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Faith was a fickle thing.
Zhang Hao had seen it play out countless times from beyond the veil; lights of faith growing when small gods decided to respond, dimming after disaster struck. In only two generations, gods could be forgotten, disappearing as they were abandoned by the mortals providing for them.
Not Zhang Hao, though. No mortal remembered his name. His temples had long been destroyed, his sacred texts forbidden centuries before being turned to dust by time. None of those lights shone for him on the other side, no prayer had called for his blessing in millennia, but he was still here. Lurking. Biding his time. Too powerful to vanish, too ancient to be awakened again.
And so, he observed silently, watching as time passed him by. Lesser gods came and went, civilizations rose and collapsed, religions that survived long enough masqueraded as what they used to be. There was always something interesting going on, a distraction from eternity in darkness.
Such a distraction came to Zhang Hao in the form of a light shining incredibly bright, a star amongst dying sparks. Unwavering faith in a place where no god was left, forsaken despite thousands of gods still roaming the earth. Selfish, blind, mad, uninterested; gods all had their reasons to abandon willing mortals, and yet this one worshipper never abandoned his faith.
Intrigued, Zhang Hao let himself get drawn to the believer’s heart, visiting a temple that wasn’t his. He would simply observe for a while. Learn. Understand how faith could survive the darkness and still burn so bright. Zhang Hao didn’t have a body anymore, but he could inhabit the old walls, slither into the wooden hallways with decorations worn by time. Find the light, burning so bright it was blinding.
Like he had done so many times before, Zhang Hao observed, silent and hidden.
“Please, Your Grace. I beg you to reconsider.”
The old man didn’t even stop his slow movements despite the interruption, carefully folding up the last of his garments. He didn’t turn either to address the young man respectfully waiting at the door of his rooms.
“Sung Hanbin. We’ve already gone over it plenty of times. I am no Grace anymore, and you should leave and go back to the village with us.”
Hanbin held his hands tighter under his ample sleeves, fighting to soothe the frown on his face. He didn’t mean to be disrespectful, didn’t mean to let his frustration show, but he also couldn’t let everyone leave without saying anything.
“We can’t let the Mountain God be upset at us,” Hanbin insisted. “Our oracle said this winter will be the harshest in memory. What if we can’t ask for help then? The village must be protected.”
The High Priest finally faced Hanbin; his wrinkled face turned sour. The wooden beads of his necklaces knocked against each other as he stowed away the clothes with the rest of his belongings, packed to go.
“The Mountain God has forsaken us, Hanbin. The harvest has been decimated by the plague, and the strange illness that appeared in the south has just reached us. Our village will need every one of us to protect it. No God will save us now.”
“But we have to try,” Hanbin desperately pleaded. “The Mountain God helped us in your grandfather’s time, He can grant us a miracle again.”
There was a short silence as Hanbin desperately searched for his superior’s gaze. The High Priest’s eyes stayed closed instead, as if to stay strong.
“Four generations. Five, even. We worshiped, we sacrificed, we spent our entire lives praying to be granted His blessings. I was raised with tales of those blessings and will die without it ever becoming a reality. I don’t wish for you to live through the same life.” The High Priest talked with compassion, putting a fatherly hand on Hanbin’s arm.
“I don’t mind spending my life in worship if it means I can save the most vulnerable,” Hanbin said.
“You’re still young, and so healthy. The village needs you working with them more than wasting away here. I understand your hesitation, and that you’re following in your father’s footsteps, but there is no shame in changing your ideas. I will be waiting for you when you decide to join us.”
“I can’t follow you, Your Grace,” said Hanbin, voice tight with emotion. “The village needs a miracle to survive. If there is any chance, I must take it.”
The High Priest sighed, exhausted by the conversation that never led anywhere. Hanbin was stubborn, to the point that no amount of arguments could make a dent in his determination.
“Just like I will respect your decision, you will need to respect mine. Just know that when things become too difficult, you will always find a home with me.”
“Thank you, Your Grace. I… I will miss you,” Hanbin quietly said. “Let me carry those for you, at the very least. The road to the village is treacherous.”
The old man smiled kindly, patting Hanbin’s head as if he were a little boy.
“I will miss you too, my child. Your kindness is a strength, but I hope you will learn to care for yourself, as well.”
Hanbin smiled, bowing politely.
Zhang Hao wondered if Hanbin would ever learn. The answer wouldn’t take long to come to light. He just had to keep watching for a few months. After all, the cold was coming, curling around their ankles, drifting from the mountaintop.
The oracle wasn’t lying about the blight coming to them. Zhang Hao knew that Hanbin wouldn’t survive to see the flowers bloom again, just like those that wouldn’t flee the village. And yet, his faith in his useless god burned bright still.
Maybe Hanbin needed to wait a few weeks for reality to catch up to him. Zhang Hao would wait. Watch.
Bathe in this light that wasn’t meant for him.
***
The first days were a testament to the routine Hanbin had built for himself through years of dedication. As soon as he got up, he quickly cleaned himself with a rag and a basin filled with water, got dressed, and made his bed. Then he went to the kitchen and prepared a frugal meal, made from the food sent by the village, and only ate half of it before heading to the main worship room, at the center of the temple. There, he placed the rest of the food as an offering on the shrine and then got on with his chores.
It must’ve been a much heavier burden, doing it all alone now that every other monk had left the temple, but not even once did Hanbin act frustrated by the amount of work he had to do. Tirelessly, he was keeping the fire in the chimney alive, sweeping the floor, cleaning the decorated walls, arranging symbolic offerings, lighting up incense and candles, shoveling the thickening layer of snow outside.
The only voice in the temple was Hanbin’s, muttering prayers as he kneeled the rest of the day, curled up on the floor with his forehead resting on his wrists. Zhang Hao stayed silent, but he was by his side all the same, observing Hanbin’s light. He knew there would be something to make the young man uncertain soon. Would his faith flicker? Slowly dim?
The answer came when, two weeks later, the silence was broken by someone knocking at the entrance of the temple. Hanbin opened the heavy doors, letting the freezing blizzard slip in and extinguish the candles. A sturdy young man stepped in, carrying a small wooden crate, wrapped in heavy fabrics to resist the cold. They greeted each other warmly, exchanging a hug and kind words. Their smiles had something similar, in that they held the same kind of affection for the other. The similarities stopped there, as the man’s face was chiseled and peaceful, unlike Hanbin’s soft, energetic traits.
Then they shared news from the village. The strange illness had reached them, strengthened by the winter, and already took a couple of lives. Once someone was infected, the whole house fell ill. There had to be some sort of miasma coming from the victims, they theorized together. They’d need to air out the rooms, but it was too cold outside, and there was nowhere to go should someone in the family become affected. After this conversation, the mood turned somber.
But it was nothing compared to the heartbroken, desperate expression the man had on his face while handing Hanbin his crate.
