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Chapter Text

Part 1: Opaira

opaira [ō-pī’rä], noun

Love based on attraction and sexual passion

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Despite the rough callus that stretches the entire length of his finger, the Beifeng warlord’s touch is warm and gentle when he tips Xichen’s chin up. Xichen represses an involuntary shiver, reminding himself that the callus was made from the bow that has killed hundreds if not thousands of his countrymen. He thinks of water flowing over stone and does not move.

The warlord—even in his thoughts, Xichen will not use the name of this man who now owns him—looks more curious than fearsome, turning Xichen’s head in appraisal, lifting a lock of his hair and rubbing it between his fingers. Unexpectedly, he smooths his thumb across the unblemished skin of Xichen’s cheek, skin no man has ever touched so brazenly. A smile flickers across his lips when he looks Xichen in the eyes and Xichen stubbornly refuses to look away. Before he can react, the warlord leans down and brushes his mouth against Xichen’s. He feels like he’s been struck, pinpricks of light fluttering in his stomach, and he freezes for the heartbeat they are pressed together. 

It is Xichen’s first kiss.

The warlord makes a low sound of approval before he moves away and nods with a flurry of words Xichen doesn’t understand.

A different voice translates.

“Elder Brother says the gift of the Cloud Recesses is accepted. A messenger will be sent.” More gently, the voice adds, “Your cities will be left unscathed.”

The boy who speaks Xichen’s language looks younger than Wangji, small and soft, more like a pampered child than a warrior, which is not what Xichen would have expected for this tribe of barbarians. He wonders if Elder Brother is a literal or figurative relationship.

Gift, he thinks, as though there was some beauty in this transaction. As though it is a willing offering his family had chosen to make. Still, Xichen thinks grimly, it is an appropriate word, even if not for the reasons the warlord thinks. It is a gift he is giving to someone he loves, and he will not regret it.

Chapter Text

Xichen did not know what to do with his brother’s tears. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen his brother cry. It must have been when they were still children, when tears were still an acceptable reaction to emotion. Tears were not valued in the Cloud Recesses, or at least, not valued by their father, and even when their mother had died, Wangji had not shown grief where anyone else could see it.

Crouching in front of Wangji, Xichen touched his brother’s foot. He was afraid any comfort he offered would be an embarrassment, but he couldn’t bear to hear the hitching gasps of breath Wangji tried to suppress or see the crumpled sorrow on his face as he sat on a bench under a sprawling plum tree, knees drawn up defensively.

They were only a year apart in age, and they had always been close—twin jades, people called them. The same black hair, the same light eyes, the same talent for hiding their true sentiments. Xichen tried not to be hurt by Wangji’s recoil, the shift to hide his face away.

“Wangji?” he asked hesitantly, not expecting words, but hoping at least for some explanation.

In answer, his brother handed him a piece of paper.

Xichen read it. So few words, and yet, each one was a knife in his heart. He fought to control his fury, digging his fingernails into his palm for something else to focus on.

He knew—had always known—that a younger sibling’s primary value was as an advantage in negotiations, and yet somehow, he had thought his brother would not be forced into a union that was merely political.

The Lan clan of Gusu was one of the seven largest clans. Their allegiances lasted for generations instead of changing yearly. They weren’t one of the minor clans who gained territory and protected their borders through regular skirmishes and bloodshed, and they did not make treaties imprudently. As his father said on a nearly monthly basis, “We do not concern ourselves with the petty squabbles of smaller clans,” although that was only true if the smaller clans did not have a resource of value, like the Yunmeng and their purple dye or the Zhao and their tea.

If he had been Xichen's sister, Wangji might have been married years ago to secure an alliance, seal a trade agreement, or to smooth the way for some other favorable arrangement. But he was a skilled military commander, and the invasion from the Beifeng empire of the north had allowed him to remain unattached these past two years, despite being of marriageable age. As heir, Xichen had more choices, but he knew that he, too, would eventually have to do his duty to his clan. Once he was clan leader, he had assumed he would be able to keep his brother safe.

However, the war was going badly. The war had been going badly from the beginning. The child emperor had all but sealed himself in his impregnable fortress as the vast army of the Beifeng had slowly but surely pressed south, toppling the Nightless City of Qishan, defeating the mighty Yao of Qinghe and consuming every clan in between. Even the Ouyang, a clan of deadly assassins, had been overcome in mere weeks. Now, the Beifeng had been camped outside of Jinlin Tai for nearly a year, besieging the city and sending raiding parties into the other clans. It was only a matter of time before they reached the Cloud Recesses, and despite their skilled defenders and remote mountain city, Xichen knew they would eventually fall.

So, it seemed his father and the elders of his family had traded Wangji for peace, handing him their decision on a piece of paper instead of having the courage to face him. They would give him to the warlord of the Beifeng, a monster who had slaughtered thousands, and they had not even been brave enough to tell Xichen.

No wonder we are losing, Xichen thought bitterly.

“Xiongzhang,” Wangji choked out, sliding to the ground in front of Xichen. “I love him. He is the other half of my soul.”

Oh. No. Oh, no.

Xichen closed his eyes, willing the words away, but it was too late. Had he already known what his brother would say? He had seen Wangji with Wei-gongzi, the dashing young commander who led the Yunmeng archers, sent to guard the Cloud Recesses thanks to a long-ago treaty. He’d watched as his brother’s initially puzzled reaction to Wei-gongzi’s charming smiles and laughter bloomed into friendship. He had thought, though, that Wangji would not be foolish enough to form an attachment with no hope of attainment. Even if he hadn’t been merely a soldier, Wei-gongzi was of Yunmeng, a respectable clan, but a small one, already bound to the Lans by covenant, and not significant enough to waste the handsome, accomplished, prized second jade of the Cloud Recesses on.

Evidently, Xichen had mistaken the depth of his brother’s regard.

“Wangji, I have no power to change this decision,” he said softly, his heart breaking.

With a loud gulp, Wangji inhaled and shifted so he was kneeling, forcing the tears to subside with the well-known strength of his indomitable will. “No, xiongzhang. I will do this if it will mean safety for our people. I ask only that you tell him yourself. He will not understand and...I fear he will do something rash. Stop him if you must.”

He misunderstood the expression on Xichen’s face and took his hand, his voice thin and splintering in a way Xichen had never heard before.

“Please. I could not live if anything happened to him.”

Xichen, however, had not been intending to refuse.

Chapter Text

The boy accompanies him through the encampment, talking nonstop the entire way, but Xichen isn’t listening. He’s observing this army with a commander’s eye. It helps him to pretend that he’s a spy, not a slave. He notes the neat lines of tents, the clean smell despite hundreds of horses, the smiles on the faces of the soldiers—men and women. This is not the bloodthirsty and chaotic rabble he had expected.

Who hasn’t heard stories of the Beifeng? They have devastated even the strongest clans, whose swords and magic were no match for the Beifeng archers and cavalry, not to mention their own unknown power. Some of the clans retreated into the hills, some sought sanctuary in the Cloud Recesses. And the man Xichen has just met—just kissed—is the demon they fear the most.

Xichen can’t believe all the stories. No man can disappear and reappear at will, nor fly to the top of a building, nor drive an arrow through the heart of a soldier a full li away. He does not have wings or fangs. He is certainly tall enough to be fearsome, Xichen thinks with irritation, if less hideous than reported. His broad shoulders must make him as dangerous with a sword as he is known to be with a bow, but surely no more deadly than Xichen himself.

They reach a tent larger than the rest, hung with colorful panels of embroidered linen. Despite his churning fear, Xichen evaluates the workmanship and the cost of the dyes with favor. He sees purple and gold mixed with blue and less expensive yellows and greens, yet somehow the riot of color is pleasing. It is a far cry from the grey and white serenity of Xichen’s home.

Not his home anymore.

“This will be your home while you are here,” the boy announces, gesturing to an exquisitely embellished panel hiding a doorway, stitched in a beaded pattern of clouds that almost seem to be drifting in the wind.

Xichen’s stomach clenches at this small reminder of the Cloud Recesses, and he’s instantly nauseated. He closes his eyes and tries to breathe away the bile, flinching when he feels a touch on his arm.

“Zewu-Jun, please come inside,” the boy implores, and Xichen lets himself be led through the tent flap.

“If you need to throw up, there’s a basin in the corner.”

Xichen’s eyes fly open, staring at the boy, whose eyes are sparkling with repressed laughter. It makes Xichen furious that this child can find his distress so hilarious, and some of his feelings must be evident on his face, because the boy takes a step backward, hands up.

“I meant no harm, Zewu-Jun. The negotiations with your family ensured your safety, but you would be treasured regardless. Whatever comforts you need, please ask.”

“Ask who?” Xichen snorts, more acerbic than he intends.

The boy’s grin turns his face into a dancing butterfly, light and carefree, and again, Xichen wonders who he is to the warlord.

“Me, of course. In your language, you can call me Huaisang. I will see you daily, whenever I can, but you can always ask your guards for me. Just say my name. They’ve been informed.”

Xichen looks around him. He has been given every luxury as far as he can see. The tent is warm, thanks to a covered brazier sitting on a ring of stone tiles. There are overstuffed cushions to lounge on, light blankets for summer, heavy wool blankets for the approaching autumn chill, paintings hanging from the tent ribs, a small but sufficient desk stocked with paper, ink, and brushes, and a table he assumes must be for meals, because it holds a pale blue tea service, plates, and bowls. Furthest from the door, next to the thing he will not yet acknowledge, is a wash basin, pitcher, and an unnecessarily large copper bathtub.

It is all exquisitely made: the wood masterfully carved, the pottery glazed to a mirror shine, the artwork elegant and refined. The finest prison Xichen has ever seen.

He looks in a trunk near the tub, and surprise escapes him in an involuntary gasp. It is filled with books. He hadn’t realized what they were at first because they are wrapped in dark leather with no identifying marks on the bindings. He touches them reverently, opening some of their covers to reveal histories, books of folklore, even musical notations. Some he knows, some he doesn’t, but they are all beautiful. Tears sting his eyes and he inhales, rolling his eyes upward just enough to stop any drops from escaping.

“There’s a guqin too,” the boy—Huaisang—offers, pointing to a wooden case in the corner. “We understand your clan values music and learning. Elder Brother wants you to be comfortable.”

As comfortable as any concubine or sex slave, Xichen’s harsh inner voice reminds him, and he finally looks at the bed that dominates the tent. At home, this bed would be an extravagance. Even in the emperor’s palace, Xichen guesses, although he’s never been there, this bed would be excessive. It looks easily big enough for four people to lay in and never touch, and the thought heats his cheeks. The bed sits low on the ground, but its tall, carved posts are draped with silks thin enough to see through, and the mattress that looks soft enough to sink into is covered with a creamy blanket woven in a blue pattern Xichen would know anywhere: the graceful, curving seal of the Cloud Recesses.

This has all been made for him.

No, he remembers. Wangji.

It was made for Wangji.

Chapter Text

In his twenty-two years, Xichen had never knowingly broken the rules of his clan. It had been something he was proud of, that obedience and propriety came so effortlessly to him. It made his life uncomplicated, and it allowed him to protect his brother’s small, secret rebellions from notice.

Now, it made it easy for him to deceive without being questioned.

He asked to see the letter his father was sending to the Beifeng warlord, to check it for errors, because there could be no mistakes to disgrace Wangji. His father was grateful for the assistance. He even apologized awkwardly to Xichen for not telling him what they were planning.

“We knew you would resist, Zewu-Jun, and there was too much at stake for your soft heart to interfere.”

Soft heart. As though that was all Xichen was. As though he did not earn his military title at the age of fourteen, two years before his father did. As though he had not defended the Cloud Recesses successfully until he reached his majority and switched his focus to preparing to lead his clan. As though his kindness and integrity were not regularly praised by all his family’s allies.

What his father meant was, you would have told us we were wrong, and we did not want to hear it.

His father would have been right. He would not have agreed to give away his brother—Wangji, who did not like to be touched even by people he was acquainted with—to be what? A warlord’s concubine? A servant? Xichen was filled with a rage he had never known before, and it blazed like a funeral pyre.

No, Xichen would not be ashamed of his soft heart, no matter how it sounded in his father’s stern voice.

It was far too simple to imitate his father’s hand and rewrite the letter accepting the warlord’s terms, changing the names and some of the details like his age and accomplishments. Truly, the warlord was getting a better bargain than he intended, Xichen thought. The first jade instead of the second. The heir instead of the spare. In light of the trade, he altered the letter to ask for Yunmeng’s safety as well, rationalizing that it would be suspicious to give a greater tribute than had been asked for.

He gave the letter back to his father, rolled in leather, scented with jasmine, and placed in a bamboo tube, already prepared for travel. His father accepted without suspicion. Xichen hid his smile with practiced ease. Perhaps there was some value to living a life above reproach.

The only thing Xichen regretted was that he could not tell his brother. He knew Wangji’s stubborn pride too well, and his brother would never let Xichen sacrifice himself, even if it was for Wangji’s own happiness.

Under the plum tree, he had wiped the tears from his brother’s cheeks and reassured him that he would tell Wei-gongzi anything Wangji wished. He could deliver a letter to the Yunmeng camp, if that would make it easier, and it strengthened Xichen’s resolve when his brother’s usually impassive face lit up.

The letter Wangji gave him the day before he was scheduled to leave was heavy, several pages thick. Xichen wondered what you told your soulmate when you had been sold in a sham marriage to save your clan and maybe even your region from being overrun and destroyed.

Xichen had no way of knowing. Now, he never would.

He added Wangji’s letter to one he had written and hid them both under a floorboard in their mother’s empty home on the edge of the great forest. She had laughingly explained that as a healer, she needed to be closer to nature, so it had not been a scandal when she had moved away from their father so many years ago. But Xichen remembered the difference in her smiles before and after and the way she seemed to take fuller breaths here in this little house. It was a place he knew Wangji visited regularly, and the only place he could think of where his letter explaining what he had done and why, would be safe.

And then he prepared to get his brother drunk.

Xichen hated to lie to him, but by now, it was just one more promise he couldn’t regret breaking. His brother would leave at dawn in a caravan of horses, mules, and guards that would convey him and his dowry north to the Beifeng camp on the southern border of Lanling. The night before, Xichen invited Wangji to his rooms to share a hot pot of aged white tea, one of the oldest their family possessed.

“If there was ever a time to drink the best tea,” Xichen said, the misery in his voice unfeigned, “today is the day.”

It was a family joke, Wangji’s intolerance for alcohol. Xichen had put in just enough so the taste would be masked by the sweet, rich honey flavor of the tea, but it would still put his brother to sleep. He was developing a talent for subterfuge, he thought, staring down at the limp form of his brother, sprawled across the table. Wangji’s face had lost the hard planes that masked his emotions, and he looked exactly his age.

