Chapter Text
Luo Binghe is not an idiot; nor is he a coward. He knows the rumors that swirl around the realms—human and demon both—about what he might be doing to his Shizun’s body. Night after night, the rumors whisper with some sadistic mix of disgust and glee. Poor Lui Qingge, others say, to lose again and again and to know the kinds of things Luo Binghe would be doing to his precious sect brother’s corpse.
No one dares to even breathe word of these rumors at Huan Hua Palace, of course. There is not a soul on this earth that would utter this five li from Luo Binghe, but he’s no fool. He hears them anyway.
A storm has been brewing all night, and at last, sometime in the last few hours before dawn, the heavens give a mighty roar and begin to pour down upon Huan Hua Palace. Luo Binghe sits cross-legged in his bed, funneling spiritual energy dutifully into his Shizun’s body’s meridians. Just to test, he thinks to himself, and wills down the unceasing, unbearable hope. 700 days and still the hope does not dim.
Shizun’s soul is not here, but Luo Binghe has kept his body ready and waiting. It’s just until he finds a way to summon Shizun’s soul back. Just for a little longer.
It’s a nightly delusion. Even Luo Binghe knows it. Two long, eternal years have passed since his Shizun—since—
Two years is nothing in the life of a cultivator. Even less for a demon. A drop of water in an ocean. For Luo Binghe, who every day surpasses both, it should be the blink of an eye. And yet, every night pouring spiritual energy into a lifeless corpse is its own private eternity.
A flash of lightning; a crash of thunder. Luo Binghe is unmoved in his task. He’s gone full nights painstakingly checking every meridian on this body, when the days are particularly lonely, or when his duties are exceptionally gruesome. Sha Hualing used to come in during the early days, to tempt him to sleep or eat. She doesn’t, anymore.
He is, truthfully, exhausted. Another long battle with Lui Qingge over his Shizun again, and the night before a tedious revolt in the far western reaches of the Northern Territory. Mobei Jun was nearly drunk with the bloodshed, but Luo Binghe?
Ah, Luo Binghe had just wanted to come home.
Another crash of thunder helps to keep him awake. He doesn’t—he doesn’t want to go to sleep. Not tonight. What had he been thinking earlier?
He knows what the whole cultivation world thinks: the Proud Immortal Demon King, whose bed is home to the long-dead corpse of his beloved Master—what must he do in those lonely nights—what depraved—
Luo Binghe knows because sometimes he dreams of it.
He’s not seen Meng Mo since the first time. He guesses the demon is still here, in Luo Binghe’s mind; there is nowhere else for him to run, after all.
(They were in the bamboo house on Qing Jing Peak and Shizun had been sleeping, rumpled and warm and alive, and then they’d—and Shizun had gasped awake with a low moan that made Luo Binghe’s toes curl—because of Luo Binghe, and—)
But if Meng Mo is present in any of Luo Binghe’s dreams, he doesn’t show himself. Not even for the gruesome dreams, where Luo Binghe can’t stand the look of his precious disciple brothers and sisters and takes his sword to them. Or a shovel to cave in their heads, their rib cages. Several times with the heavy horseshoe hammer that used to sit on the shelf in his bamboo shed, several lifetimes ago. Once or twice he's ripped their limbs off with his bare hands.
He doesn’t need Meng Mo to remind him that hurting these apparitions only hurts his own mind. He knows that well enough. Sometimes that alone is reason enough to do it.
He picks that hammer up now from where it glints innocently from its shelf, now within easy reach in the bamboo shed. He’s grown since the last time he set foot here. The sunlight is streaming in perfectly through the slats in the door, enough to tell him he’s missed breakfast.
It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t have a Shizun to cook for, anymore. The dream ripples around him, as restless as its dreamer. The hammer, too, trembles in his grip, eager for a taste of blood. A low rumble of thunder sounds, incongruous to the sunny day.
It doesn’t take long for Luo Binghe to find Ming Fan, practicing his sword forms in the courtyard. There was something Luo Binghe had been doing, just before this, but he can’t quite remember. He knows he’s tired.
Luo Binghe’s eyes scan the scene, tired still but set upon his task. No one notices him, as he skirts around the edge of the crowd. But then—Shizun’s dark eyes snap to him, and Luo Binghe stops in his tracks. The fan drops from his face, revealing his Shizun’s perfect mouth, turned down in a disbelieving frown.