“Hanbin… They won’t deliver you any more food. We’re already struggling a lot, back at home,” the young man explained, looking down. “It should be enough to last for some time if you ration it well. But please… please come back before you reach the end of it. The road down to the valley is almost completely blocked. I had to climb some tricky spots to get to you, and with this blizzard that will reach us soon, I don’t know if… Please come home, Hanbin. Please.”
Hanbin took the small crate of food, looking conflicted for the very first time. The words coming from this friend sounded much more convincing than the High Priest’s from how blunt they were. Maybe Hanbin hadn’t fully realized yet that there was only death waiting for him, regardless of his prayers’ outcome. Maybe being begged to survive would change his mind.
Hanbin smiled. His voice was a little broken.
“Thank you so much for bringing me the food. You sneaked it out, right? I promise I’ll pray even harder for the village. And if we never see each other again, then… Please tell everyone that I love them, and that I prayed for them until the very end. I’m glad I could be born at the same time as you. I hope, next time… we’ll find each other again.”
The young man visibly fought his tears as they parted ways again, a farewell they both knew to be the last. Zhang Hao only stared at Hanbin, fascinated.
Many worshippers confused faith with hope. At some point, they’d sacrifice so much that they felt trapped in their beliefs, needing them to be true so that their pain wouldn't have been in vain. Faith turned into hope, turned into want, turned into demand, and few gods liked to be ordered around. This was clearly the path Hanbin was headed to now; the painful road before him obvious, the payoff more uncertain than ever.
And yet, once again, Hanbin’s faith remained pure, an unadulterated shine like a halo around him. A wish without expectation, life gambled without the guarantee of a reward.
Zhang Hao watched as Hanbin came back to his daily life with the understanding that it wouldn’t last much longer. He watched, in a raptured, mesmerized way.
Beauty wasn’t something that physically made sense to Zhang Hao. What was gorgeous in one culture could be an abject deformity in another. He had seen enough mortals that they all were alike, equally beautiful and hideous, imperfect shells that held the true nature of their souls.
And so it was a new experience, to find Hanbin beautiful. His body was like every other one, but there was beauty in him regardless. Beauty in the way he moved, beauty in his gestures, beauty in his praying stance, beauty in how perfectly his light radiated despite everything.
Sung Hanbin was beautiful, and Zhang Hao was tired of watching without being able to reach out.
It happened sometimes, a god endearing themselves with a mortal. The fleeting infatuation always ended in tragedy. Zhang Hao was no stranger to it, but there was something different this time. Something deep, that craved more than what the god had been satisfied with so far. Was it greed? It felt like it, the need to hold Hanbin in his claws, drag him on his side, make his light shine for him only.
Zhang Hao wasn’t the Mountain God Hanbin prayed for, but for his light, he would still offer him a chance.
After all, with such a strong faith, he could grant Hanbin’s wish, one way or another.
And so, one evening as Hanbin was praying at the shrine surrounded by candles, Zhang Hao decided to make his presence known. He hadn’t manifested his body in so long, he’d forgotten what he looked like; but appearance did little to sway mortals’ understanding of the divine. Their aura spread around them as soon as they crossed the veil, overwhelming, undeniable.
In the heart of the temple, Zhang Hao stepped forward.
In the middle of a prayer, Hanbin gasped, his breath held in anticipation.
“H-Hello?”
For a fleeting second, Zhang Hao considered lying and disguising himself as the Mountain God. But he quickly discarded this idea; if he wanted Hanbin to truly be his, it needed to be his true self, not a false idol created to trick him. So he stepped in front of Hanbin, who was still facing the ground, in prayer.
“I am not the one you seek.”
Hanbin tried to stay calm, to keep his voice assured. Zhang Hao respected his bravery.
“Then who are you?” The human breathed out, frozen in place.
“My true name has been forgotten. The last ones to speak it called me Zhang Hao.”
Hanbin’s hands tightened, and he started breathing again, although with some difficulty. White puffs of air left from his lips.
“Zhang Hao,” he repeated, his voice husky from lack of use. “If you are not the Mountain God… Then why did you reveal yourself to me?”
“Because there is no god left to hear your prayers. Your High Priest was right, Sung Hanbin. You have been forsaken.”
Those words would have been enough to break a lot of believers. This time, unlike all the other times Zhang Hao had expected it, there was a tenuous flicker in his light. But when Hanbin spoke again, it was devoid of any weakness, ironclad confidence even in the face of a god. It should have been insulting, but Zhang Hao admired it.
“No. The Mountain God can still hear me. I have faith.”
“Why then would I be free to roam in their temple?”
“I will not let your words trick me. The village will be saved if I keep praying, I know it.”
Blind faith did mean that Hanbin would be harder to get through. Zhang Hao was irritated, but not because Hanbin couldn’t be convinced. It was simply such a waste. The most brilliant of devotees was ready to defy the words of a god for his worship, and yet this weakling of a Mountain God had discarded Hanbin. Left him behind, shining for no one, a star lost in the darkness, burning senselessly until there would be no wick left.
Zhang Hao wanted this light all for himself.
“Even if it was, there would be no future waiting for you,” Hao murmured, soft and caring. “If you do not leave before the storm comes, then you will never leave again. The ice is chanting your name, Sung Hanbin.”
Even if he didn’t say anything, Zhang Hao could see Hanbin’s terror plainly. The white knuckles, the muscles wound tight, the panicked heart desperately trying to warm his body against the cold. And yet, when he spoke again, none of it showed.
“If this means that the village can be saved, then I am willing to pray until the end.”
The god reached closer to Hanbin’s hidden face, whispering icy words in his reddened ear.
“I will come back to you in a week, Hanbin. I will not impede your worship. But know that I am watching you, always. Unlike your god, I will be listening.”
As Zhang Hao’s presence receded, Hanbin’s shoulders relaxed, his goosebumps smoothed over, his breathing became easier again.
The spark of want that had been born in Zhang Hao grew brighter, fed by Hanbin’s radiance.
Hanbin would be his. Zhang Hao only had to make him see that this was what he needed, too.
***
It took five days of diligent worship for Hanbin to break his daily routine and go back to the shrine instead of sweeping the hallways. He stood there in silence, deep in thought. Maybe it would have been the right time for Zhang Hao to step out and make contact again, but the mortal didn’t call for him, so he stayed hidden, observing as promised.
Hanbin didn’t end up doing anything, going back to his chores and duties, but on the morning of the seventh day, he ignored everything again and went straight to the shrine, kneeling. Waiting.
Before showing himself, Zhang Hao examined him. He looked anxious and tired, but determined nonetheless. Mortals weren’t made to feel such a weight on their shoulders, and yet, Hanbin wore it well. It wasn’t effortless. His pain only made his commitment more impressive. Maybe, with a few words, Zhang Hao could bring him relief.