It was easier than he expected to disguise his brother as himself, undressing Wangji down to the silk underclothes they both wore, switching their hair ornaments, and turning his face away from the door. Xichen pulled the blankets high around his head and reinforced his brother’s sleep with a brush of magic. He felt a twinge of sadness to leave his beloved Shuoyue behind, but he couldn’t very well take the sword. Someone would definitely recognize it by his side, and he didn’t want to deprive his brother of Bichen. What would he do with a sword where he was going anyway?

He put a note on his door with a single angry word—no—and hoped it would be enough to keep anyone from entering for a while.

“I am sorry, and I love you,” Xichen whispered before he left. He told himself it didn’t matter if Wangji couldn't hear him.

The last thing he did, a risk he couldn’t help but take, was to visit the library. His library, as he always thought of it. He breathed in the smell of leather and ink, touched the bindings of books he loved and scrolls of poetry he would never see again. He tried not to think about the music he had not yet committed to memory. Some of these books were ones he had bought himself, when he used to travel to other clans to contract and trade. Some had belonged to his family for generations. Next to his brother, this library was the thing he would miss the most.

Xichen was ready to leave at dawn, waiting on his horse before anyone else was awake to see him off. It felt strange to be riding again. He had not left his city in years, not since he had traveled to Qishan for the grand wedding of the Wen clan chief mere months before the Beifeng invaded. After they invaded, of course, he was too valuable to send into battle, despite his experience.

“You are too valuable to risk being ambushed and lost,” his father had said, but what Xichen heard was, your life only has value inside these gates.

He wore a heavy riding coat with a tall collar and a plush scarf—too warm for late summer— that covered most of his face. He refused to look at any of his family, disdaining them as he knew Wangji would have done. He wasn’t sure if he was grateful or offended that no one, not even his father, noticed the change.

Chapter Text

Xichen has no idea what he’s supposed to do with himself. The guards outside his door make him believe he is not free to leave the tent. He considers unpacking his things, but as soon as he opens the trunk with his clothes, he panics and slams it shut. It feels like an acknowledgement that this is his life now. This tent, this language, these people are the rest of his life, and he can’t bear it.

So he plays the guqin, which is a fine instrument. The music soothes him, and he considers shifting to a song of power. Would it work to play Silence or Rest? Could he send enough of these barbarians into sleep to escape? He dismisses the thought. Even if he could, it would risk the treaty the warlord has already agreed to and maybe even endanger his brother’s life. He has chosen this, he reminds himself.

Hours pass, and the darkness in the tent deepens. His nerves jangle, and Xichen wishes he had at least played Tranquility. Huaisang did not elaborate on whether this tent was meant for him alone or whether he would be sharing it with the warlord, but Xichen is aware that he is a bride, of sorts, and he expects that sooner or later, the man is going to demand that Xichen fulfill their treaty. The thought makes Xichen lightheaded and his fingers stumble across the guqin strings before he can compose himself.

It is finally too dark to continue playing, and Xichen rummages through his trunks to find candles. He lights them with a touch of magic, one thing he has not lost, at least.

“Et orodit eko doro eta aranakeram,” a deep voice says from behind him, the sounds of the unfamiliar language harsh in his ears, and Xichen nearly drops the candle he is holding.^†

“Elder Brother says you look beautiful in candlelight,” Huaisang translates, flushing and shooting the warlord an aggrieved glare that tells Xichen they must be brothers indeed.

Xichen reddens too. He lowers the candle so it isn’t as obvious, but the grin on the man’s face says he wasn’t fast enough.

“Edi eta dikani eko? Da adi eidar eko em outam?”^†

“Elder Brother would like to know if you are hungry, and if you would join us for dinner,” Huaisang says. “Also,” he adds, “There are lights.”

The boy draws a pattern in the air with two fingers. Crooking them at the second joint, he pulls a kind of darkness from the air and flicks it toward the roof of the tent. Tiny golden globes illuminate around the perimeter of the tent and into the apex, almost as bright and welcoming as sunlight. It looks completely different from his own power, and Xichen is fascinated by the novelty before he remembers Huaisang’s question.

It’s not much of a choice. He hasn’t eaten since before he arrived this morning.

“Yes,” he says, forcing a smile. He chose this, he chose this, he chose this, he tells himself savagely, over and over and over. Eventually, maybe, it will be enough.

The food is richer and spicier than he is used to but not inedible, although the tea is atrocious—too dark and too pungent—and Xichen can barely keep it down as he listens to Huaisang. The warlord is surprisingly talkative, asking Xichen about the music he had been playing earlier, whether he needs anything for his comfort, his opinion of the art that decorates the tent, even about the local plants and animals. He very carefully avoids asking anything personal or anything about the Cloud Recesses, and Xichen can’t decide if it’s strategy or kindness.

It is strange to eat this way, answering questions and waiting for a translation. But, Xichen supposes, it’s no more strange than talking over dinner, which is forbidden in his home, or talking this much at all. He’s never used words excessively. The Cloud Recesses is a quiet place, and his brother is a quiet person, so their words were selected judiciously and sparingly.

“Thank you for allowing us to join you,” Huaisang says at the end of the meal. “Elder Brother asks if you will play the guqin?”

The warlord interjects, watching Xichen’s expression closely. “Odero ti mau odinga. Odero di he ti roka em ateipa.”^†

“Elder Brother says you may call him Mingjue if you wish. And you don’t have to play the guqin if you don’t want to.”

Xichen doubts that very much, but he nods serenely and returns to the guqin. It occurs to him that it very likely belonged to someone else recently, perhaps a resident of Qinghe or Ouyang. His stomach roils and threatens to spill the dinner he just ate, but he steels himself. He is not a squeamish child. His clan has taken spoils of conflict as well, and it is no more or less noble, even if the scale is different.

He plays for a few minutes before he looks up. Huaisang is gone. The warlord is sitting across from him, legs folded and arms crossed. When they had met earlier, he had been wearing the full leather armor of a man used to sitting a horse—thin and flexible, reinforced around the chest and thighs. His nearly black hair had been pulled back, a tight cap of what had looked like braids. Now, Xichen can see that they are indeed tiny braids, dozens of them twisted into thicker plaits and loosely arranged on the back of the warlord’s head. He is wearing black wide-legged pants and a deep blue tunic with an open jacket woven in vibrant shades of red and yellow. For Xichen, who never wears fewer than five robes, it is scandalously little clothing, and he can see the outline of the muscle on the warlord’s chest when he inhales. Xichen glances away, but he makes the mistake of looking at the man’s face.

The warlord is watching Xichen with that same flickering smile, there and gone before Xichen can properly verify its kind. His relaxation, and perhaps the lack of armor, makes Xichen realize he’s not as old as he looked earlier. His skin is the warm color of aged tea, whether natural or from the sun, Xichen can’t tell. A stray thought—you will find out eventually—makes his breathing stutter. With a flare of exasperation at himself, Xichen acknowledges that yes, the man is handsome, but it should make no difference to his behavior. He is cool water. He is a quiet breeze. He looks back down at the safety of the guqin.

He doesn’t hear the warlord get up—how can such a big man move so quietly—until his fingers touch the edge of Xichen’s long hair.

“Soft,” he murmurs, and Xichen jumps, knocking the guqin to the floor and scooting back to escape his surprise.

His heart is pounding, and he stammers, “You...you speak my...my language?” It feels like a betrayal.

The warlord’s mouth quirks in what is definitely a wry and apologetic smile. He holds up a hand, an entreaty for Xichen not to move, and kneels forward. He runs his fingers through Xichen’s hair again, holding up a lock of it. This close, Xichen can see that his eyes aren’t the pitch black wells they had seemed, but a deep brown, like the color of rich earth after the rain, with flecks of gold near the pupils. They tip up at the corners, making him look curious. Or perhaps he merely is curious.

“Soft,” he repeats.

Xichen is paralyzed.

The warlord brushes the back of his hand against Xichen’s cheek. “Soft.”

He touches his thumb to Xichen’s mouth. “Soft.”

This time, Xichen knows enough to expect the kiss. The warlord slides both hands behind Xichen’s head to pull him forward, but instead of Xichen’s mouth, he kisses his forehead, just below the band of silk that every member of Xichen’s family wears until their marriage. If this had been a contract with one of his people, or even another clan, Xichen would have removed the ribbon on his wedding night, but he is not certain of the protocol in this situation and anyway, the warlord can’t possibly understand its significance.

The man is motionless, not pulling away, not moving closer, but his breathing shifts, deepening, perhaps less regular than it had been before. Slivers of ice glide down Xichen’s spine. Warm breath tickles the space between his eyes as the warlord seems to be tiptoeing on the cusp of a decision.

And then he kisses Xichen’s mouth. He isn’t cruel, but he isn’t chaste either, angling his lips firmly against Xichen’s and pressing into him. He catches Xichen’s lower lip in his and tugs. It feels like a rope tied directly to his groin, and the sensation almost makes Xichen moan; he only barely stops himself before the sound escapes. The warlord’s long, straight nose drags against Xichen’s, a silent demand, and his tongue flicks across the line of Xichen’s lips. Xichen’s mouth drops open, either from surprise or desire, and he can’t hold back the muted groan at the feeling, the unbelievable fire of the man’s tongue touching his. He leans forward, closing his eyes, willing to accept this duty, but with a soft sigh of resignation, the warlord releases him.

They stare at each other, the warlord’s eyes searching Xichen’s, and for once, Xichen has no idea what expression is on his face. The man raises an eyebrow. Asking permission? Critiquing his performance? Xichen doesn’t know. He hadn’t asked permission before, but either way, it seems safe to smile, so he does. Whatever the warlord had been asking, Xichen seems to have given an acceptable answer. The man smiles back, and Xichen is stunned, absolutely stupefied, by the way it transforms his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes and carving deep dimples into his cheeks.

“Da iko auha oriho,” he says before he leaves, and although Xichen has no idea what he’s said, it doesn’t really matter.^†

He curses some ingrained notion of courtesy that won’t allow him to keep calling a man he’s kissed “the warlord” anymore.

Fine.

Huaisang had said his name was Mingjue. Xichen could say his name.

It was only a word.

Mingjue.

Chapter Text

Huaisang returns the next morning, the next afternoon, and brings Xichen his dinner, but he seems distracted and only asks if Xichen is well before leaving. Truthfully, Xichen is relieved to be left alone, and quite glad not to be reminded of the warlord’s existence—or his kisses—any more than necessary.

He writes letters to Wangji—I am safe, don’t worry, please be happy—but each time he tries to ask Huaisang if they can be sent, the words stick on his tongue. If Huaisang says no, Xichen will be disappointed, and if Huaisang says yes, Xichen will be afraid it is only for the chance to read his words. He doesn’t want anyone to see his apologies.

But after three days alone, after reading two long histories, playing every song he knows, hours of meditation, and trying to practice sword forms with a calligraphy brush, he wonders if he’s been forgotten. He is so bored, he considers making an escape attempt just for something to do.

When Huaisang asks Xichen if he would like to ride one morning, Xichen is tempted to hug him with relief. There are already horses waiting outside the door, and it’s almost funny that Huaisang was so certain of his answer.

If Mingjue is younger than he first appeared, Huaisang is older, perhaps even older than Wangji. He’s small, nearly a full head shorter than Xichen, and dresses more frivolously than anyone else Xichen has seen—loose, colorful layers, thick silver rings on three fingers, a bahnzir on his thumb, several gold hoops in his ears, and a bright scarf, ends fluttering behind him as they ride. It is not the wardrobe of a soldier. But although these two masters of the Beifeng army are not as obviously brothers as Xichen and Wangji, with a thick wool hat disguising his light brown hair, it’s easier to see Huaisang’s resemblance to Mingjue, especially around the eyes and mouth. Rather than many braids, though, Huaisang wears only one that reaches the middle of his back.

Huaisang is also something more than merely a translator. He sings loudly as they ride and jokes with nearly everyone they pass, sometimes translating their comments, sometimes telling Xichen laughing stories about the men and women they see. But Xichen is an expert at reading minute facial changes, and he sees the deferential nods and glances the soldiers give Huaisang as they ride through the camp. At least twice, a warrior in full armor stops them and has a whispered conversation with the young man.

Xichen notes the looks people give him as well: sly, curious, and occasionally lingering, but not necessarily censorious.

“They think you’re interesting looking. You’re very pale,” Huaisang mentions after one young woman’s open admiration flusters Xichen. “Don’t worry. No one will ever touch you here. They would invite Ipira’orhew Ikira’s wrath, and not one of the Beifeng would be so stupid.”

Xichen tries the words. “Ipira...Orhew...Ikira? What does it mean?”

Huaisang hums thoughtfully. “Vermillion Sword Master. Or maybe Crimson Sword Lord. It doesn’t exactly translate. In your language, you might call him Chifeng-Zun. It’s his title, not his name.”

“What is his name in your tongue?” Xichen asks.

“Etikuntiga,” Huaisang answers. “Etikuntiga means ‘visualizing success,’ and that just didn’t have a very pretty sound in your language, so I chose something more poetic, as your people like to do.”

“How did you learn my language so thoroughly?” Xichen wonders aloud. Huaisang is right, Xichen’s native tongue, Yuyan, often chooses metaphor and poetics over practicality, but it is a nuance many of his countrymen don’t even notice.

Huaisang laughs, a shout of mirth that turns a few heads toward him. “Zewu-Jun, I fear it would horrify you. There’s no better way to learn a language than in the arms of a willing teacher. Or two,” he grins.

Xichen can feel the red heat creeping up his neck, and he distracts himself by turning to watch a pair of birds circling overhead. Hawks, he thinks, and then is surprised when one of the birds folds its wings and plunges down as though it will crash into the ground only to pull up and land on a man’s waiting arm. Xichen has heard of hunting birds before, but he’s never actually seen one.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I actually have shocked you,” Huaisang apologizes, sounding entirely unremorseful, the amusement still in the back of his throat. “It is true, but it’s also true that I am just very good at other tongues. Zewu-Jun, do you require anyone to assist you? On a daily basis?”

The change in topic is abrupt and startles a laugh from Xichen. “I do not have anything for anyone to assist me with,” he says, and Huaisang purses his lips.

“Would you like me to find something for you to do?”

Xichen counters with his own question. “Am I allowed to leave my tent?”

Huaisang looks genuinely distressed. “Of course! Of course you are. Zewu-Jun, I apologize if that wasn’t clear. You are not a prisoner. You are Ahora'ipa. You may go anywhere.”

He says the word like it is also a title, and Xichen is too embarrassed to ask what it means.