“Binghe?” he calls over the crowd, and it sounds like his voice is right behind him, right in front of him. Everywhere.
A chill sweeps over Luo Binghe. Shizun has often appeared in his dreams, but he’s never spoken. He’s never—Luo Binghe suspects with an awful shame that he’s forgotten the sound of his Master’s voice because of it. Shizun’s robes are the ones he wore those two years past, still improbably stained with his own blood and not the extravagant white funeral robes Luo Binghe commissioned once in a fit of agony last year; what he wears in the real world.
“Binghe,” Shizun calls again.
He stares straight into Luo Binghe’s heart; the disciples around them continue in their sword forms as if they can’t hear their Shizun. Something horrible is swirling around his stomach, a raging storm, a bubbling abyss of magma. Without a thought, he lifts the hammer in his hands and throws it with all his might at Ming Fan’s head.
“Luo Binghe, what—” Shizun shouts, startled, but stops again when the hammer sails through Ming Fan’s head without pause.
“Shizun,” Luo Binghe whispers, stunned nearly to silence, and then again, louder. “Shizun!”
His dream, he thinks wildly and takes off in a dead sprint towards his Master. It’s not Luo Binghe’s dream, it’s his; it’s—
Luo Binghe jerks awake, gasping like he’s thirteen all over again and been forced to run the length of the mountainside with piles of firewood in his arms. He must have slipped into sleep involuntarily; he’s still hunched over his Shizun’s wrist. Thunder booms in the distance. He flails a little; half-demented with his own hope, as he presses his fingers to the underside of the body’s jaw.
He holds his breath.
There, there.
The faintest thrumming of a heartbeat.
Luo Binghe clutches the corpse of his Master—the body of his Shizun—he clutches his Shizun and feels the slow, inevitable rise of his lungs. The roar of the storm outside hides the ragged sound of his own breathing, and obsessively, he wipes the tears from his Shizun’s face as they fall onto him.
“Shizun,” he says, his voice as hoarse as the thunderstorm outside.
Shizun doesn’t move in his arms, but he breathes, and his heart pounds. And, oh, it is enough.
"Mobei Jun can handle it,” Luo Binghe says shortly the next morning; he hasn’t left his bed.
It seems that the Little Palace Mistress finally scrounged up her courage to come looking for him. He would be more impressed with her if he had any space in his head for it. As it is, his eyes stay trained on the slowest, faintest movement of his Shizun's body, half-entranced.
"Sect Leader," she begins again. "It really cannot wait. Mobei Jun has not returned from the Northern Territory."
"My answer has not changed," he tells her, hoping that the dismissal clear in his voice will be enough to cow her.
"Please, Luo Binghe," she tries again. He can hear in her voice the frustrated tears already working in her eyes.
"I won't leave him," he snaps. "You saw it."
She nods, visibly hesitating before taking a few tentative steps towards the bed. Luo Binghe hasn't changed out of his sleeping shift, and she flushes, no doubt at the bare skin at his collar or the thinness of the silk. He wouldn't have dared to let her see him like this mere hours ago, but he can't bear to let his Shizun go for so long. The time it would take to slip into real clothes is untenable.
"He breathes," Luo Binghe says, watching the Palace Mistress's downcast eyes with frustration. Abruptly, he's done with this conversation. "Have Mu Qingfan summoned here at once."
"Mobei Jun is still—"
"This one is ordering you to summon Mu Qingfan," Luo Binghe snarls. The Palace Mistress recoils. "Tell me, is Mobei Jun your master now?"
"No," she says, and after a brief pause, she mechanically bows to him. "It will be done. This one will—"
"Just go," Luo Binghe says.
Her mouth snaps shut, and she turns on her heel, striding out of the room with more dignity than fear. Luo Binghe watches her go, the interminable pace setting his teeth on edge. When the door snaps shut, he turns back to his Shizun, the rest of the world forgotten in an instant.
Shizun hasn't moved from his embrace. Luo Binghe diligently checks his meridians again, to confirm his qi is flowing. Yes, there: a spark of energy when before Luo Binghe needed to endlessly pour his own spiritual power into the body to feel it circulate. Shizun's cheeks are rosy, flushed from something—a fever maybe? And his limbs are soft. His perfect hair is still pinned neatly in place, but Luo Binghe still tenderly smoothes the flyaways by his temple anyway.
