Chapter Text
the end of the road is a beginning
Mu Qing feels rage down to his bones, searing him from the inside like molten silver. Xie Lian cries out involuntarily as his head, grasped firmly in Jun Wu’s vicious grip, is slammed repeatedly into the ground.
Fear has ruled the better portion of Mu Qing's life - fear of rejection, fear of failure, fear of vulnerability, fear of loss - but in the face of Xie Lian’s torture, his body moves, leaping towards the calamity with his saber poised to strike. The pain in his burnt legs and palms fades away in the wake of Xie Lian’s suffering.
On either side of him, he hears the whistling of arrows, feels them pulse with energy just as surely as he feels the steadfast presence of Feng Xin at his back, and knows they will not hit him. His saber strikes true, embedding between the plates of armor at Jun Wu’s shoulder, followed immediately by the sharp strikes of Feng Xin’s arrows. Jun Wu snarls as the arrows pierce his armor, whirling with a speed that Mu Qing has no hope of matching with the shackle inhibiting his spiritual energy.
“ Hua Cheng -” he screams, only for his words to be choked off by a hand encircling his windpipe. Still, to his relief, a silvery swarm of butterflies engulf Xie Lian, sequestering him away.
Determined to keep Jun Wu’s attention on him, consequences be damned, Mu Qing pulls Zhanmadao free from Jun Wu’s shoulder, aiming to strike again at his side.
His wrist is snatched instantly in a death-grip, his bones grinding together. Jun Wu’s pale eyes drill into Mu Qing’s as though he intends to rip them from his head. Heart hammering in his chest, Mu Qing sneers and opens his mouth - to say what , he has no idea - but before he can utter a sound, his throat fills with blood.
For a moment, there is stillness and silence. Mu Qing is suddenly acutely aware of the way he dangles above the molten ground, of his inability to breath, of the white-hot point of pain where the cursed shackle clenches his left wrist, siphoning off his spiritual energy as surely as his lifeblood spills from where claws sink into the soft flesh of his throat.
Bai Wuxiang - the Heavenly Emporer - Jun Wu - tilts his head at him with cold consideration, a look familiar to Mu Qing from their interactions for the past 800 years. His left hand grasps at the calamity’s wrist, weak compared to the iron grip holding him aloft.
His right hand trembles with the fierceness he grips Zhanmadao, poised to strike, though still within the grasp Jun Wu’s free hand.
“Your loyalty to him would be touching, if it weren’t so worthless,” says Jun Wu, observing the way Mu Qing’s mouth opens to seek air. Even then, the dark eyes stare defiantly, a pride that Jun Wu had always found rather meaningless in one so weak, if not amusing.
The calamity hums, idly tightening his hand, feeling some satisfaction at the echoing crack that resonates from the pale, slender neck in his grip. A shocked whimper sounds from Mu Qing as his right arm falls limply to his side, the saber clattering to the rock below as nerves become compressed by shattered bone.
Mu Qing can hear cries from behind him. Can hear weapons being poised to attack, the tell-tale sound of Fengshen’s string being drawn. It seems to briefly catch Jun Wu’s attention, who sneers in derision. Mu Qing feels his head snap sideways with the force at which Jun Wu slams him into the ground beneath them, and the movement of his fractured neck sends sickening shocks down his spine, down each limb like bolts of lightning. Distantly, he can feel the wetness of urine seeping down his legs, his bladder no longer in his control. Stars blaze before his eyes, the world flickering in and out, and even though the hand is gone from his neck, he can't seem to draw breath, his diaphragm now also no longer connected with his brain. Even with the sudden dullness to the world around him, he can hear Jun Wu’s voice, piercing as it always was with the power it held.
“You disappoint me, Xuan Zhen - a feeling shared by Xianle to be sure.”
He hears the sharp, deep cadence of Feng Xin's rage and the cool, even tone of Xie Lian's rare anger, and somehow it’s comforting.