This time, he minded his form. Stepping forward, Zhang Hao felt the world bend for him. The temperature dropped, and crystals formed around him in a beautiful dance, collecting in ribbons of ice and snow that floated around him, curled on his arms, and created a twinkling halo around his head. Cold jewels ran down his hair and skin, held by intricate necklaces, bracelets, masterpieces of precious metals that came from a culture long forgotten. Light cloth floated on his body, weightless, smoother and thinner than mortals could ever weave, forming dark layers like waves at night. It all felt nostalgic. Like a forgotten dream.
As Zhang Hao’s bare, black and purple stained feet touched the ground, Hanbin looked up. He was stunned, speechless, looking over his form only for his eyes to snap back to Zhang Hao’s. There was fear there, but also hope. A radiance so strong, it gave a mortal the courage to stare down a god.
“You came back,” Hanbin breathed out.
“I did. Do you know which god is blessing you with His presence?”
The mortal swallowed, his reddened hands crumpling the robes on his lap.
“Are you the God of Winter?”
Zhang Hao couldn’t help a smile. It was endearing, how Hanbin didn’t dare to guess bigger despite the power he clearly felt. But then again, mortals rarely saw enough deities to compare them.
“Winter is much younger than me. Only a fraction of my realm, for a fraction of the time.”
“Then… Who are you really, Zhang Hao?”
The deity approached Hanbin’s face, leaning in to whisper a secret few mortals ever heard. The words crystallized in the air, and prickled Hanbin’s skin, giving him goosebumps.
“You understand it even if you don’t know it. Tell me, Sung Hanbin. What does your heart say? Which name do you want to give me?”
It took a second maybe, breath held and mouth half open, the obvious answer worming its way through his paralyzed thoughts. Then the mortal softly gasped, imperceptibly trembling under him. Hanbin’s eyes were glazed over, mind lost far away, in a primal place every one of his ancestors had known. Zhang Hao’s domain, everlasting.
“Cold.”
Zhang Hao leaned back, a pleased smile on his lips. Hanbin had guessed right. But was it really a guess, to be able to see the truth?
“I was here before the seasons. Before science, before tradition, before stories could be written about me. I walked with Death and Night at the birth of language. Winter only borrows my essence for a moment. I am beyond.”
Hanbin understood. His eyes were wide, pupils dilated, struggling to grasp the full truth of who Zhang Hao was. It was satisfying, it made the god feel revered as he deserved. But then, the mortal found his footing again, focusing his gaze on Zhang Hao. There was still shock in his eyes, but it was quickly fading away as his straight eyebrows knitted together.
“If it is so… then… will you hear my prayer?”
“It is not me that you worship.”
“But it could be,” Hanbin asserted.
“Is your faith really so easy to trade?”
“I am not trading anything. The only faith I have is that the village can be saved, and I will kneel to whoever I can put this faith in.”
Despite Hanbin’s earlier fear, he was now steadfast, determination hardening his bold stare. For a man with such strong faith, there was no place for hesitation, Zhang Hao figured.
“Why do you think I would help you when I am the very thing you wish to be saved from?”
After all, Hanbin wished for the cold to leave the village, but Zhang Hao getting stronger could only make the winter stronger. There was ample reason to believe nothing good could come out of asking for this god’s help, no matter how powerful. But Hanbin didn’t seem to pay it much mind.
“If you really help me save the village, I will worship you until the day I die. I will give you everything I’ve ever owned, everything I ever was, and everything I ever will be. Every breath I take, every thought I have, until the very end. Lend me your power this one time and you will gain your most fervent follower to have ever walked this earth.”
Zhang Hao stared at the blinding light facing him and tried to remember if he had ever seen one of his believers burning quite so brightly. Gods of death and pain were feared, and those who hoped for their blessings often had selfish wishes. How many of those had caught Zhang Hao’s attention throughout the ages? Was Hanbin the most brilliant of them all?
“You just might be,” Zhang Hao whispered to himself, but Hanbin ignored it, continuing to plead.
“I beg of you. Please allow me to worship you.”
“Do you really believe I will grant your wish?”
“If there is a chance, any chance, I will take it.”
Zhang Hao considered his fervent stare. To stare at a god at all was an act of defiance few would tolerate. It was also an act so brave few would dare to do it. Hanbin’s faith was stronger than fear, and Zhang Hao could make it his own.
“Then you’d better start now.”
Hanbin slammed his forearms on the floor, hands joined under his forehead as he quickly whispered scriptures. Those words hadn’t been made for Zhang Hao, they meant nothing to him, but Hanbin’s light flashed so bright the god had to look away for a second. Deep inside him, something stirred, sleeping power coming to life again, spreading and swelling.
It was so weak still, a single believer in a world of indifference. But Hanbin had so much faith, it didn’t even matter.
“But be warned, I will not save you,” Zhang Hao said softly. “You will not live to see spring again, as I warned you.”
Hanbin’s joint hands tightened, his breath stopping for a second. His light did not waver.
“I do not care about my fate, as long as the village is saved.”
Zhang Hao had heard similar affirmations countless times. They had all been lies. Everyone hoped for salvation, no matter how slim the chance, or they were suicidal to begin with, rendering their sacrifice meaningless. Hanbin’s words, however, rang true.
“Are you not afraid of death?” The deity asked, intrigued.
“I am. But I am much more afraid for those in the village. I beg you, save them.”
Zhang Hao smiled slightly. Hanbin’s fervor was truly a sight to behold. How beautiful it would be when encouraged to grow?
“I will be watching you, Sung Hanbin.”
The mortal exhaled. It was a short, tense sigh; relief without the satisfaction of being able to relax, hope without any reassurance. When he spoke again, Hanbin’s voice was firm, devoid of any of those emotions.
“Thank you. Please, save them.”
With only one light, no matter how strong it was, no miracle of this scale could come true from it.
But Zhang Hao could do something even better.
*********
Truthfully, Hanbin had never been a very good monk.
He messed up his prayers sometimes. He mixed up the order the candles had to be lit, forgot holidays, and even almost set fire to the shrine once. But despite those mistakes, Hanbin had the deep conviction that what mattered weren’t the displays of faith, but the truth of it in his heart.
He was in no position to neglect those duties now.
Zhang Hao hadn’t said that he would help, exactly. He’d merely implied that there could be a chance. But a chance was all Hanbin had ever needed, and it was more than the Mountain God had ever granted him.
And so, even if Hanbin truly believed it wasn’t the most important, he’d been extremely diligent in accomplishing his tasks to the best of his abilities. There was no room for personal beliefs when it came to saving everyone he knew and loved.
It meant that, even with his very limited resources, there was no skipping any offering—Hanbin cooked the usual amount of food, splitting it in two to leave half of it to the shrine.
As he reached out to the golden plate, the temperature dropped suddenly, and a powerful presence appeared behind Hanbin’s back.
“Do not waste your food as gifts,” the god instructed, a frozen whisper in his ear. “You will starve too soon.”
