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It is strange this time, to find himself as the only living thing around. Xie Lian wakes in an empty shrine with an empty space in his bedroll. The meticulously swept floors, the little offering table laden with fruits, and the neat piles of maple leaves in the front yard the only hints that someone else had been there. Xie Lian wakes alone, an event that is so commonplace it should be its opposite that is strange, but his heart sinks despite himself.
It is so easy to sink back into the solitude, to lose himself in it. Puqi Village is quiet and sleepy, rows and rows of paddies for the water chestnuts, crowned with maples. He has seen many villages like it; there is a likely chance Xie Lian has passed through this village before and simply forgotten, everything blending together in a blur of years passed and distances traversed. The newly named Puqi Shrine is far enough from the village proper that the only signs of life are the quiet susurrus of frogs and crickets. Eyes closed, meditating in front of the open door, everything since his third ascension would have been a dream, a little musing to entertain himself with.
He could almost convince himself that was the case if not for the diamond ring hanging from his neck, a parting token from Hua Cheng and proof that everything was real. Xie Lian curls his hand around it, unwilling to let go, craving the reassurance of its existence
The heavy weight begins in his chest and radiates outward, sinking into the marrow of his bones. Weary, and tired, and feeling thousands of years older than he actually is, Xie Lian retreats into his shrine, to the corner where he has laid out his bedroll. He leaves the windows and front door open just a crack. He does not like to reside in tombs.
Pain has been a constant where everything else has deserted him. Sometimes Xie Lian’s body will remember where his mind has tried to forget, and the ghosts of old pain will descend upon him for a feast. Xie Lian has grown adept at weathering it and letting it run its course. If he has a shelter, he will wait until his luck strikes and destroys it before dragging himself to his feet and continuing walking. If there is no shelter… Well, Xie Lian has learned that counting footsteps and labored breaths is meditation of its own.
Rain drips on the thatched roof of the temple, a droning, almost soothing sound. Rain brings back the ache of a familiar old wound. The cold sinks into his bones, and a sword is lodged in his abdomen. Everything aches, ebbing and flowing like the tides, until it fades to near obscurity. Xie Lian closes his eyes, listens to the rain, and waits for the storm to continue brewing, for the lightning to strike down the temple like it has struck down his shelters many times before. He presses his mouth closed and arranges it in something approximating a smile. There is no reason to cry out if there is no one to hear.
The rain trickles off into a light drizzle, and then stops as the sun parts through clouds again. The temple remains standing.
He lies prone on his bedroll and tries not to think of something rotting, decomposing. He does not like to have little control over his own body, nor having to stay in a singular place for very long. Xie Lian would rather walk and walk and distract himself with constant motion than let his mind wander.
When he is able to, Xie Lian grits his teeth and forces himself up to his feet to find the broom and clean the dust that threatens to settle. If this is to be one of his temples, he may as well keep it tidy.
He feels eyes on him as he sweeps, humming a tune under his breath. The back of his neck prickles with it when he has to bend over to catch his breath, keeping himself uptight with help from the broom.
The eyes further their disapproval as Xie Lian approaches the altar to pluck some fruit from the offering table. Centuries ago, Xie Lian would refrain from taking offerings from the shrines of gods, at first too proud. It is shameful; a god, albeit a banished one, taking offerings from those he once stood among. Xie Lian soon learned that hunger cared little for pride.
There is no reason for him to feel like a thief in his own temple. Still, the painting stares judgment from above him.
It really is beautiful, this portrait, painted with a skilled hand and steady hand. How strange of Hua Cheng to spend his talent and energy on a painting for Xie Lian’s shrine. How strange of him to depict in beauty an old and disgraced god like him. But then again, if one is as powerful as Hua Cheng, Xie Lian assumes they are free to indulge any silly task that strikes their fancy.
It looks like a painting that would have hung in one of his temples centuries ago– perhaps even more striking for its ability to capture his likeness when the others fell short. The figure in the painting is elegant; the hand leveling the sword displays power, the careful placement of the fingers curling around the flower shows gentleness, the figure in the painting smiles kind and sure, exuding an air of confidence one couldn't help but trust in.
They have the same face, the figure in the painting and he, but this is undoubtedly a portrait of the Flower Crowned Martial God. A stranger wearing his own face. Or perhaps Xie Lian is the stranger wearing the face of a once powerful god.
Xie Lian, pariah of heaven, prince of a kingdom that fell by his hands, ascended this time as a god of scraps. He is not elegant nor confident. Despite what Ban Yue said or what Hua Cheng had praised him for, he is not a man who has any right to speak about wanting to save the world.
Ah well. Perhaps it was slightly dishonest of him to claim this was a temple for the Prince of Xianle. It was not the Crown Prince who Pleased the Gods that had ascended for a third time. It was simply Xie Lian.
A knock on the front door drags him out of his reverie from where he had been resting on his bedroll. Xie Lian briefly entertains ignoring the knocking to go back to sleep. He feels weary enough to sleep for a month. But another, larger part, is more concerned with the fact that someone behind that door has need of him. He does not ignore an offering like that.
“Hello Daozhang”! A man greets when Xie Lian opens the door, a little girl holding his hand, staring curiously up at Xie Lian. With them is a woman holding a small child. He recognizes them as part of the villagers who had come to pay their respects at the shrine. The man is holding a pot, while the little girl carefully holds a basket of what looks like steamed buns.