Luo Binghe doesn't know how much time passes, but Mobei Jun finds him before Mu Qingfan does. He barges into the room, still in his bloodstained robes. He looks furious, sweeping in as ferociously as a blizzard. Surprisingly, a frazzled Shang Qinghua scurries by in his wake. Luo Binghe is busy listening to the soft hum of his Shizun's qi crackling through his body; he doesn't have time for either of them.
"They're saying you've finally gone mad," Mobei Jun says, as recalcitrant as ever.
(Gossip always travels fast in Huan Hua Palace.)
"Shizun is alive," he says. "His soul has returned."
Shang Qinghua's eyes go round in shock, and his mouth drops open.
"Impossible," he says, then seems to come to his senses. He offers a quick bow to Luo Binghe and then takes a few steps towards the two of them. Luo Binghe clutches Shizun’s body closer. “If I may?”
Luo Binghe nods but refuses to unhand his Shizun. Shang Qinghua flushes a splotchy red, but leans down, practically into Luo Binghe’s lap, to check Shizun’s breathing. Mobei Jun scowls ferociously; under different circumstances, Luo Binghe might have made a joke of it. Today, he watches Shang Qinghua’s expression carefully, when he goes from nervous to shocked disbelief.
“How did you do it?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t do anything.”
“When was the last time you transferred your demonic qi?” Mobei Jun asks suddenly from across the room. He’s looking at Luo Binghe now, his expression unchanging. “This whole room reeks of it.”
“What does it matter,” Luo Binghe snaps. “I feel fine.”
“Your frail half-human body can’t withstand the demonic qi,” Mobei Jun says. “You know this. You’ll qi deviate if you don’t transfer it. Shang Qinghua, come here.”
Shang Qinghua looks up, startled. He’s centimeters from Luo Binghe’s face like this, still half-crowded over him to get at Shizun. He flushes scarlet again and nearly jumps off the bed. Luo Binghe ignores him.
“What does it matter to you?”
“How long will Huan Hua Palace support your army of demons without you? Don’t be foolish.”
“Leave me,” Luo Binghe snaps, and then, when Shang Qinghua only cowers behind an unmoving Mobei Jun, he summons a ball of swirling dark demonic energy and hurls it with all his might at the two of them. Mobei Jun cleaves the thing in two with his broadsword and a grunt of effort. “Fine! Bring me a prisoner then! I’m not leaving him.”
They have another stare-down that feels like it lasts an eternity, but eventually, Mobei Jun turns on his heel and storms off. Shang Qinghua stares at Luo Binghe with his mouth open for a moment more, before he seems to shake himself out of his stupor. He bows quickly to Luo Binghe, then rushes off after Mobei Jun.
Then, there’s nothing to distract him from the beautiful sight of his Shizun breathing. Again, he doesn’t know how long he waits, only that at some point, a shivering woman in chains is brought into his chambers. Luo Binghe forgets what she’s for. A demon pushes into the room after her, too. Luo Binghe cares even less for her.
“You’re going to lose your mind if you keep this up.”
It’s Sha Hualing, staring at the place where his robes have pushed open to reveal possibly too much of his chest. Luo Binghe blinks, then tears his gaze away from his precious Shizun. Sha Hualing, and beside her: a prisoner. Xin Mo nearly shaking from demonic energy at the edge of his bed. Shizun: breathing, breathing.
Somehow, he finds the energy to drag himself out of bed and feed the prisoner his excess demonic energy. She shivers, eyes rolling back into her head when he’s done.
His head feels clearer, now. He blinks, runs a hand through the tangled mane of his curls. His whole body aches as if he’s fought a hundred demons from the Abyss all over again. Uncaring if Sha Hualing leaves with the prisoner or not, he returns quickly to his Shizun’s side without sparing them a parting glance. Takes a moment to stare at the slow rise and fall of his Shizun’s perfect chest. Suddenly shy all over again, Luo Binghe gently runs his fingers along the delicate line of Shizun’s eyebrow.
The hope in his chest is a wild, impossible thing.
“I’ll be back in a moment, okay, Shizun?” Luo Binghe whispers. “Don’t leave me again.”