Hanbin’s hands stopped mid-motion, not exactly startled, not exactly fearful. In many ways, Zhang Hao was dangerous to him. Eternal, divine, with powers that brought pain and death. And yet, in a strange turn of events, Hanbin felt safe next to him. Zhang Hao was benevolent. This was a truth that he could feel deep in his heart, so obvious despite the chill making goosebumps rise on his skin.
“But if I don’t give you any offerings… how will you feel my devotion?”
“I do not need proof to see. The only things I need from you are worship and faith. Eat.”
Dark fingers softly pushed Hanbin’s wrist away from the golden plate, a touch so cold it burned like fire. Again, it shouldn’t have been his reaction, but his heart picked up the pace. Hanbin wasn’t sure what shade of nervosity his feelings were exactly, only that it felt inappropriate somehow.
He didn’t linger on those thoughts. There was much to be done and much more important things to ponder.
It was with deep care that Hanbin went on to his prayer service and lit up the candles surrounding the shrine, this time without an offering. Then he kneeled, joined his hands, rested his forehead over them on the floor, and started his usual psalm, a murmur filling up the empty room.
Hanbin stopped in the middle of his prayer. What was he doing? Those sentences weren’t meant for Zhang Hao. There was begging involved, but would his god listen to those words positively? He didn’t want offerings; what else did he not desire? What did he expect from Hanbin? There was no way to guess.
Perhaps… he could ask?
Hanbin took a deep breath. Of course, a god had never answered before, but…
“How can I worship you, Zhang Hao?”
He felt embarrassed to even try, but then a chill made him shiver, dark purple feet delicately touching the ground before his face. Hanbin straightened up, looking in awe at the divine apparition. Ribbons of ice and snow surrounded them, twinkling gently against the candlelight, refracting rainbows on the god’s skin. Zhang Hao was just as stunning as the first time he saw him, covered in intricate and delicate geometric jewelry, floating fabrics rippling like the deepest of mountain lakes, dark stains creeping up his legs, arms, coming out of his lips.
Hanbin had never thought beauty could look like Zhang Hao, and no beauty would ever match his divinity again. Hanbin had been blind, and finally, he could see the light.
The god slightly tilted his head, as if in thought. Hanbin’s heart started beating faster. It was an incredible rush to not only be heard by the god, but actually listened to. In another life, one where Hanbin had the chance to meet Zhang Hao in less dire circumstances, he would have been just as devoted to him, he thought. Only one glance at the god’s soft and kind eyes would’ve been enough for a lifetime. A fleeting vision, barely a memory, was more of a blessing than Hanbin could’ve ever asked for.
And yet, Zhang Hao stood before him in his full sanctity, giving him his attention, his thoughts.
Hanbin knew he didn’t have much time left, but he was thankful to have gotten the chance to gaze upon the god’s beauty in his lifetime.
“Do you know how to write, Sung Hanbin?”
“I have been taught,” he nodded. “I know calligraphy, poetry, and basic arithmetics.”
“Then come.”
Confused, Hanbin started getting up, but he was still crouching when Zhang Hao’s fingers reached under his chin, freezing him in place. He guided Hanbin up, slowly making him rise on his feet. Ribbons of translucent ice surrounded them as the god leaned down, and as their faces grew closer, Hanbin’s heartbeat turned erratic. Had any mortal ever witnessed such magnificence up close? His skin was velvety like fresh snow, his stained lips shining like melted ice. Hanbin couldn’t look away, and he didn’t want to.
“Sung Hanbin…”
Zhang Hao’s voice was gentle, and yet it reverberated in Hanbin’s skull like thunder, spoken so close to his face that frozen breath prickled his skin.
“I will grant you knowledge.”
Blackened lips touched Hanbin’s pink ones, freezing him in place, his heart stopping just a little too long. Like ice crystals spreading in his mind, ideas bloomed along Hanbin’s consciousness. Memories he never had of songs, of acts, of stories and words and truths unraveling as he explored them. Hanbin knew, then; who Zhang Hao was, how to please him, how others had pleased him before. Miracles he performed for his thousands of followers, wrath he inflicted as they failed to live up to his expectations, slumber after he was forgotten.
In none of those truths did Zhang Hao grant his knowledge in this way.
Hanbin had never kissed anyone. It felt so small, as ripples of Zhang Hao’s power shaped his understanding of the universe, but there was still something important about it, as silly as it sounded. How their lips had never touched anyone else’s. A tiny part of Hanbin wondered if, in the same way, Zhang Hao had gained knowledge of his life. Of the way Hanbin’s heart sped up at the god’s every touch, every glance.
But as they parted, Zhang Hao didn’t seem any different, impenetrable gaze and a soft touch on Hanbin’s chin.
“Will you follow me?” The god asked, and Hanbin closed his eyes, exploring his new memories, all the guidelines now dictating how his last days would play out.
It would be painful.
It would make Zhang Hao pleased.
“Of course. I would do anything for you.”
***
Worshipping Zhang Hao wasn’t easy, but then again, nothing of worth ever was.
Hanbin knew it; he’d been taught since young, with a family and friends who held his hand through the hardest parts when he needed support. Now he was alone, faced with the hardest task he’d ever have to accomplish, but he could still feel their warmth on his palms when he closed his eyes.
Yes, Hanbin had been given so much love, and that was exactly what gave him the strength to do the ultimate act of love in return.
Never feeling their warmth again so that those he loved could be warmed in turn.
There were other ways in which he wasn’t alone. Hanbin couldn’t always see him, but Zhang Hao was constantly roaming the hallways, observing his every move. Sometimes, after Hanbin fulfilled a duty, the god would appear to him, silent and distant, an assurance that he was on the right path.
Hanbin needed it, with how ruthless his days had been.
It had been gradual. Every couple of days, something new was asked of him. First, Zhang Hao had asked him to stop feeding the flame warming the temple. Then, to stop wearing his winter clothes, preferring the summer ones. Removing one layer of bedding. Standing outside in the snow. Kneeling in it. For longer. Even longer.
Hanbin had thought he knew what cold was—the biting kind that made his eyes water and his ears hurt.
But the thing with feeling the cold seep deep into his bones was that it had always been accompanied by the knowledge that warmth was to follow. It was temporary, an altered state of being that would inevitably come back to feeling safe near the fire.
Now, there was only ice surrounding him. Crystallizing in his flesh, biting harder on his bones.
There were still short moments of respite; Hanbin could warm himself on the open flame when he cooked, and use the coals under his bed to sleep through the night. Then, the pain in his feet and hands would recede, his shaking diminish. For an hour or so, he felt human again.
This time of healing wasn’t wasted. Hanbin always used this regained mobility to grab another scroll and write down the visions his god had given him, stories about him, ways to worship him properly. There were a lot of texts about Hanbin himself, and even though he was surprised by it, not a single second did he question it. It made for a compelling story, Hanbin figured. A martyr so devout his sacrifice endeared him to a god. So steadfast in his faith, he could gain the power to save the village through his death. Surely it would get a lot of the villagers to worship Zhang Hao, too.