“This one is Hao Mingze, and this is my wife Fen Xiang, and our two children Hao Li and Hao Qiang”. Hao Mingze says, the pride and joy he feels for his family bleeding into his voice and infectious smile.
Fen Xiang gives him a warm smile, shifting the child more securely in her arms, while Hao Li, suddenly shy, steps closer to her father.
Xie Lian greets them back, wondering if they are here to ask for blessings for their children, and wondering how to politely suggest that it is best if they don’t.
“The shrine is looking much better, Daozhang”, Fen Xiang says, “Everyone is glad to see this old building be repurposed for something new”.
Hao Mingze guides his daughter to leave the food on the offering table.
“Are those offerings for the Crown Prince”? Xie Lian asks, wondering how he could have garnered such considerate followers in such a short amount of time.
Hao Mingze laughs, “These are for you, daozhang. We did not know if you had time to cook something for yourself”.
Hao Mingze and Fen Xiang look over at the pot on the stove and exchange glances. Xie Lian had tried to scrub out all of the burnt parts, but somehow the pot had sustained brand new scorch marks on the outside.
“The harvest was plentiful this year daozhang”, Fen Xiang says, “we are more than happy to share”.
They brought him fruits, and shelled water chestnuts, a steaming bowl of congee and some buns. Xie Lian’s heart twists in gratitude.
“I helped make them”, Hao Li beams, pointing at the buns.
Xie Lian thanks her with a bow, wishing he had a piece of candy he could give her in return.
The family leaves soon after lighting a stick of incense at the altar. Xie Lian watches them go. Hao Mingze has taken the baby from his wife so she can stretch. Their little daughter, Hao Li runs ahead of them, splashing in the puddles leftover from the rain.
The placid smile Xie Lian had been wearing drops slowly. Xie Lian drops with it, leaning heavily against the doorframe, exhaustion settling in once more. Truly, he is such a brittle thing. It is much easier to be a walking corpse when there is no one to bear witness to it.
The weight in his chest persists. It sits heavy in the hollow space behind his ribs, and makes something unnamed itch under his skin–a familiar pit. He pokes at it, feeling for its ragged edges, turning it over and over, wearing it down like a river stone. The shrine screams in its quiet, nothing but him and that beautiful painting of the elegant crown prince.
He wants to open the pickle pot and wake a resting Banyue just to have someone to talk to. He stamps down those selfish thoughts.
Xie Lian thinks, because how could he not, with the Crown Prince of Xianle looking down on him, of that boy on Mount Yujun. The scarring on his face, the distinctive markings of the Human Face Disease that Xie Lian would never forget, no matter how many centuries separated him from the fall of Xianle. Xie Lian had flinched away, reflexively, and the boy had slipped away.
He doesn’t want to think–
(What does it mean for the Human Face Disease to appear to him again?)
He doesn’t want to think–
(The screams and wails, hands clutching his robes, begging him for help, demanding it, clinging to him as if they were drowning, not realizing their franticness was going to pull him down as well).
He doesn’t want to think–
(The fires on Mount Taicang, the burning of temples. The soldiers he led turning into mobs. They hated him so, in those last few days of Xianle. Their hatred only grew in the years beyond)
He doesn’t want to think–
(God of Plagues, God of Misfortune, that leering white mask, contorted between laughter and tears)
He doesn’t want–
(How did Hua Cheng know how to paint the Crown Prince of Xianle? What else could he know–)
“Ruoye”, Xie Lian calls, voice scratchy and hoarse. One of these days he’s certain his voice will finally give out from disuse. Ruoye wraps around his wrist, squeezing like a vice.
He would rather remember–
He had split a bun with Hua Cheng, who perhaps found it amusing to be a powerful ghost king sharing a bun with a scrap collecting god.
But that wasn’t quite it either– Xie Lian had called them friends, and Hua Cheng had seemed pleased. He said Xie Lian’s title with respect instead of spitting it as a curse. He seemed concerned over what Xie Lian would think of him. He had left, but he gave Xie Lian his word that they would see each other again, this time with Hua Cheng’s true form, sealed the promise with the gift of the ring around his neck.
Xie Lian wonders if Hua Cheng knew the depth of what that promise, so freely given, would mean to Xie Lian.
Something has yawned awake inside him. Something hungry. With the intensity that hadn’t been there since those early centuries, Xie Lian wants someone to seek him out, to talk to him, to stay at his side. He had been spoiled with companions. To witness Feng Xin and Mu Qing’s bickering again, the strange, confusing care they offered him. To have Hua Cheng at his side, content to help him clean and sweep and cook. To spin delightful stories of a world that Xie Lian spent centuries moving through with his head hung low.
When was the last time someone had made him laugh until his sides hurt and jaw ached? When was the last time someone had touched him with care, without intending to inflict hurt? It must have been a long time, his body is unused to it.
There is no banquet in the world that does not come to an end. He knows this. He has learned this lesson, tempered the pain that came with it, until it has become simply knowledge, immutable as the fact that the sun rises and sets, and the seasons change like a wheel. He knows this, and he has learned to be sustained by the scraps he is given.
So why is it that Xie Lian is starving for Hua Cheng’s company?
You will not find someone more sincere than I, Hua Cheng had said. And somehow, Xie Lian finds that he believes him. For the first time in a long time, he feels as though he may be allowed to have more than just scraps of kindness, that his bone deep loneliness may be lessened. For the first time in a long time, he allows himself to want that. It is foolish at best, and dangerous at worst.
There is no banquet in the world that does not come to an end, but he would like to attend this one for as long as possible.