As unbearable as it may be, Luo Binghe should put on some real clothes before he meets the Qian Cao Peak Lord.
Mu Qingfan arrives alone. He’s frowning gravely, but he hasn’t brought Yue Qingyuan, or worse yet, Lui Qingge. That has to mean something.
“If this is a trap,” he begins, his hand clasped firmly around his sword. It means something else, that Mu Qingfan has his sword out at all. Luo Binghe is beyond caring.
“Please,” Luo Binghe says. It’s the first time he’s said it in years, the first time he’s said it in a world where Shizun’s ears couldn’t hear. He wants to collapse forward onto his knees and beg this man for help. Anything for his Shizun. He’s beyond shame, beyond pride. But most of the desperation is sated when Luo Binghe places his hand on the edge of his headboard. He looks down at Shizun’s sleeping face. “If you have any loyalty left to your Qing Jing Peak Lord, you’ll listen to me.”
“And what does Lord Luo have to say to this one?” Mu Qingfan has always been the mildest of the Peak Lords, yet even still, Luo Binghe can hear the bitterness in his voice.
“My Shizun—he’s. Alive. He’s breathing. I can feel his qi circulating without help.”
In an instant, Mu Qingfan is kneeling at the side of Luo Binghe’s bed, his Shizun’s wrist in his grasp. The look on his face goes from furious to shocked in an instant.
“What did you do to him, Luo Binghe?”
“Nothing!” It comes out sounding more petulant than a Palace Master should; than a demon lord should, but in the face of Mu Qingfan’s suspicious glare, the truth is pushed out of him. “I woke in the middle of the night to find him like this!”
Mu Qingfan doesn’t respond to that, but he doesn’t keep accusing Luo Binghe of anything either. He studiously checks Shizun’s meridians, his breathing; he even pulls up Shizun’s eyelids to check those too. Luo Binghe watches, rapt, until Mu Qingfan rises again.
“His qi is low, but it is there,” Mu Qingfan says. There is the smallest of smiles on his face, there and gone in an instant. “I don’t know what miracle you’ve pulled, but he’s alive. He needs rest but seems healthy. He should wake in a day or two, at the most.”
They stare one another down for a long, unblinking moment. Luo Binghe wonders how long he could keep the man imprisoned before the other peak lords took notice.
“I expect Lord Luo will object to taking him back to Qian Cao Peak for proper treatment.”
“Shizun stays here,” Luo Binghe replies with a tight press of his lips.
“You cannot stop me from telling the other peak lords,” Mu Qingfan says slowly, almost kindly.
Luo Binghe’s lip twitches, but he manages to suppress the snarl at the last moment. Instead, he smiles, ever the Demon Lord.
“This one has graciously allowed Qian Cao’s Peak Lord in to examine his martial brother with no consequence. This one only wants the Qing Jing Peak Lord to be well.”
He bows for good measure, and Mu Qingfan, a slave to pleasantries, bows back begrudgingly.
“Lord Luo’s generosity knows no bounds,” Mu Qingfan replies, only somewhat bitterly. “Sect Leader Yue Qingyuan will no doubt be pleased to hear of his martial brother’s miraculous recovery.”
Luo Binghe nods and allows it. He briefly (vividly) imagines locking Mu Qingfan up in the water prison for a moment, and that gets him through seeing Mu Qingfan out of his rooms. Time passes. Enough for Mu Qingfan to be escorted out and begin his flight home. Luo Binghe kneels by his Shizun’s bedside for a long, self-indulgent moment. Syncing his breaths to his Shizun’s, he watches the steady rise and fall of his chest.
Then, he hauls himself up, gently cradling his Shizun to his chest. Xin Mo in hand, he slashes a hole in reality and steps into the demon realm.
By his best guess, Sha Hualing will find him first. It’s her castle, after all, that Luo Binghe has won through battle, bloodshed, and shaky alliances. He’s locked himself in a bedroom in the East Wing, far off from the main courtyard, where the mountainside meets the architecture. One of these rooms has a secret passageway into the caves, but he’s not quite clear-headed enough to remember which. He picks a room at random and sets Shizun down on the bed, fussing with his lax hands.