Hanbin didn’t really process everything he wrote. Most of the time, he entered a strange daze, transcribing character by character the words he heard chanted in his mind, and came out of it with pages darkened with ink and blurry eyes. His calligraphy wasn’t the most impressive, but it could be read, and that was what mattered to Zhang Hao.
It hadn’t taken long for everything to be written down, so Hanbin added a chapter to the compilation of worship guidelines, one explicitly his own creation, unlike the others that were words from Zhang Hao. In this one, he described the god extensively, his otherworldly beauty, how life-changing his presence was, and the power surrounding him. It was self-indulgent, in a way, but still felt just as necessary.
Would Zhang Hao show himself to the next worshipers, touch them like he had touched Hanbin? Somehow, he didn’t think so. He hoped not. But if he was the only one to witness the god in all his divinity, then they needed to know what they were missing. It was strange, feeling jealous of people who maybe weren’t even born yet, but imagining Zhang Hao kissing another made him kind of ill.
Those thoughts never lasted, though. There was much to be done, and the only future that mattered was the one where Zhang Hao saved the village. And so, Hanbin continued his worship diligently.
Always a little colder.
***
Every day was harder to get through.
Hanbin had been ready for the pain and the fear, but not so much for his loss of mobility. Slowly, his hands and feet had become numb, and it was harder and harder to move. He still worked through every one of his chores; struggling to light the candles, sweeping the hallways, walking outside alongside Zhang Hao in the snow. Even cooking the last of the food had become a challenge, but this wouldn’t be an issue for much longer.
Hanbin placed his meager ration in his bowl after it cooled down so that it wouldn't warm his stomach. There was nothing left in the crate, no stray pouch of rice left to save him.
“The end is near.”
Zhang Hao said it like Hanbin had perhaps missed it. It would’ve been amusing if it weren’t so sad.
“I think I can still hold on for a week or so, if you allow me to light a fire to warm the ice back into water. I won’t use it to warm myself, only drink it as cold as possible.”
The touch of a god comforted Hanbin, praised him. The chill running down his spine felt like a reward.
“You should. Drinking will buy you time. Why won’t you warm yourself with it?”
“I understand the purpose of the things you ask of me, now. I strive to worship you the proper way.”
Zhang Hao was hidden behind him, but his voice betrayed a smile.
“Your dedication is endless, Sung Hanbin.”
It wasn’t praise, exactly, but to him, it sounded like it.
“Thank you. It is.”
The god’s presence receded, and maybe it was his aura fading away, maybe it was those words spoken so kindly, but Hanbin felt a little bit warmer.
Since all his chores had been done for the day, Hanbin spent the rest of his day in front of the shrine chanting prayers. But Zhang Hao didn’t manifest himself again until Hanbin was tugging his bedsheets open, setting his candle on his bedside table.
“Do not warm your bed tonight.”
Hanbin knew this would be happening soon, and yet, he still felt distressed by the god’s demand. It took him a few seconds to make peace with it, and simply step into his cold bed. Somehow, the sheets were even colder than the air, even through his light clothes. He hissed, curling in on himself, pressing his frozen hands between his thighs and rubbing his feet together. Hanbin wouldn’t ever feel warm anymore. He knew it.
The knowledge that his last good night of sleep was already behind him only made him want to be unconscious faster, but as he shuffled to blow on his candle, the mattress dipped, stopping him.
Zhang Hao was sitting on the bed, looking down at the mortal. It felt wrong in a way that rewrote what Hanbin understood of reality, how the sheets dipped under the god’s body, black fingers on the white cloth, ribbons of ice caressing the bump created by the mortal’s folded legs. Zhang Hao had touched him many times, but for some reason, Hanbin hadn’t expected him to be able to interact with the world.
There was something in Zhang Hao’s gaze that burned Hanbin’s mind, made him melt and flush. Of course the god was impressive, imposing, divine, powerful and godly in all the ways a god could be, but it went beyond that. Zhang Hao’s form was perfect, even where Hanbin could tell it should look strange. The black and purple stains spreading under his skin should make his limbs look repulsive, should make his lips look dead, and yet, Zhang Hao looked so alive. Those lips were soft, Hanbin knew it, and the memory of their touch still haunted him.
“You’re so beautiful,” Hanbin breathed out.
The god slowly blinked, neither receiving nor rejecting the compliment. Did he cross a line? There was no ill intent in Hanbin’s heart, but who could tell what a god tolerated? With each passing second, he felt panic rising in his throat.
“I do not understand beauty in the way you do,” Zhang Hao finally said, neutral. “But there is beauty in you, too.”
For the first time in weeks, Hanbin’s body warmed up, brought on like a fever by the quiet words. How could a god imply that his heavenly beauty, transpiring in everything he was, shared any shred of resemblance with Hanbin’s existence? It sounded like a lie, but Hanbin knew better than to doubt Zhang Hao’s words. He’d said it himself; they didn’t understand beauty in the same way. The god’s gentle eyes looked beyond Hanbin’s mortal flesh and saw things nobody else could.
Things he deemed to be beautiful.
“Thank you,” Hanbin wavered, blowing the candle as if it could mask his flustered state.
The darkness wasn’t enough for him to hide, but he liked to imagine that his cumbersome feelings were easier to ignore for Zhang Hao this way. They were his to deal with alone, after all.
In the darkness of the room, minutes ticked by, Hanbin trying to ignore the pain in his limbs radiating from his frozen hands and feet. He didn’t know if he could ever sleep like this, but he’d need to try. If he couldn’t, then maybe he’d pass out next night.
Hanbin could still feel the god’s presence near him, like a cold breeze on his mind. It should’ve been painful, but instead it soothed him, reminded him that ultimately he wasn’t alone. Company even through the darkest, coldest of nights. Hanbin feared the moment the god would leave again, leaving him baren, without guidance.
“Do you wish for me to stay?” Zhang Hao asked, as if he’d read his mind.
“I wish for you to save the village.”
The god chuckled lightly, something akin to fondness in his voice. It couldn’t have been it, Hanbin knew it, for he was only a mortal; but still, he clung to the illusion that made his body warmer.
“I know you do. But this wish doesn’t require any power from me. If you wish for me to stay, I will. If you wish for me to leave, I will. There is no trick to play here.”
Hanbin breathed deeply in the cold air. The sting of ice in his lungs felt like an extension of the god’s presence surrounding him. Quiet. Endless. Cruel. Benevolent.
“Then yes. Please stay by my side for the night.”
Something shifted near his numb legs. The reminder that the god was actually sitting on his bed made his head spin.
“Are you afraid?” The disembodied voice sounded caring.
“Yes. What if I die during my sleep? I can’t go too soon.”
“I’ll protect you. The cold won’t reach your heart, Sung Hanbin. Not yet.”