Perhaps it's the brain injury, but he can't help but hope that their anger is on his behalf. It's a selfish feeling - he is and always has been so selfish - but the idea that his most important people would care about his pain is what gives him the motivation to open his eyes and stare up at his tormentor, baring his bloodied teeth. He will not give Jun Wu the satisfaction of his deference. Jun Wu meets his eyes and his expression flickers - just for a moment - to terrible, all-encompassing wrath at his defiance, but his attention is quickly drawn back towards the sound of a sword being unsheathed. A smile stretches across his face, sick with madness.
“Ah, do not be hasty, Xianle. It's unlike you. Your anger will make you sloppy, and I want you at your best . Drop your weapon, and I might let him live.”
Mu Qing’s face is nudged towards the three with a metal-plated foot, towards the two faces he knows as well as his own, even twisted in horror. He locks eyes with the man who’s fought and bled beside him for nearly a millennium, then to the man who he’d spent the better part of his life trying not to fail, yet failing him anyway.
A multitude of emotions seize his chest, but the most devastating is the sheer regret; so many words he’s said to them, yet so few with meaning; things he hoped to convey to them, but knows he didn’t. He won't get the chance, he realizes.
He sees Xie Lian and Feng Xin move to lower their weapons, to give in to Jun Wu's demands, and the sudden fear at their defenselessness give him strength.
“Don't you dare,” he rasps around his ruined throat, “Don't you dare !”
Don’t you dare give up. Don’t you dare allow my failure to bring you harm.
He’s relieved - proud, even - when Feng Xin’s eyes waver just slightly before becoming as unyielding as bronze metal, Fengshen’s string once more becoming taught, an arrow blazing with spiritual energy renewed. Xie Lian clenches his jaw and his stance shifts into something taller, straighter, confident - every bit the god he was meant to be, the god he always had been.
They're beautiful, and in another life, Mu Qing wonders if he could have told them so.
He gets no more time to ponder, as his hair is gripped and tugged harshly, forcing his body upwards. The world becomes a blur with a sharp pain in his scalp as his body is flung carelessly and with devastating strength again to the ground. Mu Qing feels something shatter within his chest, his back, his legs. The bedrock cracks beneath him. He must have cried out, because he can taste ash on his tongue as his mouth hangs open, panting for breath his lungs cannot remember how to take. He’s on his back, and his vision clears just in time to watch the wicked blade of Zhanmadao descending upon him in a vicious arc, grasped in the heavenly emperor’s white fingers. It sinks effortlessly through flesh and into the rock below, standing like a proud banner.
There should be pain, Mu Qing thinks, but there’s only distant screams and a terrible, all-consuming cold. His vision blurs, and he’s not sure how much of that is tears or the fact that he's dying.
He doesn’t want the last thing he sees to be Jun Wu.
With the last of his strength, he turns his head just-so, cranes his eyes towards the voices he waited centuries to hear again in the same space, but instead finds a single, amber eye, wide in a way that he’s never seen and will never see again. His vision rapidly fades, and all he can think is that he wished he just had one more moment, even just a single second more, with all of them.
He mouths a plea and knows no more.
the end of the road is a beginning
No.
Xie Lian cries out in despair, making to rush forward but is held back by Hua Cheng, who is speaking urgently, though the words are lost to Feng Xin.
Feng Xin stares with disbelief at the body, so still where it was nailed to the scorching ground. Fengshen falls from his hand.
Before him, dark, gleaming hair is splayed over the rock, becoming wet with the blood blooming from underneath a figure which could not be Mu Qing .
Mu Qing isn't small or fragile or still. He is the white flash of lightning in a storm. He is the relentless torrent of an avalanche. He is the soft glow of the moon, with a gravity so profound it moves oceans even when not present in the sky. Mu Qing is - He is -
Jun Wu sighs, nudging that precious head of dark hair with his filthy, unworthy foot.
Feng Xin’s vision goes red.
