Chapter Text
Luo Binghe has not had an easy life; he is not sure if he is quite yet eleven, but the money has long run out. The woman he once called Mother had given him all her money, her house, her business washing clothes by the river. Long before she was hit by a carriage, she had taken him in and taught him all the secrets of her wash powder. How to remove stains. How to fold the clothes. She taught him how to make meals and how to judge food. The four years he was with her, she also taught him to avoid the slavers. When she leaves his life, she gives him all her savings. She tells him to keep picking up the wash as if she were home. To wait, and if she can not return to him before the money runs out, to go to Cang Qiong.
He works. He tells anyone that asks that his mother is sick. His hands bleed where they crack from the lye, worked without rest for far more hours to equal the work his much larger mother did. He waits. He waits three years, til the money is completely exhausted and the incoming work is no more, til his back aches and his stomach doesn’t hurt for how the hollowness has encompassed it. He has sold everything in the hut, when finally he realizes she never meant to return. He feels foolish, crying alone by the fire pit on the reeds he himself had gathered late one night after his work was done. The bed to replace the one he sold.
It is with a numbness in his mind that he leaves at the first light. Trading the house for bags of rice and enough coin to make it to Cang Qiong. He learns on arrival that the test for new disciples is more than a month away, and the bags of rice will only last a month. Hunger dogs him as he wanders the streets; he doesn’t intend to steal, but his appearance and the way he eyes the sticks of tanghulu lead to the stall keeper whipping him with a truly scary crop a day before the test. It lays his shoulder and back open as he stands dazed at the unprovoked attack. Hunger and shock leave him falling to the street, more blows raining on him til he manages to escape. He hasn’t thread to mend the tears in his shirt, so he uses his own hairs braided and stitches the tears as neatly as possible after cleaning his clothes of the blood.
The morning of the test, he wakes, hunger beginning to numb to the hollowness again as he shakily climbs the steps. When he stands before the patch of dirt and begins to dig his ditch, even as blood soaks the back of his shirt, stinging with sweat, he doesn’t let himself cry. He needs them to see he can handle this. He can do this. He must do this. He’s alone, and no one else will help him unless he proves himself worthy.
Alone in the hut, he had lots of time to think on why the woman that took him in left him. On why she decided not to be his mother after all. As he worked so hard, he realized he hadn’t worked hard enough before she left. Hadn’t shown her he could carry his own. He is determined to fix that this time.
When he is called out of the ditch, he looks up and sees the beautiful form of the immortal that has claimed him as a disciple. Grace and beauty, like a crane made human. Dainty jade-like fingers clutch a painted silken fan worth more than all the money Binghe has ever seen in his entire life combined. Meanwhile mud and dirt mingled with blood drips down Binghe’s arms to cake his hands where he clutches the spade he was given.
Binghe feels dirty, wretched and small, as he is led up too many stairs to make ceremonial tea. At least he gets time to wash his hands and feet so as not to sully the kitchen more than he must. The sneer on the face of his shixiong holds much disgust; the older boy had introduced himself as Ming Fan and bragged how he was close to Shizun. Binghe should never refer to him without saying shixiong- as the youngest, all his martial brothers will be Shixiong, and he Ming Fan-shixiong. Binghe swallows it all down. He can do this. He can bow and learn these new honorifics. The ceremony should be simple. He has made tea before, though the long unbroken leaves are very unfamiliar to him.
He forsakes the sandals he had made from reeds, leaving them behind as there is no way to get them clean enough. His knees will leave a mark on the floor where he kneels, he just knows it. His stomach pangs with hunger at the smell of the tea as he pours it, but he swallows it back, bowing.
Instead of picking up the cup of tea that Binghe has poured, his Shizun looks at him with fine sparkling jade eyes over the edge of his fan. His voice is like music, like the fine wine he once had from a discarded gourd that had floated down the river while he was washing, the writing smeared but the crisp burning flavor inside sweet and sharp as it rested in his nose long after the liquid was gone.
“What makes you want to become a disciple? What drives you? How did you come to be filled with the drive that brought you here? Be honest to this Lord.”
Binghe swallows hard, his hands clenching on dusty and oft-mended and altered clothes, ill-fitting even with all his hard work to make them last as long as possible. His throat clicks as he cannot hold that gaze for long, a strange burning afflicting his eyes, which he shoves deep inside himself, afraid that if he starts crying, much like his last night in the hut, he won’t be able to stop.
“I was thrown out as a newborn. I was fished from the icy river by fishermen. I spent four years surviving on charity, begging. Then a kind old washer woman took me in. Taught me her trade for almost four years. She left, telling me to keep working till she returned. The money long ran out and the work ran dry as larger washer groups edged me out. I could not wait for her any longer. I want to be strong enough, to be useful enough, to never be a burden again. I want to someday be worthy of returning for.”
Binghe has to swallow hard as his voice cracks, his teeth squeaking where his jaw flexes tight as soon as the words are done. He feels sick though nothing is in his system to rise up, and his nose burns between itching eyes. He keeps his gaze on his dusty knees. The trickling of wetness, stinging and sticky down his back, is the only movement he feels as time passes for what feels like forever.
Binghe’s feet and legs become numb, the pins and needles becoming agony as he sits, still and quiet as he can. Then there is a faint sound, the tea. He risks a look up to watch his Shizun drink his tea. The elegant immortal drains it more like a shot of liquor, making even such a crass motion somehow elegant before slowly settling it back down on the divan.
Their eyes meet, Binghe’s own wide open with the shock he feels and Shizun’s somehow seeming tired and aching. That voice is a bit thicker as it comes out now. “Come, I will personally mentor you. First, I will bathe you and teach you how you will be expected to serve me in the baths. Then I will mend your back.”
Binghe is shocked, then delighted to hear he will be personally mentored by Shizun. He had never thought it could be possible. He struggles to stand, the promised agony of his legs nothing to the euphoria of this chance he is being given. His smile is wide, and Shizun scoffs, before snapping, “Don’t leave leftovers on the plates after tea. Always eat them.”
He nods, voice shocked as he all but shouts, “Yes Shizun!” gratefully taking up the sweet dried fruits and nuts and cakes to bolt down with all the speed honed by living on the streets before hurrying to catch up with Shizun where he waits at the edge of the room. He can have all the leftovers? All these sweet rich foods? He nearly feels faint, so giddy is he right now.
This time, Luo Binghe will work hard and prove he is worth keeping around. “Thank you Shizun!” he chirps after swallowing the last few bites. His stomach aches with how stretched and full it feels. He tingles and even the sore split skin on his back and shoulders dims in comparison to how butterflies seem to dance in his chest. He watches the grace Shizun walks with, trying desperately to copy it as he is led back to the washroom.