Only yesterday his fingers were cold and stiff to the touch. Unrelenting. Now, he can curl his own between his Shizun’s warm fingers, feel the pulse thrumming hummingbird-quick in his wrist. Luo Binghe wants to press his lips to that spot to feel the blood rushing under his veins. He wants to bite through the flesh to feel Shizun's pumping blood splatter into his mouth. Instead, he gently places the hands atop his chest, squeezing them once more before he steps away.
Painstakingly, he lights the hearth and torches around the room by hand, until the ever-present chill dissipates. Still, it doesn’t feel like enough. Mu Qingfan said he needs rest, so Luo Binghe tries to leave him be.
In an empty room with nothing but his Shizun’s miraculously breathing body, there is little else to hold his attention. So he kneels upon the floor, between the bed and the door, and listens to his Shizun’s breathing.
Sha Hualing will find him first, he guesses, but Lui Qingge will not be far behind her. It should take a shichen, perhaps, for Mu Qingfan to reach his Qiang Cao Peak, another two to call his martial brothers and sisters together. He’ll want to tell them all at once, Luo Binghe is sure.
After that, either Lui Qingge will rush straight to Huan Hua Palace without a thought, or there will be a tedious discussion where they guess rightly that Luo Binghe has fled to the demon realm.
A day, then, at the least. Perhaps two. That’s all the time he has before the rest of the world will find them.
Luo Binghe has not killed them because he knows Shizun would not have liked it; he has defeated Lui Qingge almost every day for two years for the right to keep Shizun’s corpse, and each time he has spared the man’s life for Shizun. If he comes now and dares to try to steal Shizun away again, when he’s so close, breathing, alive—
He doesn’t know what he’ll do.
Behind him, some shifting on the bed. He turns immediately and sees that Shizun’s brow has furrowed in his sleep. His hands are clenched into trembling fists on his chest.
“Shizun,” he whispers, hands hovering over Shizun’s shoulder. His breathing is coming in sharp pants now, and he turns his head away from the noise. “It’s okay, Shizun,” Luo Binghe says helplessly. “You can wake up.”
Shizun stays sleeping, trapped in his own head.
Luo Binghe watches him for a long moment, feeling small and useless like he hasn’t felt in a long time. Then, he thinks, if it was Shizun that somehow pulled Luo Binghe into his dream, surely he could do it again? And if not, well, Luo Binghe has learned how to push his consciousness into another’s dream, too. Surely it couldn’t hurt to try?
Shen Qingqui is dreaming about the bamboo house. Light slants through the grove at a steep angle, and the golden light just before dusk sets the inside of the bamboo house nearly ablaze. Luo Binghe has dreamt of it often, and something painful lurches in his chest, even as he tries to remind himself that Shizun has had so many more memories here. It would make sense that he would dream of this place, perhaps of a time before Luo Binghe even came to learn here.
Luo Binghe has been dropped into the center of Shizun’s study, although his Shizun is nowhere to be found. He’s nowhere inside, nor is he immediately outside of the bamboo house. Luo Binghe prowls the area in concentric circles until he finds a shape in green kneeling before a simple grave at the edge of the grove. Luo Binghe would recognize Shizun’s silhouette anywhere.
Shizun has yet to sense his presence, so Luo Binghe watches for a long moment. Finally, Shizun’s shoulders sag, and the sharp scent of clove incense reaches him. It hits Luo Binghe almost hard enough to knock the breath from him.
(Luo Binghe has always been partial to clove incense, after all.)
“Ahh, Binghe,” Shizun says without bothering to turn around. “Come home soon, okay?”
Then he pats the earth before him fondly. Luo Binghe doesn’t dare move, but he can’t help but wonder. Is this a place that exists only in Shizun’s mind? Is there a grave for Luo Binghe, walking distance from Shizun’s own bed? Luo Binghe hasn’t been back to the bamboo house since Shizun’s death, and before that, there wasn’t any time.
“Are you sure that’s what you want?” A cold voice says.
Shizun startles, then whips around. A dream-version of Luo Binghe stands to Shizun's right suddenly, materializing as he’d spoken those words. But Luo Binghe scarcely recognizes himself: his curly hair has been pulled up into a severe topknot, his demon mark burning bright red on his forehead. There’s a chilling smirk on the dream Luo Binghe’s face, and his eyes are cold and cruel. Whisps of demonic energy curl around his feet and hands, and the killing intent emanating from him is more powerful than anything Luo Binghe has encountered yet.