He is upon Jun Wu, his own sword drawn, before he can think to do anything else. He hears nothing, sees nothing, except a pale, broken body at Jun Wu’s feet.
Jun Wu’s eyes widen slightly at the force which Feng Xin strikes him, choosing to disengage backwards. He laughs, mockingly, as Feng Xin follows with a roar, rage and grief driving him forward and intertwining with the spiritual energy that spills into his veins like a raging flood. He was nearly glowing with it, ready to burn through every drop if it meant he could wipe this vile creature from the three realms.
Mu Qing. Mu Qing. Mu Qing. Mu Qing. Mu Qing.
“How impressive, General. Is this really all because of him?” he says, idly parrying another blow, a wicked flick of his wrist drawing blood from Feng Xin’s side.
“I wonder, what heights could you have achieved if I’d only gotten rid of him sooner .”
Jun Wu pivots, instantly at Feng Xin’s back, and he turns with barely enough time to block Jun Wu’s strike. Even then, he can feel his left arm fracture with the impact as he skids backwards. He grits his teeth and bears the pain in his arm, the wound in his side, as Jun Wu launches himself at him. He raises his sword, and though he knows he stands no chance against Jun Wu, he is willing to die for the small chance that he could sever the calamity's head from his shoulders -
Suddenly, white fills Feng Xin’s vision, an open palm colliding with his chest and forcing him a distance backwards. The sound of swords clashing is deafening, and before him Xie Lian stands firm, aglow with more spiritual energy than Feng Xin’s ever seen within him.
“Feng Xin, go to Mu Qing!” Xie Lian calls, commands , and then he and Jun Wu are off, exchanging blows at speeds Feng Xin is unable to follow.
Mu Qing.
For a fraction of a second, Feng Xin hesitates. Doesn’t want to see. Doesn’t want to know. But then he thinks of Mu Qing lying there alone and his feet carry him, each step like an anvil coming down, reaching a final verdict.
He falls to his knees before the still figure, into an ever-growing puddle of warm, dark slickness that he refuses to acknowledge.
Dark irises are grotesquely matte, just visible beneath pale eyelids lined with thick eyelashes, still damp with tears. With shaking hands, Feng Xin reaches out, cupping the warm cheek, wiping some of the wetness and blood away from beneath one of his eyes, following through to stroke raven hair away from the other god’s bloody face.
Mu Qing hates when Feng Xin messes with his hair.
Feng Xin’s breath hitches.
“Mu Qing, h-hey,” he breathes, his voice barely a whisper as his breathing shutters, “You - you’re alright now, okay? I’m h-here now. I’m right here with you.”
Mu Qing says nothing. His eyes don’t sparkle or blaze, or capture Feng Xin in their fathomless, starlit depths. He doesn’t mock Feng Xin for stuttering or yell at him for his recklessness.
“I’m - I’m gonna get this out, ok? It - I’m sure it hurts,” he chokes out, rising to his knees just enough to be level with Zhanmadao’s hilt.
Feng Xin prides himself on the steadiness of his hands, honed for deadly precision with a bow, and yet for all the merits in the world he wouldn’t be able to stop them from shaking as he grasps the handle.
Mu Qing never lets him touch Zhanmadao.
He releases some sort of cry - something barely human - as he pulls up, if only to drown out the sound the weapon makes as it exits flesh. With a carelessness that Mu Qing would skin him alive for, Feng Xin throws the saber to the ground, somewhere out of sight. He falls back to his hands and knees, willing himself not to vomit.
He’s only vaguely aware of the sounds of battle around him, the clang of swords as they meet overlapping with the ringing in Feng Xin’s ears. He blinks, and for a second he thinks Mu Qing might be scowling at him, demanding that he pull himself together, but another blink reveals the same image. The same face, still as porcelain.