“Then yes, I would like something to do. I can…” He thinks. What can he do? He has been trained as a musician, as a mediator, and with all the practical knowledge necessary to lead his clan, but only in his own language. His skills do not seem like assets here.

“I can heal,” he finally decides, and Huaisang beams at him.

“Healing is always valuable, Zewu-Jun. Thank you.”

They eat lunch together in Xichen’s tent and Huaisang leaves, promising to return for dinner. He could never be a replacement for Wangji, but he seems like he could almost be a friend one day. It gives Xichen the courage to unpack one trunk. It does not feel as much like a chain as he thought it would.

Xichen is entirely nonplussed when Mingjue arrives for dinner with a bird riding on his shoulder.

“I saw you watching the munaku today, and I thought you might like to meet one,” Huaisang says, not quite laughing at Xichen’s expression. “Her name is Kitingi. She is technically mine, but she is rather fond of my brother. Probably because he’s taller.”

The bird is barely bigger than one hand span and her feathers are a dark grey, speckled with dabs of white and orange. She tilts her head to peer at Xichen, and he has to resist the urge to tilt his head back at her.

“Will she be joining us for dinner?” he finally manages to ask, and Huaisang laughs so hard, the bird flutters her wings in annoyance.

“If you don’t mind, Zewu-Jun. She is a very polite dinner guest,” he answers, and indeed, the little bird doesn’t move from Mingjue’s shoulder throughout dinner, occasionally accepting small pieces of meat he hands her, her hooked beak surprisingly gentle.

As with their last meal together, Mingjue has a never-ending stream of questions for Xichen to answer and Huaisang to translate. He asks if Xichen has horses, and Xichen has to admit that he does not ride often, which seems to alarm and concern the man. He launches into a defense of horses and horsemanship that Huaisang can barely keep up with and at least once, rolls his eyes at. Mingjue catches him and pokes him in the arm, but Huaisang is undeterred, smirking at his brother’s grumbling. Their easy and affectionate relationship is so at odds with what Xichen expected from the Beifeng. At odds, even, from his own family.

Something occurs to Mingjue, and he cocks his head curiously like the hawk on his arm, asking a question that Huaisang hesitates to translate. The brothers have a silent conversation about it before Huaisang sighs and apparently gives in.

“What do you love so much, if not horses, Zewu-Jun?”

How can he possibly answer that question? The part of him that is still angry with his father, angry with his clan, and angry with this man for forcing him into a life with no choices thinks that he loved his freedom most of all. He doesn’t know what he has left to love anymore. The words are on the tip of his tongue, but he bites them back.

“I love the sunrise on the mountain,” he says softly. “I love my brother, and I love playing the guqin. I love the feeling of bones knitting together under my hand, of learning something I did not know yesterday, of magic flowing through me. I love to win sword fights. I love to read books and listen to the wind at night, rustling through the jasmine...”

He stops. He’s said too much, and he can’t finish the sentence. He won’t ever hear the rustle of the heavy jasmine leaves behind his house again, or smell their thick, sweet perfume in summer. It is pointless to even think of it.

The tent is utterly silent when Huaisang finishes the translation.

Abruptly, Mingjue stands and barks something at Huaisang who shakes his head, not a refusal—more like a reprimand. The look he gives his brother is indecipherable to Xichen, but Mingjue narrows his eyes as though he knows exactly what the younger man is thinking. He repeats his order, and with pursed lips, Huaisang reaches out a hand to Kitingi. She hops gracefully to his fingers, and they leave.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…” Xichen begins, but he isn’t sure what he’s apologizing for. Being honest? Missing his home? It doesn’t seem like the warlord is angry, but Xichen can’t tell. It’s so frustrating to know every tiny shift in his father’s or brother’s faces, but feel so lost at understanding the huge, sweeping expressions that animate this man.

Xichen hadn’t realized he was within Mingjue’s reach until the warlord pulls him into his arms, his mouth hard and bruising against Xichen’s. Mingjue’s hands burn like hot irons, and Xichen is vividly aware of every single place he is being touched, places he had never once thought were flammable now feel like they will consume him—the nape of his neck, the inside of his knee, the ridge of his hip.

His legs are suddenly weak, and he braces his hands against Mingjue’s chest, clutching his shirt. When he touches Mingjue, the man groans against his mouth, slipping his tongue between Xichen’s lips but...oh...oh, the hand on his back, sliding over his buttocks...it is...the tightening clench in his gut is suddenly more than Xichen can take. He is a traitor to his people as his body is a traitor to his mind.

“No, stop,” he whispers, shoving away the chest he had so easily, so shamefully fallen against. He’s suddenly afraid that Mingjue won’t understand him or won’t let go even if he does.

He panics.

He fills his hands with power, the heat familiar like resolve.

He pushes at the same time Mingjue lets go.

Xichen’s gift is a strong one, and although he tries to curtail it in time, it is effective enough. He does not throw Mingjue sprawling across the tent, as he’s capable of, but the man rocks back nearly a full body length, knocking over a chair and dropping to one knee with a grunt. Shaking his head, Mingjue looks up at Xichen, blinking dazedly.

Xichen gapes at him and looks at his hands.

What has he done?

Xichen searches Mingjue’s expression frantically, examining the lines of his face for anger or retaliation. He thinks of his uncle clipping leaves from orchid stems. His nephew who has just begun to swing a sword. His brother. His brother. In only a few days, has he managed to destroy the treaty that protects his family?

Mingjue touches his chest gingerly and tilts the corner of his lips. He cocks his head at Xichen and takes a half step toward him looking almost...intrigued? Xichen can’t tell. He can’t tell. His hands are shaking and, in fact, his whole body is trembling. A white cloud is filling his eyes and he needs to sit. Regardless of whether or not he killed the man, or even injured him, he just attacked his captor. What warlord would stand for that?

Xichen sways and Mingjue’s expression shifts to concern, which Xichen does recognize. He catches Xichen before he falls, lifting him effortlessly and carrying him to the bed. Laying Xichen down, Mingjue pulls the blanket over him in a movement so smooth, Xichen wonders wildly if this isn’t the first time he’s soothed a violent lover. And then, thinking of himself as anyone’s lover, much less the Beifeng warlord’s, makes him gasp, suddenly unable to breathe.

Efficiently and with no signs of his earlier overtures, Mingjue loosens Xichen’s belt and robes and starts to remove the silk ribbon from Xichen’s forehead. Xichen bats his fingers away instinctively and then remembers that he should have already removed it, acknowledged that his body—his life—belongs to someone else now, even if they aren’t truly married. He tries to turn away, and his lungs protest, struggling painfully for air.

Mingjue rests his hand against Xichen’s chest and pulls the dark smoke of Beifeng magic to his palm. It warms Xichen, opens his lungs, and immediately, he can breathe again. His first full lungful of air catches in a sob, and he covers his mouth.

“Aitapaho, aitapaho,” Mingjue croons, smoothing a hand over the top of Xichen’s head. “Aurum auha, et sika pida auha.”^†

He says other words that sound remorseful and affectionate, still touching Xichen’s hair, but whatever magic he’s using is swiftly putting Xichen to sleep, and he can’t focus on them. Before he loses grasp with consciousness entirely, he covers the hand still resting against his chest with his own.

“Not your fault,” he says, the words blurring together. “Thank you.”

Xichen doesn’t know why Mingjue is being so kind, and the gratitude mingles with regret and self-recrimination. He is not a child. He chose this, knowing what it would mean. He has a duty to make every effort to ensure the warlord—Mingjue—is happy, and his family is safe. A duty. Only a duty.

Tomorrow, he will ask Huaisang for a language instructor. But the traditional kind. Not Huaisang’s kind.

Chapter Text

Huaisang is thrilled with Xichen’s desire to learn the Beifeng language, claiming he has exactly the right person for the task. And as promised, at lunchtime, he reappears with a pretty young woman named Luo Qingyang.

“She’s perfect. Her mother was Beifeng but she grew up in some city nearby. Even better,” he leans forward to whisper conspiratorially to Xichen, “she prefers women, so I don’t have to worry about her safety.”

For a moment, Xichen is offended that Huaisang thinks he would offer harm to this woman, or anyone, but then remembers what Huaisang had said about Chifeng-Zun’s wrath.

Luo Qingyang rolls her eyes. “He’s still upset because I’m not interested in him.”

Huaisang snorts. “It’s still hard to believe.”

She seems entirely unconcerned about being a captive and immediately sets to teaching Xichen the rudiments of the Beifeng language, which is called Orera (to Xichen’s amusement, Orera translates literally to “tongue”). It’s difficult—all brusque consonants and unfamiliar vowels set to the front of the mouth—and Xichen stumbles over every word, but she congratulates him as though he is doing well. Maybe he is? Any language must take time to learn.

“What does Ahora'ipa mean?” he ventures as the sun dips below the horizon, lighting the sky in shades of yellow and peach, perfect colors for the end of summer. It looks very different here on the plains than from the Cloud Recesses. Clearer, he thinks, with crisper lines and deeper shades.

Luo Qingyang frowns, thinking. “I’m not entirely sure, Zewu-Jun. I’d never heard it before...well, before you came. I don’t think it has a direct translation. Literally, it means ‘well-loved’ but it implies trust and friendship too. It’s the kind of title a king might give his queen or his most respected advisor.”

She shrugs. “It means you are valued. It is not such a terrible thing to be.”

He wants to argue that being a treasure feels like being a possession, but he remembers that she, too, has no choice in being here.

“Thank you, Luo Qingyang. Will you return tomorrow?”

She grins. “Just Qingyang. You may have noticed, they don’t care much for family names here. It’s considered pretentious. And of course I’ll return. It’s better than cleaning latrines.”

He gasps, and she laughs merrily. “I was not cleaning latrines, Zewu-Jun. I was helping Ipira’orhew Ikira’s generals create maps of the region. I used to be a cartographer in Jinlin Tai.”

“But...the city is under siege? How...” Xichen can’t understand how she came to be here and why she seems so comfortable with her fate.

She sighs. “Ah. I had hoped you would not ask.”

Only a few days away from his home and already asking intolerably rude questions. What would his father say?

“You do not have to tell me, Qingyang,” Xichen tells her, rushing to undo his thoughtlessness, but she shakes her head.

“No, no, it’s fine. I’m not ashamed of it. I left the Jin clan because they could not accept that my blood was mixed. Once the Beifeng invaded, I was nothing more than one of the enemy, despite having spent my whole life in service to the Jin clan. Even my betrothed....” She gulps, holding back some emotion, although Xichen isn’t sure if it’s anger or sadness. “Even my betrothed could not forgive me for my mother’s blood.”

With effort, Qingyang recovers, squaring her shoulders defiantly. “These are not regrets worth having, Zewu-Jun. What I lost in Lanling, I have gained here.”

He acknowledges her words with a wry smile. He is familiar with making choices he can’t afford to regret.

Xichen thinks he is ready to face Mingjue that night, but it is only Huaisang and Kitingi who join him for dinner. He doesn’t explain, and Xichen doesn’t ask, at first because he’s surprised, and then because he hadn’t asked earlier.

He considers asking Huaisang about the meaning of Ahora’ipa, but he loses his nerve and instead, he asks if the bird is as soft as she looks. In answer, Huaisang holds her out for him to pet. Xichen touches a finger to her back, and when she only shifts slightly on Huaisang’s hand, he strokes her feathers again. She is as soft as the rabbits that live in the woods around the Cloud Recesses, the ones his brother used to sneak out to feed, sitting quietly until they got used to his presence, holding his hand so still until they learned to take food from him.

Kitingi is not a rabbit, he reminds himself. She is more dangerous than she appears.

“How do you train a munaku?” Xichen asks, studying the pattern of black and white flecks on her back.

“Patience and lots of rewards,” Huaisang answers with a laugh, scratching Kitingi’s cheek affectionately. “But there is always something unique between a munaku and their handler, a bond of trust that’s more than just food-motivated.”

Xichen smiles. Perhaps she’s not so different from a rabbit after all.

The next day, Huaisang brings Xichen flowers.

“From Elder Brother,” he explains. “For missing dinner.”

They are only wildflowers, small and delicate blossoms in a cacophony of color, but his cheeks flush anyway. For once, Huaisang has the tact to pretend he doesn’t notice.

Huaisang takes Xichen and Qingyang to the hospital tents, and they spend most of the day healing injured soldiers. It is also not what Xichen has expected, and he wonders if he’ll ever stop being surprised by the Beifeng. Their hospitals are set apart from the noisy encampment and are meticulously clean. There are herb gardens, drying rooms, surgical rooms, and healers everywhere, more healers than Xichen has ever seen. Some of them are using that strange magic he’s only glimpsed once or twice, but most are using practical skills: bandaging wounds, sewing lacerations, helping the wounded drink medicinal cures, and poking tiny needles into the skin of patients, a technique he’s heard of but never seen.

With Qingyang’s help, Xichen learns words for things like “where does it hurt” and “may I help you”. He learns about the plants the Beifeng prefer for healing and their names in Orera. The healer in charge of the hospitals teaches him to swab an ointment he’s never seen over cuts to protect them from infection and fever. There is no way he can think of to get this medicine to his own clan, and he tries not to be resentful of the treaty his father wrote. He can’t blame his father for not knowing that the Beifeng could have had beneficial information to exchange.

Xichen shares some of his knowledge of local cures and offers to use the tiny stitches his mother taught him to bind wounds. However, the healers are fascinated by his magic, and he demonstrates the effortless way he uses his gift to transfer power into patients. It works more swiftly than Beifeng magic, although it does tire him. They are even more interested to learn that he can use music to soothe minds, and he promises to demonstrate sometime. Watching him, Qingyang tells him he missed his calling as a healer.

He’s genuinely exhausted by the time he gets back to his tent, his magic nearly depleted. He falls onto the huge bed, and if he wasn’t so tired, he’d be a little guilty at how relieved he is to sink into its soft blankets. He can’t remember the last time he worked so hard. Leading his clan has taught him to be a respected commander, a fair mediator, and most importantly, a shrewd negotiator, but there is a different satisfaction in physical exertion.

Mingjue does not come to dinner with Huaisang that night either.

Thinking of the flowers, Xichen asks in as casual a voice as he can muster, “Is Mingjue well? I have not seen him in two days.”

Huaisang waves an airy hand, but he looks evasive. “Elder Brother is fine. He’s just...busy.”

Oh. It must have something to do with the war, then. Of course. Even if the Beifeng don’t invade the Cloud Recesses or Yunmeng, they are still besieging Jinlin Tai. They are still raiding some of the smaller clans, eliminating the city’s supply lines. They are still occupying Xichen’s country. He curses himself for forgetting, even for a moment, where he is.

“Zewu-Jun, it isn’t what you think. I just can’t explain it,” Huaisang adds.

