Work Text:
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Nie Huaisang digs.
The earth is dry here, coarse and sandy in a way utterly unfamiliar from the loamy dirt of home. It creeps its way into his clothes, grinds itself into the creases of his palms, his fingers, as they curl around the shovel. They'll be raw soon.
The wind slithers through the dark temple, making his single, tiny lantern flicker in time with the chimes that hang from the ceiling. The rasping susurrus of dirt sifting vanishes beneath the chimes for a moment. A work song swallowing the work-whispers hissed over action.
Nie Huaisang digs.
The tips of his fingers hurt. Another little ache among a thousand others, this one bruised in the shape of dark stitches, and how similar old flesh could be to leather. His palms and the curl of fingers ache too, and so do his arms and back. The shovel breaks the earth again. Again. He is not a man meant for this sort of work and there is no one here to see him shape himself into one. The supine shape in the corner of his eye does not move. Doesn’t watch. It never will again.
Nie Huaisang digs.
Sandy soil catches in the lines of the handle, grinding away at skin as his grip twists. The rhythm is becoming familiar, a bitter echo if the sword forms he used to avoid so ardently. He used to have calluses from where his brushes would rest. He has new ones now. Some are even on things other than his soul. The chimes laugh in the wind again.
The soil is thicker now, crumbling and cracking as he scoops it onto the cloth. His shovel hits something that isn't dirt.
Nie Huaisang digs.
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