Feng Xin finds himself clenching his teeth so hard that they might just crack. He lays his right hand over the wound on Mu Qing’s chest, the other coming to cradle the junction of his neck and head. Shuddering, he pours what remains of his spiritual energy into the unnaturally quiet meridians of his longest enemy, his closest friend.
“Stop fucking around, Mu Qing,” he hisses, clenching his fingers into the dark robes overlying Mu Qing’s chest. He cries out as he pushes wave after wave of spiritual energy into the still chest, waiting for the wounds to close, waiting for color to return to high cheek bones, waiting for stars to ignite within dark irises.
It feels like pouring water into a woven basket. The spiritual energy simply bleeds out of Mu Qing just as surely as -
As surely as his blood, pooling around them. Feng Xin suddenly can’t smell anything else, thick, metallic, and foul . He can feel it seeping into his robes, sticky against his hands.
This time, Feng Xin does vomit.
He releases his hold on Mu Qing and turns away so his sick doesn’t touch any part of him. Mu Qing doesn’t deserve that. He deserves to be clean. To be clean, and safe, and warm.
Something icy grips Feng Xin's chest at that thought. Because Mu Qing's robes are soaked in - in - They’re soaked, so he'll certainly feel cold.
With a desperation born of fragile denial, he pulls Mu Qing into his arms, cradling him to his chest. He's struck, oddly, by the realization that Mu Qing's smaller than him. It's not exactly new. Mu Qing has always had a more slender build than Feng Xin, belying the incredible strength he carries in his shoulders or in the straight, proud line of his back.
Now, his arms lie limply by his sides, his head tucked protectively beneath Feng Xin’s chin. He feels fragile beneath Feng Xin’s hands. Carefully, he wraps an arm around Mu Qing’s waist to pull him even closer, to feel for Mu Qing’s warm breath fanning across his neck.
“Mu Qing, come on. Please -”
He grasps at one of Mu Qing’s hands, and the hairs raise on the back of his neck, observing the blue tinge to the nail beds, the coolness bleeding into limp fingers. He tries to rub warmth into those fingers, raising them to press them to his lips, because -
- they’re so cold. And Mu Qing hates being -
The dam opens.
the end of the road is a beginning
It’s done.
After 800 years of ceaseless suffering and struggle, it’s finally finished.
Xie Lian can’t feel happy about it.
Dread weighs his feet down and renders him immobile. He feels Hua Cheng pressed against his back, squeezing his hand where their fingers are intertwined, supportive and fortifying. He is strong where Xie Lian is moments from breaking.
Xie Lian’s lips tremble. He can’t speak past the tightness in his throat, and he’s reminded of a cursed shackle that is no longer there. He takes a deep, shuttering breath, squeezing Hua Cheng’s hand back as though trying to absorb his strength. Slowly, he walks to where Feng Xin sits, cradling a broken body in his arms.
His heart aches as he stares at that broad back, curled over as if aged one-thousand years, shaking with sobs, rocking slightly back and forth as though soothing a child.
Xie Lian swallows back nausea and steels himself for heartbreak, for the sharp blade of grief that comes with this sort of closure. He rests a gentle hand on Feng Xin’s shoulder, and the archer flinches, sobbing in earnest now. But Xie Lian refuses to let him pull away from his comfort, gripping Feng-Xin’s shoulder more firmly, fortifying.
He pivots to stand before the archer. For some reason, the first thing Xie Lian’s eyes land upon is a pale hand, bloody and blistered, against the rock. It somehow provides him an anchor, something to focus on without having to understand its meaning as he gently lowers himself to the ground.
“Feng Xin,” he whispers. He rests a hand on the archer’s exposed cheek, the other buried in dark hair, smearing his face with blood and ash. “Feng Xin, you must let go now.”
For a moment, Feng Xin seems to curl even more tightly over the body, shoulders rigid. But Xie Lian patiently strokes his cheek, and his shoulders relax ever so slightly, lifting his face to meet Xie Lian’s eyes. For as long as Feng Xin can remember, he’s never been able to deny his prince anything. He knows Xie Lian would never force him to do anything, ever, and thus his command held a tender, irrefutable power.