He’s more perceptive than Xichen wishes. Or maybe he didn’t hide his reaction purposefully enough. Spending so much time with the open-faced Beifeng is making him careless and lazy.

The next day, it is Qingyang who brings him a gift, a small fir tree in a bright orange pot.

“Ipira’orhew Ikira found me this morning,” she tells Xichen, when he looks baffled. “He sends his apologies for being too busy to bring it himself.”

A tree. Mingjue sent him a tree. You are being wooed, a faint voice whispers, and Xichen dismisses it. It’s too ridiculous to consider. Why would Mingjue bother?

Qingyang decides that Xichen can learn Orera just as well working in the hospital as his own tent, so she accompanies him. Sometimes she acts as his translator, but more often she forces him to swallow his embarrassment and frame halting questions to the sick and injured patients. To his surprise, they are nearly always charmed to meet him and patiently let him stammer out words before answering as slowly and carefully as possible. He can’t understand why they’re so generous with his failings, but it does make learning easier.

The men and women he heals nearly always have common injuries from camp life. He soothes cooks with burned fingers and hostlers with hoof-shaped bruises. A few munaku handlers who weren’t quick enough to avoid sharp beaks and claws have punctures and tears to fix. He even delivers an outraged baby to one of the fletchers and her husband. He touches the squinched up eyes and tiny fingers, amazed that even here, in the middle of an army, in the middle of a war, people are still living normal lives.

Fewer people than he expects have injuries from battles, but there are those with arrows to be removed, deep sword cuts, and impact fractures from powerful magic he recognizes.

Some days, Xichen struggles with the conflict of working to heal those who would harm his countrymen, the weight of his disloyalty great enough to stop him at the edge of the hospital complex. On those days, on the days his feet will not move forward, Qingyang always manages to find something else crucial for him to learn somewhere else. Mostly, though, he tries to overcome his qualms because he has always believed that a healer should help before worrying about the cost to himself. All life is worth saving, he reminds himself daily.

There aren’t flowers every morning. But almost.

After a while, Xichen notices that Mingjue has begun visiting him in the hospital. Usually, he stands in the entryway of whatever tent Xichen is in to watch him heal with magic, sew cuts, or play his guqin, his expression unreadable. Xichen wants to ask what he’s looking for. Does he suspect that Xichen would do his people harm? But sometimes Mingjue meets his eyes and nods when Xichen smiles tentatively at him. Sometimes he smiles back, a slow, cautious curve that etches the dimples into his cheeks—unfairly appealing on his face instead of cute the way Xichen has always thought they were on children—and the annoying whisper in Xichen’s head thinks Mingjue looks satisfied, like a man who feels the sun on his face when he expected the rain.

Still, Mingjue does not come to dinner in the evenings. Is it a relief? Or, Xichen is afraid to consider, a disappointment?

Chapter Text

The orderly rows of tents all look the same to Xichen, so it takes some time before he realizes that Qingyang takes him on a different route to the hospital tents nearly every day, sometimes passing by the horse yards, sometimes the munaku aviary, sometimes the kitchens, sometimes less-tidy clusters of tents where children are playing and laughing families hang laundry to dry.

They pass by the archery field one day, a long open space with soldiers and targets at both ends and a barrage of arrows flying back and forth from one side to the other. It seems needlessly dangerous, but Xichen realizes that the Beifeng are also practicing shielding, holding a dark wall of energy between them and the archers. It’s always interesting to watch Beifeng magic in use, and Xichen’s feet slow. It occurs to him that at night, the shimmering black barriers surrounding the warriors would make it seem like the Beifeng can disappear and reappear at will. It must be terrifying in battle, and a chill scratches its way across his shoulders.

He turns to leave, to escape this reminder that he is one of the enemy now, but he stops in his tracks when he realizes that the tall man currently shooting arrow after effortless arrow into the targets is Mingjue.

Xichen thought he had seen expert archers, but he has never seen anyone shoot like this. The targets are set at different heights and angles, but Mingjue doesn’t miss a single one, every arrow thudding dully into the bales. He doesn’t miss when a soldier starts throwing clay plates into the air. He doesn’t miss shooting two arrows at once, or a series of arrows shot from both sides of the bowstring. He doesn’t even miss when one of the soldiers jokingly covers his eyes after the draw but before the release, although Xichen thinks it seems recklessly foolish to disrupt an archer in the middle of his shot.

He hates that he can’t look away.

This is, after all, what the Beifeng warlord is known for: his deadly bow. Xichen’s people even have a name for it in Yuyan—Baxia—for the unnatural force and power it seems to possess. Watching Mingjue and the depth the arrows bury themselves in the bales, Xichen can almost believe that the stories are true. Perhaps he truly can shoot half a li. Xichen still can’t believe any human can shoot a full li, but it makes no difference. Near or far, Baxia has killed enough people to be feared.

The soldiers that crowd around him seem as impressed as Xichen is. They clap Mingjue on his back after every hit, cheering for the particularly difficult shots. It is not only that they respect his ability. They genuinely like him, and, Xichen realizes, Mingjue is joking and laughing with them as well. It seems like an unusually fraternal relationship for a commander to have with his men.

“Xichen, come along,” Qingyang sings out cheerfully, and Mingjue’s head snaps up, turning and searching until he finds Xichen still watching him.

Xichen has not had enough time to get used to the warlord’s smile, and his heart clunks around in his chest at the sight of the wide grin, deep dimples and bright eyes aimed directly at him. Even from this distance, more than fifty paces, Mingjue does not miss his target.

When Xichen meets his eyes, Mingjue’s expression transforms to one that is infinitely more complicated, and something crackling passes between them that Xichen can’t define—does not want to define. The voice that sounds like his father screams at him to leave, to stop encouraging this man, but Xichen is not a coward. He lifts his chin and does not look away.

Mingjue takes a step forward with a tilt to his head that somehow beckons Xichen to join him, and for a moment, there’s nothing and no one else.

“Eina anha eko? We’ll be late!”^† Qingyang yells again, this time a little more exasperated, and Xichen feels her hand on his arm. “Ohhhh,” she says, following his eyes. “Well, maybe you can be a little late.”

Xichen flushes to have been caught staring, and he nods at Mingjue, unsure what else to do before he flees. He chastises himself for letting this man, this man who owns him, fluster him. When he gets to the hospital tent, he is only too happy to lose himself in service to others, where he doesn’t have to think. Thinking, he decides, is confusing and overrated.

At first, Xichen manages to avoid Mingjue by working in the herbal drying room, sorting leaves, stems, flowers, seeds, and roots into baskets. It’s easy work, but it proves boring after a few days, and Xichen returns to healing, where he at least feels useful.

Qingyang takes him to the commissary, and buys them bowls of hot noodles to eat under a noisy, crowded tent. Some days, Huaisang joins them. He always insists on paying, not only for Qingyang and Xichen, but anyone who happens to be standing in line at the same time. Buying lunch always draws a crowd, and Xichen wonders if Huaisang does it for the joy of eating with the biggest, loudest group of soldiers and workers he can muster, or as a clever show of goodwill. Or both.

Probably both, Xichen decides, watching Huaisang gleefully challenge a huge archer to an arm-wrestling contest, which he promptly loses despite shamelessly cheating.

To his surprise, Xichen starts to enjoy the daily chaos. It also helps his language skills, although he learns more curse words than he even knew could exist in the world. The Beifeng have a particular dislike for rocks that Xichen doesn’t quite understand.

But of course, he can not avoid the inevitable forever.

“Ahora’ipa, edi eta tokani pia Ipira’orhew Ikira om eko,” the healer says, touching Xichen’s shoulder.^†

Xichen understands enough—Ipira’orhew Ikira is asking for you—to flinch involuntarily before he can reassemble his calm pieces back together and nod. The healer, whose name he thinks is Titakau, looks concerned—whether it is for Ipira’orhew Ikira's well-being or because the warlord had asked for Xichen isn't clear.

Xichen starts to leave, assuming he will need to find Mingjue’s tent, which is its own anxiety. But the healer touches his arm, leading him back through the rows of beds to a smaller tent on the north side of the encampment. Mingjue is sitting on a low stool glowering at Huaisang, and they are arguing in such muddled Orera—talking over each other and using a blend of formal and informal verbs—that Xichen can’t follow.

Abruptly, Huaisang reaches out and grabs Mingjue’s arm, cruelly twisting it. The big man grimaces, folding in on himself, and Huaisang snorts.

“Ka marai eko, wingani eko,” he yells, and then, seeing Xichen, yells again, “He’s hurt, and he won’t admit it. Fix him, please. I’ll come back when he’s not acting like such a fool.”^†

The last words are said in Yuyan but aimed at Mingjue. Xichen is fairly sure Mingjue didn’t catch the insult, but he throws a roll of bandages at Huaisang’s retreating back anyway. Xichen catches them in midair, and Mingjue suddenly focuses his attention wholly on Xichen, a half smile flickering across his lips.

“Aki auha…nahi...” Xichen frowns, thinking. No, that’s the wrong grammar. “Aki nahima auha?”^†

The hesitant smile turns into a wide, delighted grin, and the dimples tug a smile onto Xichen’s lips as well.

“Ani,” Mingjue agrees.^†

A problem still remains.

“Tona…” Xichen blushes. “Tona aredo?”^†

He did not think it was possible for Mingjue to look any more pleased, but he accomplishes it as he pulls his tunic off over his head, even while wincing at the pain.

Xichen reminds himself that he is a soldier. He is a healer. He has seen men without their shirts on.

And so he ignores the aesthetic appeal of the man’s body—it is only skin, they are only muscles—as he examines the injury on the back of his shoulder. The cut is shallow, already clotting over, but a long, dark bruise is starting to form. It looks like he was hit by the flat of a blade propelled by magic, splitting the skin a little, but doing deeper damage below. Xichen rests his hand on Mingjue’s back, sending a river of golden light through the muscle, all the way to the bone, assessing.

Mingjue hums with surprise at the sensation, which Xichen knows feels a little warmer than a ray of midday sun, but he also knows that it won’t feel so pleasant for much longer.

“Komi auha,” he apologizes and explains, “Da marai.”^†

He begins to repair the thin fracture on the bone and the torn muscle, but other than an aggrieved hiss, Mingjue sits perfectly still as Xichen works.

It takes time to fix the damage, even though Xichen doesn’t bother with fully healing the cut—he’s exhausted already, and from what he can see, Mingjue doesn’t seem to be averse to scars. When Xichen is done, he steps back to excuse himself, but his head feels like it’s dissolving into steam. He’s used too much of his gift too quickly, and he staggers, trying to blink away the white clouds in his eyes. Mingjue catches his waist, steading him and easing him down into a seat. Gratefully, Xichen leans forward, letting his mind clear while Mingjue rubs his back.

It occurs to him slowly—very slowly—that he is sitting across Mingjue’s lap.

He intends to get up.

He intends to flee.

But instead, he looks.

Mingjue looks more kind than a warlord should be. He looks curious and intelligent. He looks like he wants to say something. He looks like he is holding back a smile.

Xichen’s hand moves of its own accord, and he touches a thin white scar above Mingjue’s eyebrow. Mingjue closes his eyes, tipping his face back for Xichen’s inspection. When Xichen’s fingers graze his collarbone, Mingjue exhales slowly and stretches his hands out along Xichen’s sides. Xichen rubs his thumb across the dip at the base of Mingjue’s throat, producing a rumbling sound that knots in Xichen’s stomach and convinces him to remove the last small space between them. He touches his lips to the corner of Mingjue’s mouth and in then reconsiders. He wants to kiss Mingjue, he decides, on his own terms, by his own choice. And so he does.

Mingjue’s hands tighten on Xichen’s waist, and instead of unease, Xichen is filled with such comfort, such stability, he longs for something inexpressibly more. He licks Mingjue’s lower lip and the man groans softly, relaxing his jaw and letting Xichen slake his curiosity without interference. More boldly than he would have thought himself capable of, Xichen takes one of the hands at his waist and moves it lower, and this time, the caress across his buttocks builds a fire he doesn’t want to douse. Mingjue’s breathing is ragged and harsh and, Xichen realizes, so is his.

Xichen accepts the fact that he is fully, utterly, and completely aroused by this smallest of intimacies, by this man, and the uncomfortable weight of his erection presses awkwardly against his leg. If he moves, Xichen reasons, perhaps the throbbing need would subside a little. He shifts to straddle Mingjue, unintentionally rubbing against him. A dizzying surge of desire spreads into his extremities, and he sighs, the sound getting lost in Mingjue’s mouth. He wants to feel it again, and he rocks forward, but Mingjue breaks away from his kiss and grips Xichen’s arms. He looks as overwhelmed as Xichen feels, and he searches Xichen’s face.

“Ahora'ipa, epitma auha...” Mingjue rests his head against Xichen’s chest and hugs him tightly as his breathing slows. Finally, he meets Xichen’s eyes again. “Eko epitma auha, gani...ekos ati auha. Ekos ati eko.” He looks around. “Roka ei eidos.”^†

He’s right, of course. He can’t. They shouldn’t do...whatever it was Xichen was about to do...in the hospital tent.

But oh, he thinks with a wistful smile, how he wanted to. He has never before dared to think that maybe he doesn’t have to be unhappy. And he realizes, silencing the voice that sounds like his father, he does not have to be ashamed of something he wants.

Chapter Text

Qingyang doesn’t come to Xichen’s tent in the morning for lessons, and Xichen only waits for the time it takes to play Tranquility once before he goes to find her.

If it was Huaisang, he wouldn’t be concerned, but Qingyang is always prompt. He considers the possibilities. Even though she spends so much of her day with him, she is still a cartographer, so it’s possible she merely forgot to tell him she would be working on something else. But this is a war. This is an army. He can’t help but worry.

His first thought is to check the command center, where he assumes Huaisang and Mingjue are. But he’s never gone there before, and he only knows that it's next to Mingjue’s tent. If he has to ask directions....

No, it makes more sense to go to the tent Qingyang shares with some of the other single women in the area of the camp designated for non-military officials. He has, at least, been there once, and if she isn’t there, then he can consider looking for her somewhere else. The commissary perhaps?

He isn’t nervous to see Mingjue, he tells himself, walking through the organized city of tents. He is being logical.

Xichen hesitates on the threshold of the tent he knows is Qingyang’s from the yellow and white peonies painted around the door. It seems intrusive to barge in, but he hears a noise from inside, something close to a sob, and he peeks in, noting the sparse accommodations in this tent. Each woman has a bedroll—thick, but still directly on the ground—and a small trunk, presumably with personal belongings. It makes sense for an army to live lightly, but it makes him wish his own space was a little less ostentatious. What must Qingyang think of him?