This soothed Hanbin’s anxiety, letting him settle deeper into the bed. He was still tense, muscles locked and freezing, but this time he knew he would make it through the night under Zhang Hao’s watchful gaze, and it made everything more tolerable.
Those words, those actions, went so far beyond what he’d been taught a god would ever care to do. Even in the tales of the most legendary days, when the gods walked among men, Hanbin couldn’t recall one where one of them would reassure a dying mortal. Of course, Hanbin’s sacrifice would bring new worshipers to the god, but there was no need to make the task easier.
There was no need to sit by Hanbin’s side on his bed, granting his selfish, silent wish for company without so much as a prayer.
No need to see beauty in him.
“Zhang Hao,” he whispered. “Why did you choose to help me?”
There was a long silence, and if Hanbin couldn’t feel his god’s presence so strongly, he could believe no one was here anymore. But then Zhang Hao talked again, so close to his ear he had to be leaning over Hanbin’s body.
“Because your faith was so strong, it made me want to believe in you, too.”
With a choked-off gasp, Hanbin was suddenly swept by a torrent of emotions. His god, seeing him, being impressed, deciding to take a chance on a mortal. Zhang Hao, so far beyond what Hanbin could ever be, offering him his attention, his time, his lips, his faith. Tears stung Hanbin’s eyes, burning his face almost as much as his heart.
Was it possible to fall in love with a god? Hanbin didn’t know, and it didn’t matter, for Zhang Hao would never love him back.
What did matter was that when the god’s fingers combed through Hanbin’s hair, dying for him felt like the most beautiful of ends.
“You can believe in me, Zhang Hao. I promise I will never disappoint you, until the very end.”
Something tickled Hanbin’s ear. He liked to imagine it was black lips, that the relentless cold surrounding him was a body too close for a mortal to ever experience.
“Tomorrow, you will open the doors to the temple and not close them ever again. Truly let me in, and I will gain enough power to help you. You’re doing so well. My brightest star…”
Hanbin closed his eyes, the beads of tears on his eyelashes menacing to freeze his eyes shut.
The fire in his chest would warm him as long as he had left.
***
The last day, Hanbin knew.
He didn’t cry, for there was nothing left in him to give out. He didn’t panic, and after a couple of minutes, he didn’t fear either. This had been what his god promised, after all. The one that had spent the last nights by his side, whispering words of praise he couldn’t remember but still felt deep in his bones, where the cold had settled and would never leave again.
Hanbin’s hands couldn’t move properly anymore, but he still managed to make his bed after a couple of tries. He didn’t want to leave a mess for the monks that would come back during springtime. Briefly, he wondered if the High Priest would be sad; but if Hanbin gave up now, no one would be left to mourn him anyway.
As he walked down the hallways covered in frost, Hanbin admired one last time the carvings adorning them. He couldn’t see the scenes they depicted anymore, tinted white with ice and blurred by his failing eyes, but he remembered them perfectly. He’d spent his whole life looking up at the masterful art piece, learning its curves and colors. Carried on his father’s shoulders, so high it felt like flying. Running his hand along the wood the morning he officially entered priesthood. Leaning against it the evening his father died. Talking about its details one last time with the High Priest when he escorted him out. Blue fingers caressed it, too numb to feel.
Hanbin was glad it was still here for him at the end, witnessing the next big step, one last time.
There was no sound as he walked to the shrine, dead feet barely holding his weight. The pain was gone, only leaving behind weakness. On the last step of the small staircase, Hanbin’s leg failed, sending him crashing to the ground. The burst of pain made the world go black, maybe for a second, maybe for a few hours, but then Hanbin was back in his body, and he needed to keep going. He didn’t even try to get back up, crawling on the black ice painting the floor. Raising his arm, doing his best to get a good grip, dragging his limp legs behind him.
It took some time to get to the shrine, but when he finally reached it, Hanbin wasn’t alone anymore. Dark purple feet were waiting in front of his face. He recognized it for what it was, now. Frostbite had never looked so perfect on anyone, like a natural part of who Zhang Hao was. Cold. Hanbin felt it in his own body, now, the true cold. The one beyond pain and fear.
“Your mortal life is reaching its end,” said the beautiful voice above him.
Hanbin wanted to cry again, but nothing came out. Maybe his tears had frozen too.
“I know.”
His legs might not work anymore, but his arms did, so he curled himself on the floor, grabbing behind his knees so he could force himself into a position of worship.
“Are you sad?”
Hanbin thought of the life he was leaving behind him, all his memories, all the people he loved. He thought about the lives those people deserved to live, too, the new memories they could make if winter didn’t take them.
“No,” Hanbin said, now holding both his knees to his chest. “You will save them. I have faith.”
“Aren’t you afraid of death?”
With a grunt, Hanbin pushed himself to the side, rolling over his folded legs. He didn’t have the energy to hold himself upright, but it didn’t matter. The candle was on the ground, and even though it refused to light itself up the first few tries, finally a small flame danced on top of it, the short wick burning what was left of its wax body. Hanbin joined his hands under his forehead, and, for the last time in his life, prepared himself to pray.
“I am afraid,” he simply whispered, closing his eyes to focus.
Frozen fingers caressed Hanbin’s head, a touch he’d grown familiar with. After blinking his eyes open, he could recognize the shape now before him. Zhang Hao was kneeling, his head too high up for Hanbin’s tired neck to see.
“You knew you wouldn’t pass the winter. I told you so.”
Hanbin didn’t answer, his body too cold and numb to push out an acknowledgment that he did know. He felt scolded, but even the shame of failure couldn’t warm him anymore. Was Zhang Hao disappointed that he couldn’t fully make peace with his death before it was time? But there would be no way for Hanbin to ever get there; he loved life, had cherished it dearly, had hoped for so much more of it.
“Did you hope for me to save you in the end?” Zhang Hao asked.
Did he? Hanbin searched his heart to see if there was a shred of hope that had escaped him, and found none. Everything had always been crystal clear, Zhang Hao’s words true and sincere. Despite his mind feeling sluggish and his head so, so heavy, Hanbin forced himself to answer this time, lips cracking from the cold.
“No. I pray for you to save the village. I always did.”
“And yet, you don’t want to die.”
Hanbin took in a shaky breath, ice piercing his lungs. He was so desperate for his God to hear the truth of his wish, the depth of his faith. Maybe his lips couldn’t move much anymore, and his tongue grew heavier with each passing second, but if Zhang Hao wished so he needed to talk.
“I love them. I love the village. I love the mountains, I love the temple, and I have loved every day that I had the chance to live among them. If I can be born again, I would want to live through my life once more without a change.”
“But coldness is a part of your life. It comes from the mountains, occupies your temple, falls upon your village every night, and lives deep in the hearts of those who live here. Wouldn’t you want to get rid of it?”
Every word felt like a test. Hanbin knew everything hinged on his answer, but he had no idea what Zhang Hao wanted. He could only respond with what he sincerely thought.
