sitting at Mother's side and serving himself lukewarm tea.
Song Fuguang stared dumbly at him.
“Uuuh, nothing really?” He asked back.
“So you didn't skip off after the cultivators all the way past the city gates?”
“Yeah?”
“And then what happened?”
“…I got tired and came back?”
Song Fuguang was so fucking stupid.
“Jianluo, please!” chided Mother, uncommonly mild. “Don't mind him,” she told Fuguang. “He's still upset that his favorite servant is gone.”
“I thought he treated him like shit,” said Song Fuguang, without a shred of tact.
Mother's smile went stiff.
“Yes, and he regrets it now,” she clarified.
“No I don't,” Jianluo piped up, out of spite.
“Sure you do,” said Fuguang, but in this infuriating tone like he knew exactly how little regret Jianluo was truly feeling.
He wasn't allowed to think he knew what Jianluo was feeling. He did not have the intellect to divine the emotions of anything higher than a worm. Unlike Mother, who divined that Jianluo was about to launch his fist across the table into Song Fucking Fuguang's face, and firmly grasped his arm.
“Have you caught up with your paperwork, my dear?” She asked, pointedly, and Qiu Jianluo stalked back to his room. There was a panther in his veins, pacing, caged and stifled, expecting its meal, its morsel of meat. Any moment now, any moment now—
He gathered his books and Father's paperwork, settled them on a shelf out of the way, and unrolled a few cheap, unused scrolls over the desk. The papers settled awkwardly; despite the absence of wind, they kept fluttering out of place, even when he inexpertly folded them over the edge.
Eventually, he embraced the recalcitrant paper as further fuel to his rage, and brought his switch down, over and over and over and over.
The white creamy paper split, revealing dark wood underneath, but it wasn't the same. The color was too dark to be red, the skin was too thin, it parted too easily, it did not blush under his switch, the give was not the same, the bounce was not the same. He slapped his floor cushion over the shredded papers and prepared it in kind, and then he closed his eyes as he whipped, projecting his wrath and violence in whatever direction that filthy ingrate had dared to slink off to, willing him to feel the strikes on his skin just as Jianluo felt the give and bounce of the switch raise goosebumps on his own—
When he finally forced his eyes open, he was breathless and sticky and drenched in sweat, but relieved at last. His cushion had burst underneath its paper skin, the silk split in threads to reveal its batting, swollen and straining. It was almost satisfying enough for him to ignore the fluttering bits of paper and down currently in the process of coating his office.
“A-Jiu,” he commanded, turning to the corner with a cocking of his head, but A-Jiu did not jump to clean because he was not there because cultivators had bought him and dolled him up and paraded him like a peacock and he was gone.
Qiu Jianluo tossed his switch on the remains of his cushion. He was too tired to be mad. He was so tired, he felt a little stupid for even wanting to be mad. What did it matter whether a bunch of self-righteous coots dressed a little beast up and took him away? You couldn't gilt shit. Trash would always be trash. His animal blood would tell, and then he would have nowhere to run but back.
He wiped his brow and leaned against the desk. Any moment now—
Tang-er was at the door.
Oh, poor thing, he hadn't even noticed her. God, she had seen something unseemly, hadn't she? Another crime on that beast's hands.
“A-Tang?” he coaxed, carefully.
“Um,” she said, softly.
“Sorry about this,” he told her, matching his tone to hers. “Your brother was very upset, and didn't know what to do. Brother is ashamed…”
She didn't say anything in response. Her eyes darted to and fro, taking in the mess of him, of his room, of the desk.
“Oh, I know, my little baby,” he crooned, burying his sweaty face into his hands. The bits of paper and fabric pressed under his palms were weirdly itchy. “This must look so ugly and scary, right? But I'm all better now. It passed.”
He took a deep bracing breath, raised his head, and smiled tiredly at her.
“You won't see anything like this ever again.”
He'd been so mad about Xiao Jiu's absence, he'd spitefully chosen to leave his doors open, and in his frenzy to mimic the feeling of his little beast's back, he'd plain forgotten to go back and lock them. As always, it was A-Jiu's fault. If A-Jiu were home, none of this would be happening.
But he wouldn't forget to lock his yard again. When A-Tang came to him, she should only ever see him at his best.
“Won't Tang-er forgive this ugly brother?” he cajoled. “Having lost something so dear to us, who else can we count on for understanding and support, but each other?”
She nodded slowly to him. Oh, Xiao Jiu's treason, and now this, she must be so upset. Time was she would cry and scream when she saw something she didn't like, but now she was so uncertain and subdued instead! It was a knife to his heart! He slid from the desk to his knees, knowing better than to loom over such a spooked little thing, and put on a sad, vaguely wheedling expression.