He sees her immediately, the source of the sound that had caught his attention. He has grown so accustomed to Qingyang’s cheerful resilience, it is a shock to see her hunched on the edge of her bed, face in her hands, crying.

“Qingyang?” he asks, and she jolts, shooting to her feet and wiping away the tears.

“Xichen, I’m sorry, I’m late. I...I’m fine. Just homesick, I guess,” she stammers, forcing a smile onto her face.

He accepts the lie. If she doesn’t want to tell him, he’s not going to ask. He has already overstepped more than he should have.

“No apology necessary. I was worried for you. Will you come with me and have breakfast? Perhaps we can even track down something more palatable than Beifeng tea,” he tries to joke, and she laughs, thin and wispy, but since she’s making the effort, he chuckles too.

She nods and grabs a long cotton shawl, woven in a bright stripes as the Beifeng women wear. They walk through the rows quietly. Qingyang seems lost in thought, and Xichen doesn’t want to interrupt. Instead, he tucks an arm behind his back and observes the tents they pass.

The encampment is organized into companies, and each company is arranged around a small common area that has at least a central fire pit. Many of them are almost homey, with logs to sit on, cooking pots, huge wash tubs, even the occasional tethered horse. The tents are identical, but some of them have personal touches: lanterns over entryways, strings of bells tinkling in the breeze, drawings of horses and birds, mountains and trees around the tent flaps. The army has been here nearly a year, he thinks. Long enough to yearn for home.

Qingyang stiffens and stops, wrapping her shawl more tightly around her body.

“Not that way,” she hisses, and Xichen turns in the direction she is staring.

There is a tall man standing at the end of a row of tents watching them. Watching Qingyang. Xichen knows very few of the Beifeng soldiers by sight—only the guards at his door and a few he’s seen at the hospital. He knows some of the healers, some of the kitchen staff, and the woman who cleans his tent. He has never seen this man. He’s sure he’d remember him. His face looks sculpted by a rough chisel and a hurried artist, distinct and somewhat disquieting. When the man catches sight of Xichen, his expression turns flat and cold.

A warning prickles the back of his neck, and he doesn’t blame Qingyang for wanting to avoid this person. They turn down another row, both hurrying their pace.

“Hewnta!” the man’s deep voice calls from behind him. “Etan Hewnta, iko om touha?^†

Xichen turns. The man is right on their heels. Xichen doesn’t know the word “Hewnta,” but the man warps it into something spiteful, and he doesn’t need the exact translation to know it’s an insult.

“Dei. Em ereda anha outam,” he says firmly, putting himself between the approaching threat and Qingyang.^†

Xichen expects the tall man to back down. In only a few weeks, he’s grown accustomed to the Beifeng treating him with deference, sometimes even fear. He disliked the implication at first, but there didn’t seem to be anything he could do about it.

He doesn’t expect the man to argue. He definitely doesn’t expect three other people, a woman and two men, to step into the row with the tall man.

Roka ta em ereda kei dikas,” the tall man snarls. “Roka eko em ereda kei dikas kan, egati.”^†

It’s easy enough for Xichen to recognize that he’s being cursed without knowing exactly how, but the man looks past him, pointing, aiming his cruelty at Qingyang. She bites her lip and looks away from Xichen, as though hiding the injury means it doesn’t hurt, and there’s too much it reminds him of, too much reflection of his brother in her eyes for Xichen to walk away.

Xichen narrows his eyes and holds up his hand. “Dei,” he repeats. “Ereda irumaka.”^†

The man roars with laughter, and Xichen is done placating. He grasps the hand still pointing at Qingyang and pushes just enough of his power into the tall man to force him to one knee. The man’s laughter breaks off, replaced with rage, but he stays down.

Qingyang tugs his sleeve. “Xichen, stop. I don’t care. Damias is always an ass. Let's go.”

Xichen reluctantly pulls back. A part of him would very much like to hurt this Damias a little more for the tears on Qingyang’s face, but she's right. It’s better to go.

As soon as he turns away, though, he hears it. There’s no mistaking the sound of a sword being drawn. Xichen has just enough time to meet Qingyang’s eyes and wordlessly apologize. She didn’t want a confrontation and now there will be one. Now there is no choice.

Xichen opens his awareness to feel the sword moving through the air, and he ducks in time for it to easily sail over his head. The man is a skilled warrior, though, and recovers almost immediately, pivoting in the narrow space between two tents and sweeping back at Xichen. This time, Damias doesn’t make the same mistake and swings low, twisting at the waist and planting his feet to put more power behind his strike. Xichen sidesteps and kicks his wrist.

It should have sent the blade flying, or at the very least, driven the man’s arm up into the air. It should have ended this stupid, useless fight.

But the man is stronger than Xichen anticipated, and he controls the sword just enough to keep it in his hand.

But Xichen didn’t realize Qingyang had stepped behind him, maybe to stop him, maybe to get out of the way.

But he sees Qingyang too late, only in time to see the sword slash into her, and she falls.

His first instinct is terror for his friend. Slowly, the memory of what he saw solidifies in his mind and relief floods him as he realizes that the sword missed her torso entirely. The staining blood on her hand, blooming through her fingers, is from a slice across her leg. Even more slowly, as though the world has paused to give him a chance to perceive the entire scene at once, he sees Damias grin and cock his right arm back, the fingers of his other hand crooking to grasp the Beifeng magic, and Xichen knows he can not let him continue.

He grabs the man’s neck, the closest exposed part of his body, and pours all the magic he can muster into him. Xichen has only felt this once, for the merest fraction of a second when he was ten and his father was teaching him how to use the gift that lives inside him, but he knows it feels like burning alive from the inside out. Damias screams as the full inferno of Xichen’s power tears through him. Xichen lets go almost immediately—he only wants to stop Damias, not kill him—and the man drops to his hands and knees retching, the sword finally falling from his hand.

Xichen looks at the man’s friends running toward him and holds up a hand. The woman skids to a stop, her face a mask of fright, and she drops to the ground in supplication, but the other two—

The other two don’t have time to stop.

A black wave of Beifeng magic flows over them, thicker than Xichen has ever seen, the curling smoke arresting their movements like ants drowning in a drop of tree sap. They both scrabble desperate hands at their throats and Xichen realizes the magic is inside them, choking the air from their lungs.

He whirls.

This is the Mingjue he expected when he came to the Beifeng. This Mingjue striding toward him is the pitiless warlord, his eyes too dark to read, his fingers curled around the cloud of magic still holding the soldiers tightly. This Mingjue’s sword is drawn and raised, and he looks fully intent on using it. This Mingjue looks like the demon everyone fears, who came from the mountains and cut a bloody path through Xichen’s country.

Xichen’s gut lurches sideways, and an errant thought—what would he look like with his hair down—wanders through his mind.

But when Mingjue reaches Xichen, his expression shifts from tight-lipped outrage to something that almost looks like fear, and his eyes search Xichen’s face and form, as if looking for something. Xichen realizes that it must have looked like he was being attacked by the soldiers, and a terrible, disgraceful shard of his heart exults in being the one who is defended, the one who is protected.

Damias groans, and Mingjue’s attention shifts, a predator to prey. His arm raises slightly and Xichen is suddenly afraid for these people. They did a foolish thing, but they don’t deserve to die for it. He wants to stop Mingjue, but he doesn’t have the words to explain, and he needs to help Qingyang.

“Anakau, peimi!”^†

Xichen has never been so relieved to see Huaisang.

“Ahora’ipa, ka marai ota eko?” Mingjue growls, ignoring Huaisang.^†

“Ekos, Ipira’orhew Ikira,” Xichen answers. Luckily, “no” is one of the first words he learned.

Mingjue frowns, but he lowers his sword. He doesn’t release the magic, but it seems to ease, the nearly opaque cloud fading to smoke. The woman doesn’t get up, but she starts speaking in rapid Orera, obviously pleading. Pleading for her life, Xichen suspects.

“What happened?” Huaisang asks Xichen urgently, but Xichen pushes past him to get to Qingyang.

“Qingyang, I am so sorry. This is my fault,” Xichen says, kneeling next to her. She’s wearing wide-legged pants, and he shoves them up to her thigh, heedless of propriety. He moves her hand and touches her bloody leg. The injury is a long crease cut across the top of her leg. He wants to cry. He keeps making mistakes, and he doesn’t want to get anyone else hurt.

She smiles wanly at him. “I’m fine.”

He disagrees. The flow of blood has slowed, but she’s still bleeding. He draws a healing line across the wound, trying to make it painless but shaken at how deeply it goes into her muscle. It could have been so much worse. There are life-sustaining vessels in the legs. If the sword had pierced one…

“Xichen, truly, I’m fine,” she repeats, and Xichen realizes he is crying, dripping tears onto her knee. “You can leave the scar if you want,” she tells him. “Girls love scars.”

His laughter is hoarse and shaky, but it’s laughter.

“You need to tell me what happened,” Huaisang repeats, the urgency in his voice catching Xichen’s attention. “Did they attack you?”

It is Qingyang who answers. “Yes. Earlier, Damias tried...well, it doesn’t matter, because he wasn’t successful. He was angry because I’m only half Beifeng. It was just a mistake that we ran into them here, but Damias drew his sword and tried to attack Xichen. The others…” She pauses and frowns. “I don’t know. They didn’t do anything. Maybe they would have tried to stop him.”

“And this?” Huaisang asks, gesturing to her leg.

“This was my fault,” Xichen replies gloomily.

“This was an accident, Xichen,” Qingyang sighs. She sounds irritated but she pats his hand soothingly. Comforting him.

Mingjue releases the magic, and Xichen can feel the relief in the air, like a sudden rain that breaks the humidity of summer or the biting wind of winter giving way to spring.

“Take Qingyang back to your tent now,” Huaisang tells Xichen quietly, not as calm as he appears. “We’ll deal with this.”

Mingjue shouts something furious, and the woman somehow shrinks further into the ground. The two men are now gasping to breathe, and one of them sags to the ground with the woman, but the other is apparently too slow. Without warning, Mingjue punches him in the jaw, and the man drops like a bucket into a well. Mingjue gestures at the other two people, making it clear that one of them should have thought of this themselves. He seems angry, yes, but Xichen thinks he also looks profoundly disappointed, and Xichen pauses, wanting—what? To say something? What can he say?

“Xichen, go,” Huaisang says, the tension in his voice prodding Xichen to obey. “I’ll come talk to you later.”

He’s worn out from the healing and from stopping Damias, but Xichen lifts Qingyang and carries her back to his tent, where he insists that she sleep on his bed. She looks like she plans to be stubborn about it, so he brushes a hand across her forehead to push a little bit more warmth into her and make the sleep a little bit more imperative. Then he sits on a cushion to wait for Huaisang.

Xichen wakes without ever having realized he’d fallen asleep, alerted by the sound of raised voices outside his tent. It sends an anxious spike through him before he recognizes them. They get louder, and fearing they’ll wake Qingyang, Xichen pads quietly to the tent flap.

As he expected, Huaisang is outside yelling, and Mingjue is glowering, arms crossed.

“Huaisang, shhhh. Qingyang is sleeping,” Xichen says, and they both jump.

Huaisang looks instantly contrite. “I’m sorry, I was just saying that.” He glares at Mingjue, the I told you so obvious.

“Xichen, tell Qingyang that Damias has been demoted, branded, and sent home without a horse. He won’t bother her again. The others have only been demoted, but they have been strictly ordered to leave you both alone. I’m sorry this happened. It’s not—it’s not how most people think.”

Xichen nods and hesitates before going back inside. Why, he asks himself, is he hesitating?

Mingjue is frowning, his eyes meeting Xichen's, looking away, flickering back, the most uncertain Xichen has ever seen him. Mingjue's hand lifts, reaching toward Xichen as though he can’t stop himself, but Huaisang interrupts.

“We should be going.”

Huaisang pulls Mingjue’s arm, but Mingjue shakes him off and takes a step toward Xichen before he catches himself, hands clenching into fists. Instead of moving closer, he says Xichen’s name like it’s a question, searching Xichen’s expression for the answer.

The answer, Xichen thinks, depends on the exact question, but he suspects Mingjue might be surprised by what Xichen is thinking. He isn’t shocked to see the kind of power and violence Mingjue is capable of. This is an army. This is war. It was no more than Xichen had done. Less, even. He looks into Mingjue’s eyes, eyes that look red and bloodshot from unshed or maybe even shed tears, and he thinks Mingjue must have believed he had no choice but to hurt his own people for Xichen and Qingyang. And Xichen thinks perhaps he is the more ruthless man, because he would shed no tears to see Damias in pain again for whatever he did to make Qingyang cry.

Xichen wishes he had the right words to explain. But perhaps words are not necessary.

Stepping forward, Xichen slips one arm around Mingjue’s waist and rests the other on his chest, above the steady beat of his heart. Stretching, he kisses Mingjue on the cheek. Tiny sparks flit over his chin, his lips, his nose—all the places that graze Mingjue’s skin. The world doesn’t stop spinning, but a breathless part of him wishes it would give him just a little longer to stay here.

“Thank you for being there. Tiras mau,” Xichen says softly, meant only for Mingjue to hear.

Mingjue closes his eyes and inhales as though it is the answer he was looking for, the only answer he needs. He covers Xichen’s hand on his chest and squeezes, touching his forehead to Xichen’s, a simple gesture that has no right to feel as intimate as it does. It puts words in Xichen’s mouth that he has to bite back—will you stay, will you come inside, will you kiss me again? Qingyang is still sleeping on his bed. Perhaps it’s for the best. He steps away, and Mingjue’s fingers trail over Xichen’s palm as he finally lets Huaisang pull him away.

Xichen watches them go as something loudly and firmly locks inside his heart.

Chapter Text

The next day dawns with perfect golden radiance, lighting a sky as blue as the eggs of the little brown catbirds that nest outside of the Cloud Recesses. It is too fine a day to spend inside, so instead of the hospital tents, Huaisang takes Xichen and Qingyang to the fighting rings.

“Huaisang, what does ‘sent home without a horse’ mean?” Xichen asks along the way, unfortunately not quietly enough for Qingyang not to hear him. But other than a slight pause in her step, she continues walking, head up, seemingly unconcerned. Xichen hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it, though. It sounded ominous.

Huaisang laughs. “Oh, I don’t know. It’s just what we say. He’s going back alone, with only enough supplies to get him home, and no pay. ‘Without a horse’ is a lot faster to say. Also, he doesn’t get to take a horse, so...” Huaisang shrugs amiably.

Xichen frowns. Huaisang may not want to dwell on the previous day’s ugliness, but Xichen thinks it’s a long, dangerous path back over the mountains alone. He’s not sure if it concerns him or pleases him.

“Will he survive?”