“I love the cold, too, for life wouldn’t be true without it. I just need them to have enough warmth to survive. I just need the mountain to be warm enough for them to live through another winter. If I need to give my life’s warmth for it to happen, then please. Take it away. If you save them… then I will gladly die in your embrace. I am scared of death, but I am not scared of my last breath being for you. With you.”
Zhang Hao’s fingers caressed his unfeeling ear, slid under Hanbin’s jaw, where his lukewarm blood still pulsated under the skin.
“Sung Hanbin.”
Hanbin loved hearing his name pronounced by the god, loved the expectation for the demand that would follow. Even in this state where no flame could light up in him, he could still feel the ghost of it in his stomach. Cold love, surviving even as death slowly took over him.
“Will you come with me?” Zhang Hao whispered.
Hanbin tried to rise in vain. His body was shutting down, and even his arms refused to cooperate. He was so close to getting his wish granted, he knew it, felt it deep in his dying heart, and for the first time, true fear clawed at him. Zhang Hao asked him for one last thing, and after everything, he couldn’t do it.
“I… can’t move,” he choked.
But Zhang Hao’s fingers pressed harder on his chin, and in his foggy state, Hanbin felt ice covering him, a skin-thin shell charing his flesh. With the gentlest of touches, Zhang Hao commended him to lift his head higher, and Hanbin’s frozen body somehow followed like a puppet, torso rising until they faced each other. His bones creaked under the forced movement, his crystallized skin ripped in a thousand tears as the ice around him bent and shattered, but the pain didn’t burn. It cooled down, receded, returning to numbness.
Around them was pure darkness. Only Zhang Hao’s face existed, his dark lips, his black eyes warmed by the orange glow of the candle. He couldn’t understand how or when it had happened, but Hanbin was holding what was left of it in his cupped hands, melted white wax a stark contrast with his blackened fingers. Zhang Hao let go of his chin to cover his hands, just as black, just as cold. Hanbin was left frozen in place. He was suffocating, no air reaching him anymore.
Zhang Hao’s gentle voice covered him like fresh snow.
“This is my last request, Hanbin. I wish for you to give it to me.”
Somehow, in the daze of asphyxiation, Hanbin perfectly understood what his god meant. So he collected everything he had left. Every hope he’d placed in Zhang Hao, every wish he knew wouldn’t happen anymore, every longing for the future he’d never have, every bit of love he had for the one that had saved them, even if at a price. The one that had listened when no other god would, the one that still held him with so much tenderness when thousands had died for him before.
And, with his very last breath, Hanbin blew out the candle, dying with it.
“Rise, now.”
The cold was gone. The pain and the darkness as well, Hanbin realized. Suddenly, warmth was flowing through him again, covering him in a motherly embrace. It wasn’t flowing through his veins, for his heart wasn’t beating anymore, but it reminded him of running under the sun in summer.
Zhang Hao pulled gently on his hand, just a suggestion, and Hanbin got up as if those last months had been nothing but a dream. The God took a step back, so he took a step forward to match, their hands falling down as Hanbin looked around. He knew that it was still dark, but he could see everything that should be hidden. The walls he knew like the back of his hand, the floor lined with ice, the boy left behind.
Hanbin looked at himself, still kneeling on the ground. He was much thinner than he remembered, half risen with his hands held out in a pleading gesture. White crystals covered his skin, gathered like snow on his eyelashes. Strands of black hair turned to icicles along his face, shining much brighter than his dull eyes left half open. Lifeless.
Then Hanbin looked at his hands; not those purple and black, hard with ice and rigor mortis, but the ones he could still move, pink and warm, with reddened knuckles. There was no doubt in Hanbin’s mind that he’d died. He was sure of it, he wasn’t alive anymore. And yet, Hanbin was still here, still aware, and it wasn’t his corpse Zhang Hao was looking at.
“I died,” he said, and his voice sounded different, more powerful than it had ever been.
“You did,” Zhang Hao agreed.
“And yet, I’m still here?”
“You are. This is my gift to you.”
Hanbin frowned. There wasn’t panic in his heart, exactly; everything felt so different than when he was alive. But he very much didn’t enjoy the implications this sentence held. Hanbin had never wanted a gift of life after death. There had been nothing but peace in his heart as his consciousness faded away. He’d wished for one thing, and one thing only.
“But I prayed for the village to be saved.”
“And I gave you the power to save it.”
There was something about Zhang Hao that had changed. He didn’t seem so ethereal anymore, beyond reality, intangible. Now he looked like a man Hanbin could’ve known. A man Hanbin knew. A man like Hanbin.
A god like Hanbin.
“…How?” he whispered, searching Zhang Hao’s soft eyes.
“You gave me your faith. Only one believer would have never been enough to save a village, no matter how much you prayed.”
“But you said—”
“It didn’t matter, because your devotion was more powerful than anything they could’ve given me. Maybe I couldn’t save them, but you? They have faith in you, even if it wavers. Do you see them? Their lights, shining for you?”
Hanbin turned to the entrance of the temple, looking beyond. He could see them, like a veil opening up; small stars, making the warmth in his body hotter.
“The High Priest,” Hanbin said, astonished as he looked at the strongest light in his personal galaxy, crowning the village like the North star. “He told me there was no hope, and yet he shines the brightest of all.”
“You won’t ever need to beg now. They will be the ones worshipping you. You are their savior, after all.”
Hanbin extended a hand, feeling the land sprawling before him, the ebb and flow of powers and wills fighting for dominance. He felt Zhang Hao’s presence surrounding the valley, only able to grow, but willing to recede. Pushing against it was as easy as holding Zhang Hao’s hand, a gentle touch met with understanding. It was slow, but Hanbin could feel his domain expanding, the temperature rising at the heart of the village, fueled by the lights shining there.
It would take a day or two, maybe, but winter was over.
Although the feeling was foreign, distorted, Hanbin still recognized the joy and relief washing over him. He turned to Zhang Hao, overcome with emotions he didn’t know how to handle yet.
“You saved them.”
But his God stayed stoic, slightly shaking his head.
“I did no such thing.”
“Zhang Hao.”
Hanbin gathered the god’s black hands. They were freezing, but, between his burning fingers, they warmed up ever so slightly.
“My devotion for you will never end. You heard me when no one else would, and gave me more than I could even imagine. I am yours, now and forever, as I promised.”
Surprisingly, Zhang Hao shook his head harder, rejecting his allegiance.
“You promised your life, and I took it. I do not expect anything else from you. You will never be a mortal again. Do not promise eternity.”
Despite his apparent unwillingness, Hanbin gripped his hands harder. As always, he could hear the kindness in Zhang Hao’s voice, the gentle care trying to ease Hanbin’s pain. This wasn’t a rejection born out of disinterest or disgust, but worry and concern. An attempt to keep Hanbin safe, when he never needed to.