Xie Lian holds out his hands, beckoning, slowly moving to replace Feng Xin’s beneath the body. It takes more will-power than Feng Xin could describe, but he allows it. Mu Qing would be safe with Xie Lian; he would never harm him.
Xie Lian closes his eyes for a moment, steeling himself, and looks down. Nothing could have prepared him, of course.
Memories flash before his eyes, so quickly that his vision blurs.
A boy, malnourished and distrustful, eyes glittering in contempt towards all deemed unworthy of authority. A teen with gentle, deft fingers, capable of creating beautiful braids in his hair and cutting a foe to ribbons with a blade in equal measure, possessing more skill and talent than those who called themselves his betters. A soldier with raven-dark hair and eyes to match, applying medicinal balm to his wounds with a gentleness at odds with concurrent harsh scolding. A dear friend with a memory so precise that he could recreate recipes, robes, and stories long lost to time just to warm Xie Lian’s spirit, yet with a devotion so profound that he never sought gratitude. A god with a passionate and kind soul shielded by an armor of derision and armed to the teeth with barbed words.
Xie Lian bites his lower lip until he tastes blood. The pain does nothing to distract from the grief. It’s as though his chest is being split open.
He gently raises a shaking finger to brush over pale, bloodied lips, over a high cheek bone and soft brow, before gently guiding the partially open, sightless eyes closed. Like this, he looks peaceful. Xie Lian used to marvel at this face in the rare moments where tension didn’t sharpen its features, when its lips were upturned in laughter not born of spite or derision.
Mu Qing had always been lovely.
Xie Lian cant help but give into a long-held desire, lowering his head to press his lips softly against that pale forehead, now gone cold. He exhales shakily, closing his eyes tightly as though to preserve Mu Qing’s image in life, as if he could will away reality if he wished it fiercely enough. So he could have one more chance to reforge their bond, to tell Mu Qing how much he -
“Your Highness,” comes a gentle voice, drawing Xie Lian’s wet eyes upwards.
Hua Cheng kneels alongside both him and Feng Xing, his expression one that Xie Lian’s never seen before on his face. His deep amber eye echoes with a profound sadness, and something else, something distant - something Xie Lian can’t name.
“San Lang?” Xie Lian whispers, voice cracking, a touch of anxiety coloring his tone.
Hua Cheng doesn’t move, doesn’t respond for a long moment. He holds Xie Lian’s gaze as though in a trance, before he blinks and lowers his eye to where Mu Qing rests in Xie Lian’s arms. An unreadable expression passes over his face, and then something about his form - blurs? Xie Lian blinks and both the expression and strange visual anomaly vanishes. Nonetheless, alarm bells are ringing in his mind.
His intuition is rarely wrong.
He's about to voice his concern, when Hua Cheng’s face melts into a gentle thing, eyes and mouth softening in an expression of love so transparent it takes Xie Lian’s breath away.
Hua Cheng holds out his arms.
“Give him to me for a moment, Your Highness.”
It’s the last thing Xie Lian expected him to say. Feng Xin’s body becomes rigid alongside him, mouth opening in outrage that is moreso a veil for his confusion and grief than a real threat. Xie Lian ignores that for a moment, searching Sang Lang’s eyes.
He’s confused by what he finds there, by the solemn tone to the ghost king’s voice, to the something else in the outlines of his body, as though he were on the verge of losing his own shape. Something is happening, and Xie Lian doesn’t understand.
“San Lang, what -”
“Your Highness, trust me.”
Hua Cheng looks apologetic as he cuts Xie Lian off, but urgency colors his tone. Hua Cheng has scarcely asked Xie Lian for anything , so of course Xie Lan acquiesces. He doesn’t understand the request, but he trusts Hua Cheng completely. He trusts him with his life and his heart - of course he would trust him with Mu Qing. With precious care, Xie Lian shifts Mu Qing into Hua Cheng’s waiting arms. Hua Cheng pulls the limp body close with a gentleness unexpected by such large hands and clawed fingers, even if his gaze never leaves Xie Lian’s.