It is Qingyang who answers with a scowl. “Undoubtedly. He’s a...gau. Gau marai. They always find their way.”

A painfully sharp rock, one of the many fascinating swear words Xichen’s Orera vocabulary is now in possession of. It’s a remarkably apt description.

Patting Xichen on the arm, Huaisang grins, but there’s cold iron behind it. “She's right. He’ll be fine, Xichen. Even if it hadn’t been you and Qingyang, no one is allowed to harm anyone we’ve given sanctuary to. It would be a bad precedent not to punish him. Don’t worry about it. It’s our way. Look!”

Huaisang points ahead of him and Xichen stares. It is not fighting rings, the concise circles Xichen is used to training in at home, fit only for a pair of warriors. It is a fighting arena, a single, enormous rectangle where dozens of Beifeng soldiers are sparring in twos and threes. The fighters dance in a chaotic melee through the space, using each other as screens, blocking around other fighters, and Xichen can’t imagine how they keep track of their sparring partners, much less avoid killing each other. He wants to try it so badly his feet tap in solidarity, and he has to resist imitating some of the better combinations he sees.

“Yes, I am showing off a little, but there’s a purpose, I swear,” Huaisang admits, seeing Xichen’s wide-eyed interest. “After you healed anakau, and after yesterday, we realized it might also be helpful for you to understand more about how our soldiers fight and get wounds. Since we can’t very well send you into battle, this will have to do.”

Xichen listens to Qingyang and Huaisang’s explanations and translations of the different weapons being used: long double-edged jian (iraho), single-edged swords similar to the dao he knows (ipira), curved blades he’s never seen before (ipiramotou), even pairs of daggers (maheti). He tries to pay attention to Huaisang’s dissection of the Beifeng training regime, but he’s too engrossed in watching everything at once.

The Beifeng wield their magic differently in battle, far less often than his people, but with far more devastating effects. Xichen is used to magic being a part of him, and the powers comes through him in every swing and block, but these soldiers look like they are creating magic in order to use it. They only deploy it when they have enough time to force their opponent back or when they duck around another sparring pair. Still, when they crook their fingers or draw lines in the air to pull that strange darkness into themselves, the release can send the other person flying, force them down like a heavy weight on their back, or even freeze a charging soldier in their tracks. Now Xichen is even more glad he stopped Damias before he could use this magic against him.

“Would you like to spar?”

Huaisang’s question breaks through Xichen’s concentration, and he feels a pang of loss. After their mother died, the sparring ring is where Wangji and Xichen spent most of their time together, away from memories, away from other people, away from looming responsibility. His hands long to fight, but as childish as he knows it is, he misses his sword, and he misses his brother. He tries to evade the question with the first thing he thinks of.

“I do not have a sword.”

It is the wrong excuse to give.

Huaisang claps Xichen on the back. “Zewu-Jun, I think we can find you a sword.”

He whistles sharply to a man standing at the edge of the arena, shouting a command when the man’s head turns. Within moments, he is standing in front of Xichen, offering him his choice of jian or dao. They are both perfectly decent weapons, and Xichen’s pointlessly stubborn resistance fades. He picks them both up, considering their weight, and chooses the jian—iraho, he thinks, practicing the word—as it seems the most familiar. He can’t help smiling at the comforting weight of a sword in his hand.

“I do not have an opponent either, Huasiang. Will you spar with me?” Xichen asks, guessing that no one else will be allowed to endanger him, and they have no way of knowing just how skilled he is.

“Alas, I am no soldier,” Huaisang demurs, and there’s a hint of mischief on his face that makes Xichen immediately wary. “Anakau...Elder Brother...will be your opponent. He has been...curious.”

Xichen’s eyes close, and he considers stabbing Huaisang. When he opens them again, several deep breaths later, the arena is empty except for Mingjue.

“I do not think I like you,” Xichen hisses at Huaisang, but he swallows his agitation and ignores the traitorous laughter that follows him.

Xichen stands before a solemn-faced Mingjue, aware of the crowd of Beifeng soldiers milling around the edges of the arena, a suddenly larger crowd than there had been before. Evidently Mingjue was not the only one who has been curious. Again, Xichen debates the wisdom of this idea, but since it was obviously Mingjue and Huaisang’s idea, he doesn’t debate it for too long.

With a polite bow, Xichen raises the sword, leaving the scabbard on. It’s a show of bravado, as only a confident swordsman wouldn’t bother to unsheathe his weapon, and Mingjue obviously understands the gesture. He lifts an eyebrow and the corner of his mouth tips up as he draws the ipira from its sheath on his hip—such a beautiful sword, Xichen’s expert eye notes. The blade is an unusually dark metal and the handguard is set with a deep crimson stone. Hence the title, Xichen thinks.

Mingjue taps Xichen’s sword, allowing him first strike as a master would give his student. For the first time since he’s been here, giddy laughter threatens to overcome Xichen. He’ll take the advantage and see if he can surprise Ipira’orhew Ikira.

Normally in a fight against an unfamiliar opponent, Xichen would spend the start of the bout in defense, watching the person’s feet, their eyes, their reactions. But one of his greatest strengths has always been his speed, and he decides to attack immediately, darting forward and sweeping from low to high in a series of swift opening slashes. Without giving Mingjue a chance to parry or riposte, he spins, forcing a burst of power through the sword and smashing it into the other man’s blade. The strength of Xichen’s magic slams the swords together and sends Mingjue skidding backward.

Xichen doesn’t know how fast or strong Mingjue is yet, but he knows he can not afford to let Mingjue recover or use his own magic, so he chases him, throwing the scabbard as he runs and aiming a hard, flat swing at Mingjue’s midsection, forcing him to block at an awkward angle. Mingjue lifts his sword—his strength is unbelievable—hauling Xichen’s strike up into the air. But Xichen lets the momentum of the sword continue in an arc, and he ducks low under Mingjue’s ipira, angling the point of the borrowed iraho up toward Mingjue’s neck.

It’s a reckless move for a friendly bout, and Xichen doesn’t know why he’s done it. Even against his brother, who is nearly his equal, he would never have risked injury like this. But as Xichen suspected, Mingjue is even faster and more agile than he appears, flipping backward and avoiding the hit. Still, it’s given Xichen a chance to rethink his strategy, and the moment Mingjue is back on his feet, Xichen attacks, this time swiping down and to the side in a pattern of slashes, recognizing that Mingjue will have less power on a lift than he would for an overhead block. It is so good to move, to fight, to use his gift so fully, Xichen feels like flying. He doesn’t even care if he wins.

Xichen looks at Mingjue’s handsome face, relaxed and confident, and changes his mind. He’s definitely going to try to win.

Mingjue sidesteps the last slash—Xichen chides himself for making one too many of the same attack—and finally brings the ipira down in a bone-jarring hack that Xichen only barely blocks. Instead of sliding away as Xichen would have done, Mingjue turns his blade, letting the swords drop between them. A smile flickers in the corners of his eyes as he leans in, forcing Xichen to hold the iraho steady with two hands and all the magic he can manage against the heavier ipira and the stronger man.

This close, Xichen can see every line of Mingjue’s expression, and the hint of a smile turns into a wide grin that inexplicably flusters Xichen. He drops the block and lets himself fall backward, bending at the waist and rolling to the side to absorb the momentum. The sudden release of tension on his ipira sets Mingjue off balance and he staggers forward, but he drops to his knees and spins, crooking his fingers as he moves and throwing up a dark shield between them, blocking Xichen’s jab. Without thinking, Xichen reaches out with his own magic, throwing a golden flame into the middle of the shield. It doesn’t break the magical barrier but sinks in slowly, like a stone into honey. Mingjue recoils like it stings the tips of his fingers, and now it’s Xichen’s turn to grin at the look on Mingjue’s face.

Mingjue only falters for a fraction of a second before he plants his feet and shoots forward, jabbing the ipira at Xichen’s side, which Xichen easily brushes away, stepping forward into Mingjue’s guard space instead of moving away and using his longer reach to attack. Mingjue’s sword slides past Xichen, and with six quick steps—spin to the side, turn behind Mingjue’s back, swing the sword in a full circle—Xichen brings the edge of the iraho to Mingjue’s neck before he can pull the ipira back to block.

“Do you yield?” he asks, more out of habit and not expecting Mingjue to understand him.

Mingjue’s sword clatters to the ground and his increasingly familiar hands circle Xichen’s waist, slide into his hair, tip his head back, and not even bothering to avoid the sharp edge of the iraho at his neck, Mingjue kisses Xichen in front of an entire army.

Without even a semblance of resistance, Xichen lets him. Not only lets him, enthusiastically encourages him, dropping his sword to twine his arms around Mingjue’s neck. Xichen opens his mouth when Mingjue rubs his thumb against his jaw, immersing himself in the heat radiating from Mingjue's body, no longer caring about the cheering crowd and his own embarrassment. Mingjue bites Xichen’s lip with a sound between a growl and a moan that cuts Xichen more deeply than any blade, and he falls into this space where it is only the two of them.

“Xichen?” Mingjue asks against his mouth, and Xichen doesn’t allow himself to think about why his name always sounds different coming from this man or second guess the answer he knows he’s about to make.

“Yes. Ani. Yes.”

Mingjue whistles a series of notes and grins at Xichen, who has no idea what he’s doing, but can’t resist smiling too. He loses track of time in Mingjue’s dark eyes, and only bounces back to reality when Mingjue lets go of him, just long enough to expertly fling himself onto the bare back of the black horse that has suddenly appeared. He extends a hand to Xichen, giving him one more chance to decline.

The part of him that realizes everyone will know where they’re going and, presumably, what they’ll be doing, sounds like one of his father’s lectures on virtue and morality. He stifles it. His father would have given Wangji to this man with no consideration for his feelings or his future. At least Xichen has chosen his fate, and he chooses it again, reaching up and letting Mingjue pull him up and onto the horse.

Chapter Text

Mingjue barely lets Xichen get into the tent before his hands are on him again, caressing his face and neck as he kisses him, and Xichen’s head swims, his thoughts twisting away from him like minnows darting in a shallow pond. Should it be like this? Should he want this so much? He doesn’t know, but it’s too much effort to argue with himself, so he surrenders to the rhythm of his heartbeat in his ears, which sounds very much like triumph.

The backs of Xichen’s legs hit the bed and Mingjue stops, breathing ragged and harsh. For a moment, Xichen thinks he will leave again, and his hands clench against the leather of Mingjue’s armor. Mingjue brushes Xichen’s hair off of his shoulders and slowly reaches for his soft silk belt, untying it and letting the fabric slither to the floor. He looks back at Xichen for confirmation, and Xichen smiles. Perhaps he won’t need as many words as he thought.

“Ani, ako ereda sinedi,” Xichen answers his silent question haltingly, and Mingjue looks startled before he laughs, sounding surprised and delighted all at once.^†

Xichen isn’t sure if that means he used the wrong words to give his permission, but then Mingjue is kissing his jaw, his neck, the curl of his ear, and fumbling at his robes with a desperation that makes Xichen think perhaps he didn’t make a mistake. Xichen tugs at Mingjue’s armor and Mingjue frowns. He looks conflicted, so Xichen pulls the leather straps again and starts to untie his own robes, which seems to make the decision easier.

With a grunt, Mingjue pulls the leather pieces off one by one, throwing them on the floor. When he gets to the soft linen undershirt, he pulls that off as well, and despite having seen him without his shirt on, Xichen’s hands halt, no less stunned now than he had been before. Mingjue notices his expression and tips his head with that curious hawk look. Understanding dawns, and he chuckles softly, cupping Xichen’s cheeks and kissing him so tenderly, Xichen is left nearly speechless.

“Et auhata eko,” Xichen breathes, suddenly shy again.^†

Xichen is not an expert, but he’s certain Mingjue is magnificent, his taut muscles the rich amber color of honey and his face bright with laughter and desire. He catches Xichen in a kiss that makes his bones turn soft and malleable, and Xichen sinks back into the bed, pulling Mingjue with him.

Mingjue kneels over him, breaking away long enough to smile, such a hopeful, adoring smile that Xichen’s hand lifts of its own accord to touch the corner of his mouth where the dimples sit. Mingjue’s grin tilts up mischievously and he bites Xichen’s finger, just hard enough that Xichen gasps, arching instinctively. His erection brushes against Mingjue’s leg, and Mingjue’s laughter fades with a breathy grunt. Impatiently, he pushes Xichen’s robes aside, eyes roving over Xichen’s body, melting him from the inside out. It isn’t that Xichen is unaware of how he looks—he has been told that his physical appeal is a valuable bargaining tool—but there is something about being seen through someone else’s eyes, desired by someone he desires, that turns the fluttering butterflies in his stomach into an eyrie of eagles.

“Piras,” Mingjue tells him, and he sounds awed, trailing his fingers down the center of Xichen’s chest, the callused tips leaving a trail of flame in their wake. “Teira eta ingos.”^†

Splaying his hands over Xichen’s ribs, Mingjue kisses his mouth, dragging his lips over Xichen’s chin, his throat, the curve of his collarbone, whispering words Xichen doesn’t recognize, probably couldn’t have comprehended even if they had been in his own language. Xichen is a virgin in every way possible, has rarely even touched himself thanks to constant reminders of the importance of preserving his sexual desire for his spouse, but he wants to touch Mingjue—he aches to touch Mingjue.

Xichen flattens the palm of his hand against the dip of Mingjue’s waist, under his ribs, grazing his hipbone with his thumb. A groan jolts through the man, and emboldened, Xichen shifts his hand lower, below the waist of his pants, curious about the long lines of muscle that feel both thicker and softer than his own. His other hand takes a pleasant journey over Mingjue’s broad shoulders, gliding down the arching ridge of his spine. Xichen understands several things about himself more clearly when he reaches the taut curve of Mingjue’s buttocks and feels them flex under his fingers, chiefly, that he would like to keep his hand there indefinitely.

Slowly, slowly enough for Xichen to get used to his weight, Mingjue lays against him, huffing soft, warm breath into Xichen’s ear and rolling his hips forward. Xichen is suddenly aware of the entirety of Mingjue’s body and the hardness between them. He hadn’t really considered what it would feel like to be so blanketed by another person, surrounded by their scent and heat and desire. It’s still a little terrifying—both the wanting and the doing—but it’s even more intoxicating, and he whimpers every time Mingjue rubs against him, a great, crescendoing need overtaking the fear and filling him all the way into his toes. He wants to help, he wants to reciprocate, he wants to release the wild scream building inside him.

“Please,” Xichen says in his own language, losing all memory of Orera, “I want…” What does he want? He can’t even put words to it. He clutches Mingjue’s arms and kisses Mingjue where he can reach—along his chest, his collarbone, the hollow of his throat. Xichen gives up trying to be articulate. “I want you. Eko epitma auha. That’s all.”