Is this really how his Shizun sees him?
“Are you here for your revenge?” Shizun asks without turning around.
“I’m here to pay my Shizun back tenfold what he gave to me,” the Dream Luo Binghe says, not unkindly. “Won’t Shizun face this disciple?”
Shizun’s shoulders shake, just a faint tremble. He turns, his eyes tracing up and down the Dream Luo Binghe with sadness.
“Don’t worry, Shizun,” Dream Luo Binghe says. “I won’t kill you. Death would be too kind.”
He takes a step forward, and that’s when Luo Binghe’s body decides to move again.
“Shizun!” He shouts, loud enough that it startles Shen Qingqui. “Shizun, it’s not real! You’re dreaming; don’t let it touch you!”
Shizun’s eyes snap to him, and a whirlwind of emotions cross his face in the span of a blink.
The Dream Luo Binghe is still reaching for Shizun, but after a moment, Shizun shakes his head and scrambles away from his hold. A moment of quiet; no doubt Shizun concentrating before the Dream Luo Binghe disappears in a wisp of black smoke. He turns to Luo Binghe and stares at him.
And looks at him some more. Luo Binghe tries to unstick his mouth.
“I cannot dissipate you,” Shizun finally says.
“Shizun,” Luo Binghe replies, his voice thick. There are tears in his eyes. “You’re awake.”
“Not yet.”
His lips curl, just a touch at the corner. Luo Binghe wants to collapse to his knees and clutch his Shizun’s robes at the sight. He didn’t dare hope; he couldn’t exist without hope. He hasn’t cried in front of mortal eyes for a decade, but he does so now.
“None of that, Binghe,” Shizun says; he’s pulled a fan out of his sleeve, and the precious sight of Shizun’s nose and mouth are hidden behind it. There’s another pause, as Shizun’s eyes dart around the bamboo grove. “This is—real, then? I’m...Alive?”
“Shizun,” Luo Binghe whispers through his tears.
He doesn’t bother to wipe the streaks of saltwater from his face. He can’t help it, and crosses the remaining distance between them, intent on prostrating himself before his master’s feet. But then, unexpectedly, Shizun recoils, a look of fear passes through his eyes. The next moment, the bamboo grove disappears around them. Luo Binghe is pressed on all sides by darkness until all at once he’s blinking open his eyes in the dimly lit room in Sha Hualing’s Palace.
Scrambling up the bed, he quickly looks over Shizun, to see if he’s awoken. Disappointment is a bitter curl in his stomach when Shizun remains unmoved. The fear in Shen Qingqui’s eyes from the dream flashes in his mind again, and Luo Binghe can’t help it if even more tears streak down his face.
Why is his Shizun still scared of him? Didn’t he say with his dying breath that he did not blame Luo Binghe?
Luo Binghe can’t help but thread his fingers with Shizun’s, comforted by the frantic pulsing of his heartbeat in his wrist. Shizun is alive, and that’s all that matters. Shizun is here, next to Luo Binghe. He won’t let him run away again.
As expected, Sha Hualing finds him eventually. She barges into the room, fury evident in every line of her body.
“I won’t show mercy on any of those mortals if they step foot in my domain,” she snaps when she spots him kneeling at Shizun’s bedside.
Sha Hualing is not a kind woman, but then Luo Binghe has no use for kindness these days. He prefers her when she’s cruel, anyway. He has no time for soft allies. It surprises him, then, that she takes one more look at him and the hard line of her shoulders softens.
“Lord Luo,” she begins again. “Why did you bring him here?”
Luo Binghe isn’t sure why exactly he chose this place, of all the territories in the demon realm that they’ve conquered. Come to think of it, Mobei Jun’s palace may have served better; it’s more defensible in the event of a frontal assault, and the cold might be better for Shizun’s delicate meridians.
“We couldn’t stay in Huan Hua Palace,” he says instead. It’s the easy answer, of course, and Sha Hualing scowls at him again.
“Who’s fault is that?” she grumbles, crossing her arms across her chest. “The Little Palace Mistress has taken great offense that you didn’t even bother asking for the Huan Hua doctors.”
“Shizun requires the best care.”