“Won't Tang-er play her qin for brother?” he begged. “It feels like it's been such a long time. No wonder my heart was so clouded and stormy…”
She nodded again, taking a small step back. Qiu Jianluo didn't mind. For one, he was a mess, and even if she were to beg for a hug, he would feel duty-bound to limit himself to a head pat until he was bathed and redressed; she was clean and adorably dressed and deserved better.
But also, well. This was admittedly pretty ugly. He hasn't messed up this bad in front of her since the thing with the cat. He'd never forget how long it took her to go back to normal after that, months, even, going uncertain and quiet around him as if she thought he might in any way look upon her as such a paltry thing as a cat. He'd almost thought she might fear him forever!
At least he had that experience to draw upon, or he might really be panicking. He'd have to manage this very carefully; she was no longer seven, nor susceptible to the suggestion of a nightmare. But though he couldn't pretend it hadn't happened, he could still avoid bringing it up; if she did so herself, he'd reassert his contrition. With effort and some luck, by the time she got her next pet she would have accepted that this wasn't as bad as whatever she thought it was.
And then she would go cultivate in Girl Mountain.
He sighed, deep and heart-sore. Begged off to take his much needed bath, arranged to visit her for the music session. She would be immortal. She would be away from home. But maybe, once she did become immortal, he could convince her to come back, without the looming threat of a marriage, and their lives could simply… resume.
After all, she would stop aging, right? She would remain just as she was, small and dainty and precious, forever. The thought of it warmed him more than the bath water did. His little Tang-er, but strong enough that no one could force her to leave home if she didn't feel like it. And if anyone did attract her eye, he could just erase them from the world. Unless they were a cultivator, in which case he'd have to pay another cultivator to do the job…
On second thought—
Oh well, he decided, leaning on some cushions at A-Tang's bedroom. He had months to figure out whether he was ready to inherit. And she might give up on cultivation before then; he'd work on convincing her that cultivation was a lot of boring work, just in case. Depending on his investigations and his final decision, he could simply pivot from feeding her uncertainty to praising her bravery.
She twanged at her qin, her skills remarkably improved. Tonight's song was mournful, and he let it stir his heart, raise a shiver down his neck. A-Tang's silence was eerie, and he kept expecting to hear her chatter over her notes, imagining little sounds and exclamations, A-Jiu's sycophantic mumbles; at one point he could almost swear he'd heard Song Fuguang's dumb donkey braying, a sound that had no place in the rear courtyard. It really had been a tiring day.
Three maids were attending Tang-er for the evening. All of them were red-eyed and moist as if they also missed A-Jiu or something— brown-nosing bitches— but at least they did not bother him or interrupt his stay for mysterious girl lessons, respecting their long-overdue family time for once. When the shichen turned, Qiu Jianluo managed to coax a hesitant hug out of A-Tang, and as a reward he praised her playing and choice of song to the highest heavens; then he retired for the night.
In bed, the sound of cheering haunted his ears. Or it may have been rain, finally breaking like a fever over the mansion. Or maybe someone was frying a late snack in the kitchens; he debated leaving his bed and finding someone to punish, but chose instead to behave for A-Tang. He was on thin ice.
Thunder boomed overhead, momentarily deafening the boiling cheers. He pictured a storm waylaying the carriages, lightning hitting the puppet horses, and excitement flooded his veins. Travel would be harder, wouldn't it? Horses would spook, wouldn't they? The roads would flood, right? Surely they couldn't fly on their swords. There were no cities for days around them, no inns to hide within. This was no weather for camping. They would have no choice but to turn back. Hah!
Once the actual rain finally slapped his roof, it sounded nothing like the cheers of the morning. It sounded like rocks pelting the world, like a cataclysm. But he welcomed the sound; it felt like an omen just for him, a reassurance of impending justice. Of the return of that which was rightfully his.
When I next wake, he was suddenly sure, there will be news. Yes. There would be a reckoning. Sleep suddenly felt beyond his grasp. His heart thudded in his chest.
It was happening. It would happen. Any moment now, he would sleep, and he would wake, and everything would be as it was supposed to be, except he was too excited to sleep, and if he didn't sleep then there would be no waking up, and if he didn't wake up, then—
The rain began to calm, turning into a soothing drizzle. His excitement curdled with it, turning into displeasure. The opportunity had passed; the conditions had not been fulfilled.
But there would be other chances. Maybe an excess of attention was the issue, and he should instead foster tranquility in the face of this trial; reassert his control over himself and his surroundings, reiterate his worth to the gods and his willingness to follow their plan. Ready himself for the signs, and when they came, follow their requirements without fail.
Cultivators may challenge the heavenly design, but only for so long, and a miserable slave could only make it as far as his betters were willing to carry his worthless weight. Soon, he'd be squeezed dry of what little they believed him capable of giving, and he would have no recourse but to return to his roots. If he lasted half a year, Haitang would be close at hand to point him home; but it might not even come to that.
It was but a matter of time, without a shred of doubt.
Any moment now.