“Xichen ahora,” Mingjue says. “Epa eko auha.”^†

Mingjue moves away, climbing off of Xichen, off of the bed, and Xichen is bereft and confused until Mingjue slips his fingers under the waistband of Xichen’s pants and takes them off. Being so exposed sends shivers across Xichen’s skin, and he realizes, as he has never really done, before just how bright the daytime is. He closes his eyes, unwilling to look at himself naked, but the warmth of Mingjue’s hands on his hips reassures him, loosens the anxiety in his stomach. He opens his eyes to see Mingjue kneeling.

“Aitapaho, et auhata eko, ekos anha oridit irumaka,” Mingjue croons, smoothing his hands over the tops of Xichen’s legs.^†

The words Xichen knows—beloved, treasured, beautiful, look—are impossibly seductive. It seems so easy for Mingjue to say words of romance and love, and yet in his adult life, Xichen doesn’t think he’s even told anyone he loved them, his sleeping brother notwithstanding. He has no idea how to say what he feels, and he’s not sure he can make sounds into words at the moment anyway.

Mingjue’s hand is on Xichen’s calf, lips on his knee—a place Xichen has never given any thought to before this moment—and he flicks his tongue against the inside of Xichen’s thigh, dragging his mouth along the smooth skin to the joint of his hip until Xichen is burning with nameless anticipation and willing to beg if he has to. Finally, finally, Mingjue grasps Xichen's cock and slides his hand down the shaft, and Xichen nearly falls off the bed, crying out and lifting his hips to press himself harder into Mingjue’s palm. It is completely, utterly different from the times he’s touched himself furtively under his blankets, the quick jerking motions more a matter of necessity than enthusiasm. Mingjue is practically worshipful, caressing Xichen’s side, stroking him with long, firm fingers, and watching him, watching every sigh, every groan, and adjusting, giving Xichen everything he can’t ask for.

He slows as the fire inside Xichen threatens to spill over, and Xichen props himself up on his elbows, shamelessly wrapping his legs around Mingjue’s back, about to demand more. Instead, Mingjue grins at him and audaciously licks a circle around the tip of Xichen’s cock before putting his mouth around it. Xichen falls back and writhes helplessly, reaching blindly for Mingjue’s face, his hand, his hair—anything. He doesn’t even know why.

Xichen tries to remember the word for sudden insight, clarity, understanding the true essence of something, but the wet heat of Mingjue’s lips and tongue steal his thoughts and break him down into a creature of flame. It is both a lifetime and a heartbeat before he feels the sweet release of his orgasm wrenching through him, and twinkling lights dance in the corners of his eyes as he struggles to breathe again.

Epiphany, he remembers. The word is epiphany.

The bed sags as Mingjue lays down next to Xichen and pulls his slack body against him, curving around his back and side. Mingjue is, Xichen realizes, now naked, and the hard length of his erection fits between them like a question, but Mingjue doesn’t seem to be asking Xichen to do anything but lay with him. He runs his fingers through Xichen’s hair, down his arm, and he is so clearly trying not to look smug, Xichen wants to laugh. He would if he could move.

It occurs to Xichen that it doesn’t seem fair to be given such an extraordinary gift and not give something back in return.

He turns to face Mingjue and gingerly touches him, his fingers only grazing the tight, unmercifully hot skin of his cock, and Mingjue stills, tense with watchful uncertainty.

“Xichen,” he says, a note of inquiry and maybe even a warning in the word, but Xichen is too caught up in his own curiosity to stop now.

Xichen is bold enough to nibble Mingjue’s lower lip as he folds his fingers around his cock, delighting in the way Mingjue’s eyes close and his mouth opens when he exhales. Xichen knows he’s at an awkward angle, and it isn’t as though he’s had much practice, but Mingjue moans with every stroke, twitching his hips in rhythm with Xichen’s hand.

With a twist of his shoulders, Mingjue rolls, pulling Xichen to sit on top of his legs, bucking against him harder, so Xichen grips him tighter and strokes faster, drawing out soft mewling sounds from Mingjue. Xichen is astonished that he can make this big, powerful man so weak, humbled that Mingjue is willing to let him learn. Experimentally, Xichen rubs his thumb over one of Mingjue’s dark nipples, the ripples and folds that have always seemed so functional suddenly mesmerizing. He pinches the tip, rolling it between his fingers, and the sound Mingjue makes is different, an enticingly different gasp, so Xichen leans down to nip it with his teeth instead. Mingjue moans Xichen's name and clamps his hands down, locking around Xichen’s hips. He shouts something Xichen is fairly sure is a curse word, and his back arches as he climaxes onto his stomach with jerking, shuddering gasps while Xichen holds him. It is more beautiful than anything Xichen could have imagined.

Mingjue lays insensible for a few moments, chest heaving, eyes closed, and Xichen takes the opportunity to admire him, mapping out paths around muscles and scars. Some are faint, some are deep, but all somehow add to his beauty, to a story Xichen increasingly wishes he knew the entirety of.

“Et orahim eko,” Mingjue tells him without opening his eyes.^†

Xichen frowns. You are...what? He doesn’t know that word yet.

“What is orahim?” he muses, and to his surprise, Mingjue answers.

“Amaze. Wonder.”

Mingjue opens his eyes and stretches out his arm in invitation. With a smile, Xichen lays next to him, resting his head on Mingjue’s bicep, and Mingjue curls the arm around Xichen to caress his side.

“So you do speak my language?” Xichen asks, and Mingjue frowns.

“No. Aurakat...hmm...Huaisang says I must learn.” He rolls his eyes and shrugs. “Brothers.”

He smells of cedar and spice, and Xichen kisses his shoulder, touched that he would make this effort. “I appreciate it. Thank you.”

Mingjue’s lopsided grin makes him look young and endearing. He cups Xichen’s cheek and says more firmly, “Ahora'ipa, Xichen, edas ahora, da aiha em auha hetahim aki iro kiduka teko ahora,” before gently kissing him.^†

Beloved person, I will do anything to...something...your love.

Xichen wishes he understood better, but whatever the exact words are, it feels like Mingjue means something more, as though he is bookmarking the moment something enormous and irrevocable has changed between them.

Chapter Text

Xichen feels guilty. Of course he feels guilty. He knows why the soldiers leave at night and return in the morning. He knows what the cavalry troops train to do, what the archers practice for, what Mingjue spends his days planning.

But he is part of the Beifeng now, whether he is content or miserable, and how can he resist being cherished? How can he reject the kindness and affection Mingjue shows him? Or, for that matter, the friendship that Huaisang and Qingyang have offered him.

His life falls into a routine, and there is solace in knowing what tomorrow will bring.

Most of his days are spent studying Orera with Qingyang and working in the hospital tents. He plays songs of power—Tranquility or Rest—with injured or dying soldiers. It is a gift no one else in the Beifeng encampment has. Using his magic, depleting his gift day after day, makes Xichen feel like maybe he truly can belong here, like he is not merely an ornament on a shelf.

Huaisang shows Xichen how Kitingi hunts, mostly for birds smaller than herself, and Xichen begins to grow accustomed to the tiny, fierce munaku, as much one of the Beifeng as Huaisang himself.

It doesn’t take long before Kitingi begins to ride on Xichen’s shoulder, enjoying his higher vantage, and although her claws puncture holes in his clothes, and he usually has to heal small wounds, he can’t help feeling honored to be chosen. Unlike the other hunting birds, she has no ankle jesses, and she is never hooded. She spends most of her time circling the sky, and he wonders why she never leaves.

Xichen had thought her name would have some poetic significance, but Huaisang’s smile is a little abashed when he holds out her wing so Xichen can see the curving shape of it.

“Kitingi are a kind of fan,” he says. “They can be weapons,” he adds defensively when Xichen laughs.

“Is your name a kind of fan as well?” Xichen teases, and laughs harder when Huaisang wryly admits that “Aurakat” means “falling leaves.”

“It’s a metaphor about the inevitability of change,” he explains. “If my mother was trying to send my father a message, it didn’t work. I have a younger brother and sister.”

“I have often thought my name was a message from my mother, too,” Xichen says after a pause. He is always reluctant to casually discuss his family, but it is so hard to resist this extended hand of friendship.

Huaisang’s forehead wrinkles in confusion, but he doesn’t pry, and the not-asking gives Xichen courage to continue.

“My birth name,” Xichen clarifies. “Huan. It means to melt away. Her fears for her first child, I think.” Xichen shrugs. He doesn't truly know, and he wishes, he wishes he could have a chance to ask.

“You have another name? Why do your people have so many names?”

Huaisang sounds shocked and exasperated, but Xichen knows that Huaisang is perfectly aware of his birth name. It is in their treaty. Regardless of how the Beifeng feel about names, Huaisang has always called Xichen by his formal name or title, a polite gesture Xichen appreciates. He wonders if Mingjue knows his other name too and decides he should tell him. He doesn’t know why it matters. It shouldn’t matter. Xichen isn’t sure if he would even feel comfortable with anyone calling him by his birth name anymore. And yet, it feels like something important he wants Mingjue to know.

Some days, Huaisang and Xichen visit the fighting arena, and despite his protestations, Huaisang is usually willing to spar. He’s no match for Xichen’s swordsmanship, but he is quick, albeit prone to defense. When Xichen asks, Huaisang demonstrates how kitingi fighting fans work in battle, after blushing when he admits he likes using them. Xichen doesn’t know why it would be embarrassing. Kitingi fans have tiny blades set into the spines, nearly invisible, but deadly. Because the fans are shorter than a sword, they shifts the fighting style, adding sweeping throws, spins, and swift lunges so unlike the ipira sword fighting most of the Beifeng favor. It is absolutely spectacular to watch, and Huaisang flushes again when he sees Xichen’s admiration. A part of Xichen yearns to learn this beautiful and graceful dance someday, but it makes him wonder—someday the Beifeng army will go home, and when they do, what will happen to him? He has difficulty believing the warlord’s concubine will have the same freedom and respect there as he does here.

It takes some convincing, but once Huaisang sees that Xichen’s first win over Mingjue wasn’t an aberration, he eventually relents to letting Xichen spar with other Beifeng soldiers in the group melee. It is the only time Xichen ever feels truly challenged in the sparring arena unless Mingjue joins them. In those cases, the bouts nearly always end in Xichen’s tent, no matter which of them wins the fight. Occasionally, they don’t even make it that far, and more than once, Mingjue pulls Xichen into the nearest empty tent.

Xichen suspects he should be embarrassed about how infatuated he is, but he discovers that the lightning that strikes him every time Mingjue touches him doesn’t diminish over time or with familiarity.

Some days he only sees Mingjue briefly, enough for his fingers to tingle when Mingjue’s hand tightens around his, or his breath to make the smallest hiccup when Mingjue smiles at him.

Some days when they see each other, Mingjue is grim-faced and distracted, uncomfortably reminding Xichen that he is still a commander and this is still an army intent on conquering his country.

But whatever guilt Xichen still feels is largely that he feels less and less guilt every day.

Xichen knows he should feel more compunction about his growing comfort with his new life, but he finds that actually, he prefers to not feel the tight grip of guilt and turmoil constricting his chest at every moment. He hadn’t realized—how could he, when it was all he had ever known—that his life had always been resting on a knife’s edge, watching his father for approval, constructing arguments to pacify the elders, waiting for the next clan skirmish, even carefully protecting his brother. Here, he does not have to be vigilant Lan heir or cautious older brother. He can be only Xichen.

And some days, the days Xichen likes best, are the ones where Mingjue stays after dinner. Sometimes he listens to Xichen play the guqin, sometimes Xichen reads aloud with Mingjue’s head pillowed on his lap, and sometimes Mingjue proves that Huaisang was right: there is no better way to learn a language than in bed.

There are a few things, though, that are easier to learn from Huaisang. Xichen is surprised at how willing Huaisang is to tell him about the Beifeng. In fact, he seems determined that Xichen should understand their politics, their social structures, even their military strategy. Xichen thinks it is mostly because Huaisang is angling for reciprocal information. It’s subtle, but for every question Huaisang answers about the Beifeng, including such basic information as learning their name for themselves—Ikarahu—he eventually asks a question of Xichen.

They talk of matters as complicated as inheritance and succession, as different as religious observance—Huaisang scoffs at the idea of gods, and Xichen tries not to be scandalized—and as inane as wedding customs. The Ikarahu are always wed outdoors, barefoot and unbraided, whereas Xichen’s clan requires only formal negotiations, and weddings are a rarity. The only thing they have in common is that both ceremonies—contracts, as Xichen thinks of them—are perfected by physical contact. A kiss, Huaisang insists, although Xichen points out that a handshake is also acceptable, and preferable if the parties have never met, as is often the case.

“You’re just not a romantic,” Huaisang complains.

Xichen laughs, but he believes Huaisang is right. He’s never had the luxury to be one.

Huaisang tells Xichen about the Ikarahu king, the ahukau, who turns out to be his and Mingjue’s father. It is a stunning revelation. Xichen knows the treaty. He had memorized every line of the contract he rewrote—a gift for the warlord’s pleasure are words he will never forget. He knows it was never mentioned that the Ikarahu warlord was also the crown prince of Ikara.

Xichen tries to regain his bearings and reevaluate what this means for his future as he stammers through answers to Huaisang’s questions about how the child emperor rules the clans. Or, as Xichen says with a grimace, doesn’t. The clans either build alliances among themselves or fight among themselves, particularly the smaller ones, which Huaisang thinks is counterproductive. He unabashedly brags that the ahukau rules a united country of tribes along with a council made of randomly selected tribal elders.

“Your country is so barbaric,” he tells Xichen with a grin.

It is humbling to realize that to Huaisang, it very likely is. The world hasn’t changed, Xichen thinks ruefully. Just the view from where he’s standing.

After one particularly arduous day of healing, and a disagreement about the role of women in war, Huaisang introduces Xichen to Ikarahu ale.

“Women are precious,” Xichen argues, sipping the sweet liquor. It’s not as tart as the wine he’s had, and he likes the way it coats his mouth. “They should not be risked in battle.”

Huaisang grunts. “You’ve clearly never tried to tell that to an Ikarahu woman. Women are glorious and should do whatever they want. Sometimes that’s wielding an ipira.” He downs a cup of ale in a single gulp and yells for more.

Xichen drinks from his cup again, and it suddenly strikes him as extremely funny that an army encampment has taverns.

“Of course it does.” Huaisang looks at him like he’s lost his mind. “Our soldiers have honor and pride, but they aren’t stupid. Alcohol, prompt pay, and warm socks are how you keep an army happy.”

“Don’t you worry about drunken fighting? Or…va...van...” Xichen can’t think of the word. “Property damage?”