“Mu Qingfan is an unparalleled doctor,” she agrees after a moment; “he also would like nothing more than to see you dead, Lord Luo! Liu Qingge is not the only man who would seek to destroy you for what you’ve done to Shen Qingqiu.”
“And what, pray, have I done to my Shizun,” Luo Binghe growls. He feels Sha Hualing recoil more than he sees her; his qi is spilling into the room in coils of energy so heavy it nearly suffocates. The fire in the hearth flickers under the strain. “Under my care, my Shizun’s soul had a safe place to return to. Did I not treat my Shizun with the utmost respect while I waited for his return?”
“Yes, Lord Luo.” Sha Hualing is prideful, but after a long, tense moment, she bows to him anyway. “This one was only repeating rumors. Forgive this one.”
“Every Peak Lord from Cang Qiong Peak will no doubt be on your doorstep soon,” Luo Binghe says. It’s not quite forgiveness, not quite a reprimand. Luo Binghe doesn’t have the strength for either right now. “No later than sunrise tomorrow, by my guess. Bring Mobei Jun to help defend the palace; bring anyone you think you can trust. Anyone who dares try to take my Shizun from me, I’ll crush to dust myself.”
Sha Hualing bows again and turns to go. She’s clearly understood his dismissal. But still, she hesitates at the doorway, her hand gently resting on the doorframe.
“Don’t forget to eat, Lord Luo,” she says, not bothering to turn around.
With that, she disappears down the hallway. Luo Binghe turns his full attention back to his Shizun. His brow has smoothed out, and his breathing evened out, too. Could it be that Luo Binghe’s entrance into his dream calmed him, more than upset him? But if that were true, why would he recoil from Luo Binghe’s touch? The movement is engraved in his mind’s eye, the flash of fear that had crossed Shizun’s beautiful eyes. He feels sick just thinking about it, that he could be the cause of it still.
These long years alone with Shizun’s soulless body, he’d been stuck in between hoping and not-hoping for his Shizun to return. He can’t exist in a world where his Shizun’s death was Luo Binghe’s fault, and yet for two years, he did just that. But he’d never thought of what might come afterward, even in his wildest dreams.
Hadn’t Luo Binghe held his Shizun in his arms while Shizun told him it was going to be alright? Didn’t Shizun’s heart stop beating after he said he didn’t blame Luo Binghe? What else could be meant with the words "Everything that’s happened in the past, I’ll repay it all to you today”? Luo Binghe clutches at the roots of his hair, willing the sting of tears back. There’s no one here to see them, so they would serve no purpose.
“Shizun,” Luo Binghe says finally into the silence. “I’m here. I’m waiting. Please come back to me.”
In the end, Luo Binghe decides to go make his Shizun some congee. If he wakes before the Peak Lords arrive, he’ll surely be hungry.
It has been a long time since Luo Binghe has had the pleasure of cooking for someone else, and his body eases into the simple rhythm of it easily. He hardly has to think before he has a bowl of steaming congee, just as he used to make for Shizun before—
Well.
There’s hardly a change in his Shizun when he makes it back to the bedroom. Still as ever, perfect in his serenity, the gentle rise and fall of his chest is the only thing that differentiates him from before. Luo Binghe goes to sit at his hip just to feel the natural warmth of Shizun’s living body.
Shizun doesn’t move. The congee goes cold. Luo Binghe can’t help but trace the edges of Shizun’s face with a delicate, trembling finger before he gets up to make another bowl of congee.
Liu Qingge arrives sometime before sunrise. He hears the commotion, the furious howling of Sha Hualing, the rumble of buildings falling in a battle.
“Don’t worry, Shizun,” Luo Binghe says, rubbing a hand over his Shizun’s precious hair. “I won’t let anyone take you.”
“LUO BINGHE!” Liu Qingge bellows, the sound rattling against the stone walls. “Show your face and fight me!”
“Your Shidi is here to see us, Shizun,” Luo Binghe whispers. Shen Qingqiu takes a deep breath, almost a sigh, but other than that, he doesn’t seem to hear. “Don’t worry Shizun. I won’t kill him.”
The fight is less tedious than normal. Liu Qingge fights like a man deranged, and while it makes his movements more predictable, his strength seems to have increased, almost double what it normally is. Truly, he is fighting as if his life depends upon it.
No matter. Luo Binghe is always going to win this fight.