Hua Cheng’s eyes soften even further, lips up-turning into an apologetic smile, and -
It was as though he were made of ink, his colors blurring outside the lines as if painted by an over-wet brush. His colors swirl, and to Xie Lian’s dismay, begin to bleed into the inky black of Mu Qing’s hair and jade white skin. Mu Qing’s fingers, where they lay against the bed-rock, disperse like watercolor in the maroon puddle of his blood, intermixed with the crimson of Hua Cheng’s robes.
Distantly, Xie Lian hears Feng Xin cry out in dismay around the sound of his own heart hammering in his ears. His hands shake, eyes wide in disbelief, reaching for them both yet not knowing where to touch. What’s happening? What’s going on?
“My beloved, my god,” Hua Cheng reassures softly, unafraid, recapturing Xie Lian’s eyes, “It’s alright. I’m not leaving. I’m simply,” he pauses, “resting.”
And it’s in that moment Xie Lian understands, at least in part. Hua Cheng had once vowed to give him anything he wanted, anything he needed. No matter the cost. He’d delivered on that promise, again and again.
And again, Hua Cheng, in the battle against Jun Wu, had given him everything. Hua Cheng - his San Lang - is fading.
And Mu Qing with him.
A strangled gasp leaves Xie Lian’s lips, and he reaches out to grasp wildly at them both, releasing a noise of anguish when his fingers simply leave empty holes where he means to hold them and never let go.
He’s losing them. Two pieces of his heart, two fragments of his soul - he doesn’t know if he can do this. How can he be expected to survive this ?
“No, please - San Lang,” Xie Lian begs, “Please, you can’t die for me, not again! ”
“Your Highness,” Hua Cheng’s voice sounds, pained, but remains ever-gentle “You must know - to die for you has been my greatest honor.”
And like rain, tears pour from Xie Lian’s eyes. Emotion rages within him and he sobs, unable to contain the intensity of what he feels, the sheer magnitude of his grief and despair.
“This sacrifice - I don’t want it! How can I lose you both? I’m not even sure how to lose one of you - I can’t lose you both!” he cries, pitching into a wail, “You said you would never leave me!”
There’s a moment of silence, then -
“There is no banquet in this world that doesn’t come to an end,” Hua Cheng whispers, like the gentle whisper of leaves, “But I will come back. We will come back. I swear to you -”
Xie Lian shakes his head, refusing to accept that promise, the hope that threatens to rise within him, because of course he believes him - gods, he will always believe in him.
Xie Lian can do nothing to respond, except lean forward. Just one last time - one more kiss, if he can have nothing else. The wispy remains of Hua Cheng’s form dip down to meet him. Where their lips would have met, there is only a wafting of cool air, like mist against Xie Lian’s tear-stained cheeks.
“ - we will never rest in peace.”
Then, an explosion of white and black butterflies, taking flight.
the end of the road is a beginning
Hua Cheng opens his eyes and knows he has died, again. He knows with just as much certainty that he will return to his god, again.
He looks down at his hands and sees a familiar, red cord, glowing with warmth, one which he’s been tethered to for his entire existence, in both life and death. In the distant nothingness, which cannot precisely be called darkness but which has no other comparison, the cord trails off until it disappears.
With more effort than he’s put into almost anything, he turns away from it, instead moving towards a familiar presence that he is only able to sense due to their proximity in death.
He recalls dark eyes, tears streaking over pale cheeks, bloodied lips staring at him with more honesty and fear than he thought them capable. A silent plea rings in Hua Cheng’s ears, a final prayer that had, against all reason, been sent to him. It had resonated with a desire with which he’s intimately familiar, one he can't quite bring himself to ignore.
“Please don't make me leave them.”