“Zhang Hao. Why did you come to me that one night?”
The god freed a hand to caress Hanbin’s arm, as if to explore this new form. Instead of goosebumps and ice, a pleasant, refreshing breeze caressed his skin. His touch didn’t bring pain anymore, and wasn’t it proof that they were now made to walk the same path together? Wasn’t it reason enough for Hanbin to come closer, stay by his side?
“It was selfish,” Zhang Hao finally said with a light, wistful smile. “Your light was so beautiful, I wanted it all for myself.”
“Is it not my right, then, to desire the same?”
Because although it hadn’t been immediately apparent, and was so different to mortals, Zhang Hao did glow, a radiant halo shining bright for Hanbin. The god was startled, but then looked down as he smiled, strangely bashful. It would have looked out of place for Hanbin when he’d still been a mortal, to see such a powerful, otherworldly being flustered by mere words. But they were equals now, standing on the same side of reality, their hands held tight between them.
“I hadn’t even noticed,” Zhang Hao chuckled. “But it is true. I had faith that you would succeed.”
“Then, you should have faith that I will stay by your side. I might not know what eternity means yet, but you do know the lengths I would go to for you. You know about my faith in you.”
“I do. And now, they will all know.”
Zhang Hao looked at the shrine, covered in pages of carefully written tales and instructions. The story of how Hanbin sacrificed himself for Zhang Hao, how together they would protect the village again and again.
“I thought it was so they knew about you, so your power could grow,” Hanbin murmured.
“They will worship us together, as two sides of the same coin. This will be our temple now, for you and I. Cold.” Hao cupped Hanbin’s face with his black hands, slowly stroking his full cheeks. “Warm.”
Hanbin closed his eyes, reveling in the soothing coolness. It didn’t light the same kind of fire in his stomach anymore, but it still made him burn hot with want. Maybe it was that because Hanbin ascended with a wish, he would always crave it.
As a mortal, he would’ve never dared, but things were different now, and Hanbin covered Zhang Hao’s hands with his own, leaning into the touch. This gesture would’ve been enough to send him into feverish fantasies in his old life, and even if his body didn’t react in the same way as mortals anymore, the fire warming him only grew hotter. Lust might have become nothing but a memory for now, but Love was neverending.
“Sometimes, in the night, I dreamed of your touch,” Hanbin confessed. “I do not feel this kind of desire anymore, but I still hope to give you my affection.”
“You already gave me everything,” Zhang Hao simply said, not surprised in the slightest. “Your faith, your life, a temple. Worshippers.”
He caressed Hanbin’s cheekbone with his thumb, a pleasurable touch refreshing his mind. A proof of affection contradicting his words trying to pull back from Hanbin’s adoration again.
“You gave me everything back,” Hanbin replied, unwilling to let his chance go, carried as always by his faith. “Hope. The power to always have my wish granted. Eternity.”
Mirroring the god, Hanbin cupped Zhang Hao’s face back, finally touching his soft, cold cheeks. With a sigh, Zhang Hao leaned into the touch as well, closing his eyes to focus on it. Had he been slightly too cold, just like Hanbin was feeling slightly too warm? Had he been waiting for someone to soothe him, just like he’d soothed Hanbin through his last days, just like he was doing to him now? Hanbin didn’t know, but he wanted to be Zhang Hao’s relief from this existence. To hold him in his arms until they couldn’t remember which of them was Warm or Cold.
When Zhang Hao opened his eyes again, they were devoid of the protective kind of kindness that had put a distance between them. His words were still true, but didn’t aim to save Hanbin anymore. Finally, seeing him as an equal.
“I used you to gain what I wanted.”
“I used you, too,” Hanbin admitted. “But the way I wish for your affection has no purpose. If this is our temple, if you can see my faith still burning for you, if you will forever be the one that holds the life I had… I must know if you will ever be able to grant me this last, selfish wish. It wasn’t my place to ask as a mortal, but if we are truly equals, then I wish to know whether you want me by your side.”
Zhang Hao closed his eyes for a second, and then smiled slowly, half-lidded gaze beckoning the new god.
“Let me grant you knowledge.”
Hanbin kissed Zhang Hao, black lips tasting like fresh snow. He missed his beating heart, but he knew how loud it would sing if he was still in his body. Loud enough to kill him, maybe. After all, with Zhang Hao’s lips came truth, and the truth had never looked so beautiful.
***
The first villager came in a few days later, when the snow had melted enough for the road to be walkable again. It was the man that had brought Hanbin his last crate of food. He walked into the temple, his boots wet with melted snow, and immediately ran to Hanbin’s body. He collapsed on the ground and sobbed in grief. Hanbin stayed a long time kneeling next to him, whispering words of reassurance and love that probably couldn’t be heard.
Then the man, Jiwoong, as Hanbin had whispered, finally got up. He took a closer look at Hanbin’s corpse, still frosted over when everything else had melted, but something stopped him as he reached for the body. Instead, he turned around, noticing the scrolls surrounding them. He read them one by one, carefully, through his swollen eyelids and warm tears.
And then, after reading everything, he looked again at his old friend, frozen in worship. He looked at the paper again. Hanbin again. And finally, hesitant and desperate, his gaze searched around the temple, hoping, praying.
“…Hanbin?”
A god held Jiwoong, sharing his warmth only for a moment, and the mortal collapsed, crying again, a light in him intensifying.
“I loved him dearly,” Hanbin said, offering a caress to the trembling man on the floor. “It feels different now, but I am glad that he could find solace in my fate.”
“He might be your first true believer,” Zhang Hao noted. “Do you feel his light?”
“I do. But it shines for you, too. His light is for the both of us. Don’t you feel it?”
Zhang Hao should’ve been happier, Hanbin thought. This was the rebirth of his cult, a new start that could make him more powerful than ever. But the ancient god only nodded.
“Was it not the reason you went through all this, Zhang Hao?”
“No,” he smiled softly. “Truly, I only wanted you. Mortals are ephemeral, just like their faith. One day, I will be forgotten again. But not by you. You will always remember me, and I will always remember you, too.”
It didn’t take long for the temple to be bustling with life again, the shrine fully rebuilt for the new faith that was now taking place there. Hanbin’s still frozen body had been lovingly wrapped in colorful fabrics and flowers, and then encased in a statue, forever immortalized as holding a candle that was replaced every day. He wasn’t the only one holding it, another pair of hands holding his.
Zhang Hao’s statue didn’t really match his appearance, despite Hanbin’s best efforts to describe his visions. But still, it was him in all the ways that mattered, divine being reaching out to a kneeling devout. Both carved in stone and gold, with mother-of-pearl eyes staring at each other.
One day, the village would disappear quietly, taken by time and civilizations rising and falling. The temple would be destroyed, nothing left behind, and their story forgotten, just like the broken statues buried deep into the ground.
But they would still be roaming the earth together, hand in hand.
Cold.
Warmth.
Forever remembered.