“Not significantly,” Huaisang snorts, slamming coins down on the table when someone hands him a fresh bottle. “Ipira’orhew Ikira says no drunken fighting and his word is law. You wouldn’t believe how few of our people are willing to defy him, even drunk. Especially given...well...you’ve seen the consequences.”

“But there are thousands of people here. They can’t all be afraid of him,” Xichen says dreamily, finishing his cup, which Huaisang refills. “He’s sweet.”

Huaisang falls off his stool laughing. “Please, please let me tell him you said that. Let me tell everyone that Zewu-Jun thinks the crown prince is sweet.”

Xichen blushes and drinks to cover his embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to insult him.”

“Oh, you didn’t. Not at all. My father will be delighted. He has despaired of finding Etikuntiga a spouse. ‘He’s so picky,’” Huaisang says in a different, deeper voice, which Xichen assumes must be imitating his father.

Xichen’s face is burning, and he hides it in his hands. “It isn’t like that, and you know it.”

“It is like that, and you know it,” Huaisang retorts.

“But...what about children? Mustn't your crown prince have children?”

Huaisang howls with laughter, clutching his sides, and Xichen claps a hand over his mouth. Why can’t he stop saying the wrong thing?

Huaisang tips over to lay sprawled on the ground. “What about them? Pointless, in my opinion, but if you insist, you can always adopt.”

For a moment, Xichen is frozen by the idea of children, not just children as abstract descendants to inherit his position, but children that would be his, children he could tell stories to and teach the guqin to. Children who would know how he loved them, he thinks, and his eyes prick with tears.

Luckily, Huaisang doesn’t notice.

“Xichen, Etikuntiga isn't kipakau because he’s the oldest. We have nakau...well, we did...we do...” He gestures vaguely. “Well anyway, it’s because he’s the best. Not just the best in our family. The best among all the tribes. There was a—what would you call it—a tournament? He won as our father did before him. Leadership must be earned, not only born.”^†

He burps and takes another drink laying down, spilling some of the alcohol on himself. Xichen laughs, the sound alarmingly close to a giggle, and he clamps his lips shut.

“So yes, my family will be overjoyed that the treaty with the Cloud Recesses was a tremendous success, Ahora'ipa. We could almost go home now,” Huaisang concludes grandly, gesturing vaguely toward the north.

He sounds so wistful, Xichen asks without thinking, finishing his cup. “Why don’t you? Why did you come here if you don’t want to stay?”

Huaisang doesn’t answer immediately, but then he raises a hand, beckoning to Xichen. “Come here, Zewu-Jun, and I will tell you a secret.”

Xichen doesn’t know why he obeys, but he does, laying on the ground next to Huaisang. It seems safer here anyway. There is less spinning.

Huaisang scoots over and whispers, “We used to have an older sister, too, Zewu-Jun. She shone like the summer sun, and I loved her. She is lost to us forever. What else should we do?” He blinks, and there are tears welling in his eyes.

“Anati, eina anha eko?” The sudden interjection of Mingjue’s voice sounds exasperated, and both Huaisang and Xichen startle. Mingjue kicks the bottom of Huaisang’s boot gently.^†

“Anakau! Onho outam!” Huaisang sounds delighted to see Mingjue, and he waves cheerfully, his sorrow already forgotten. “Edi eta uni auha oripa with my friend, Xichen!”^†

Huaisang hisses the word as though he is confessing to a crime, and Xichen wants to protest. He is past his majority and is allowed to drink alcohol if he wants to. He decides he will, in fact, drink it again; the warm pliancy of his bones pleases him.

“Ingarau ek eko,” Mingjue points out, but he sounds affectionate rather than judgmental.^†

“Yes, he is,” Huaisang says, deliberately misunderstanding. “Did you know his name was also Huan? He has too many names, don’t you think?”

Xichen punches Huaisang on the arm, but Huaisang just dissolves into helpless giggles.

“Why did you tell him that?” Xichen complains. “I was going to tell him. It’s a private name. You don’t just tell people.”

Mingjue looks at Xichen and raises his eyebrow, but he either doesn’t follow the words or decides not to comment. “Can you walk?”

“Yes,” Xichen says solemnly, staring up at Mingjue. Even from here, he looks pretty, Xichen thinks.

Mingjue waits until he sees Xichen isn’t moving and sighs. He lifts Xichen to a standing position and slowly releases him. Xichen stays upright, so Mingjue crouches down and gracefully pulls Huaisang onto his back with practiced ease. Huaisang wraps his arms around Mingjue’s neck like a baby, and Mingjue hoists his legs.

“Come?” Mingjue asks, beckoning for Xichen to follow him.

Xichen blinks at him. “I can walk.”

“Yes?” Mingjue seems skeptical.

Xichen holds out his hand. “I need help.”

With a grin, Mingjue cocks his elbow and Xichen takes it. It does make walking more tenable, and Xichen leans into Mingjue’s side. He smells like sweat, horses, and cedar trees, and Xichen inhales. He’d never liked the smell of horses before, but now it reminds him of friendship and hard work, callused hands and dimples, soft hair and kisses.

“You are pretty, and you smell nice,” he informs Mingjue, who chuckles, and Huaisang objects.

“Ekos! Do not flirt with my brother while I am in the room.”^†

“But Huaisang, we’re outside.” And anyway, Xichen thinks this rule is confusing. Hadn’t Huaisang told him it was a good thing that he liked Mingjue?

Huaisang just mumbles “no,” again, and falls asleep.

Mingjue takes Xichen to his tent first, setting Huaisang down on a cushion to help Xichen. He takes off Xichen’s clothes down to his undershirt and pants, unfastens the clip that holds his hair back and touches the ribbon on his forehead, frowning.

“This too?” he asks, and Xichen shakes his head, the motion making his body weave uncontrollably, and he sits down hard on the edge of the bed, grateful he didn’t miss and land on the floor.

“No,” he says, trying to remember why he doesn’t take it off. “It is for...it is for my wedding night. A sacred vow,” he laughs giddily, remembering, and Mingjue furrows his brow.

He starts to ask another question, but shakes his head. “I will ask anati. You sleep.”

Xichen lays down obediently, and Mingjue tucks the blankets around him, brushing his lips across Xichen’s forehead.

“Stay?” Xichen asks, catching Mingjue’s hand and kissing the fingertips.

Mingjue looks very much like he wants to agree, particularly after Xichen touches his lips to the pulse point on his wrist. With a very reluctant sigh, he retrieves his hand.

“No, Xichen,” he says, running his fingers through Xichen’s hair. “You drink much. And Aurakat sleeps.”

Oh. Xichen is disappointed, but of course, Huaisang needs to go back to...wherever it is Huaisang sleeps. Xichen realizes he has no idea if Huaisang has his own tent, or sleeps with a partner—or two. Are they truly friends after all? But then he remembers that Huaisang had told him a secret, and secrets seem like friendship.

“Are we friends?” he asks Mingjue drowsily, and Mingjue shakes his head.

“No, beloved. Ahora'ipa. More.”

More sounds nice, Xichen thinks before he falls asleep. He had never thought to have more.

Chapter Text

The weather shifts abruptly in autumn: one day sunny skies and crisp air, the next thick clouds and a biting wind that rolls down from the west. It’s a bittersweet reminder of the Cloud Recesses, but Xichen decides he likes it. He likes wool and fur-lined jackets, he likes the way the clouds are painted in shades of grey, and he likes the patter of rain on the canvas roof of his tent.

He’s busier now, too. The Ikarahu are moving again slowly, so slowly it is nearly imperceptible, but in the last two weeks, Xichen has noticed that the tent lines are shifting. Where he was once on the easternmost edge of the camp, he is now nearly in the middle, and the horse yards have moved from the northwest to the east, closer to Jinlin Tai. There are more in-camp injuries to care for and more battle wounds to heal. The Ikarahu are growing impatient, Xichen thinks, and he wonders how much longer the Jin can withstand the siege.

One evening—Xichen has lost track of the exact days—Huaisang, Qingyang, and Mingjue all come to dinner, and Xichen is immediately suspicious. Qingyang, in particular, has a wicked smirk on her face, and Mingjue looks far too pleased with himself.

“Zewu-Jun, it has come to my attention that you have kept a secret from us,” Huaisang announces.

Xichen’s blood turns to ice. How could they possibly have found out? Would this dissolve the treaty? No. No. Regardless of whether or not he alone changed the terms, the Ikarahu agreed to accept it, to accept him. They must honor it. They must. He stumbles backward a step, and Mingjue reaches out to steady him, a puzzled look on his face.

“Weren’t you going to tell us it was your birthday?” Huaisang continues, and Xichen stares.

His birthday. Is it his birthday? Xichen blinks, thinking. It could be.

“Is it the eighth of the month?” he asks, still numb from the vestiges of prickling fear. If so, he has been here a little over two months. Only two months.

Huaisang nods. “Lucky thing I read treaties to put myself to sleep on lonely nights,” he jokes—Xichen does not flinch—and hands Xichen a square wrapped in brightly striped fabric, followed by Qingyang, who hands him a short bamboo tube.

Xichen has to sit, overwhelmed by the surprise. Birthdays were not important in the Cloud Recesses, although they were usually acknowledged with well wishes and small tokens. He isn’t sure how to react.

“Well?” Qingyang says impatiently, when Xichen doesn’t move. ”Open them!”

Xichen does, fumbling with the pleasure of gifts and the constant surprise of friendship. Qingyang has given him a drawing of himself and Mingjue during that first sword fight. She is a splendid artist and somehow captured the motion of battle with simple, elegant, perfectly placed brushstrokes. Even the negative space inside the brushstrokes speaks of movement and action. Xichen’s robes seem to swirl around him, sword arm arching back, and Mingjue is raising his ipira to block. Xichen touches the expressions on their faces: his looks intent and serious, but there’s the tiniest hint of a smile on Mingjue’s. Xichen is nearly speechless.

“Qingyang, why have I never seen your maps?” he asks, squeezing her hand. “They must be beautiful. This is wonderful, thank you.”

Huaisang’s gift is a book of music Xichen hasn’t seen before, some folk songs and some that look like power lurks in their notes. The pages all seem different, as though they came from different sources, and they are bound in a greenish-blue leather that looks like the deepest water of the river that flows through the Cloud Recesses. Xichen gapes at it. He has no idea how leather could be this shade of blue. It must have been exorbitantly expensive or made by magic. Or both.

“It is too much, Huaisang,” he protests, but Huaisang waves him off.

“Trust me, I owe you more than that. This is the longest we’ve gone without anakau trying to throw me or anyone else off a cliff.”

Xichen has gotten used to Huaisang’s teasing and just smiles.

“Thank you, anati,” he teases back, ruffling Huaisang's hair and calling him little brother. To Xichen's delight, it’s Huaisang who blushes.

“Edas ahora,” Mingjue pulls Xichen to his feet and hands him a long tube with leather straps, itself an intricate marvel. “For you.”

Xichen looks at the wooden tube, the length of an iraho, carved and painted with fantastical beasts—lions with wings, tigers with two heads, fiery birds—all beautiful beyond words. He reverently traces the lines of one coiled dragon before he opens the case. When Xichen pulls out the iraho, all the air vanishes from his lungs. It is so much more than a sword. It is a sublime weapon, perfectly balanced, meant for an emperor or an immortal, not for Xichen. The scabbard and pommel are white jade inlaid with silver in a pattern that seems random, except it reminds him of something, almost like the crackle of frost. The handguard has a blue stone set in the center of the design. And the iraho itself—Xichen has never seen anything like the blade. The metal is cold and pale, rippling in the light as though it is alive.

“What...what is it?” he asks reverently, touching the spine.

Mingjue says something, too many words for Xichen to follow, so Huaisang translates.

“It’s an ice blade,” he says. “Only a few artisans in our country still make them, but this one…” He pauses, choosing his words more carefully than usual. “This one is older and different. It has a name, for one thing, Sikunadis. We think that’s because ‘tadis sikun’ means ‘bright heart.’ It has a sister, Kaumadis. ‘Tadis kauma’ is ‘dark heart.’ They’re old enough that we’re not entirely sure.”

He nods to Mingjue, and Xichen realizes that he means the ipira Mingjue carries, which does have a similar pattern of fault lines, now that Xichen thinks about it, except that where Sikunadis is white, Kaumadis’s scabbard and pommel are black. Kaumadis’s blade is dark, although it has the same shifting, undulating appearance, and of course, the stone on its handguard is a deep crimson.

“They were created from the same vein of metal by the same master using the same magic, although as you can see, they took different paths during forging. They can hold magic, maybe even your magic, and they have continued to be in our family for generations.”

Xichen hears the words Huaisang is not saying and fully understands how precious this gift is. It is not one that can be refused, even if he were so inclined, and he is not. He wants to keep this beautiful sword badly, enough that he feels lightheaded with the desire. It occurs to him to wonder when and how Mingjue brought this sword to the Ikarahu camp, but he doesn’t allow himself to consider any of the answers his heart wants to believe most.

Xichen kisses Mingjue lightly, mindful of their audience, but he lingers to rub his nose against Mingjue’s. “Tiras mau, Etikuntiga.”^†

Judging by the expression on his face, Xichen isn’t sure Mingjue wants to allow Huaisang and Qingyang to stay for dinner—Xichen isn’t sure he even does—but Mingjue relents for the exact amount of time it takes to finish eating and then gives Huaisang a narrow-eyed look that makes Huaisang roll his eyes.

“Ipira’orhew Ikira, you are a tyrant,” he grumbles.

Qingyang grins. She cups her hands and bows deeply. “Happy birthday, my friend.”

Huaisang takes Xichen’s hand and tugs, pulling Xichen down to kiss him on both cheeks. “To long life, swift horses, and blue skies,” he says, and then adds, more softly and mysteriously, “Thank you.”

He shoots Mingjue an aggrieved look, but Mingjue just waves his hand, shooing his brother, and Xichen bites his lip to keep from laughing.

Qingyang doesn’t resist, laughing and draping her arm over Huaisang’s shoulder to lead him away. “Aurakat, I will let you buy me a drink to celebrate our dear friend Xichen’s birthday, and I won’t even complain when you inevitably whine about your tragic love life. Is that acceptable?”

Xichen turns to ask Mingjue why Huaisang had thanked him, but the words are lost and the thought disappears as Mingjue meets him with hungry lips, ravishing his mouth as soon as the tent flap closes. The hands on his body are equally greedy, and Xichen steps into the embrace, wrapping his arms around Mingjue’s neck, pulling him closer, just as eager. Mingjue sweeps Xichen into his arms to carry him to the bed and lay him down, but Xichen stops Mingjue before he can get any further.

“I want to see your hair down.” Xichen touches the braids. “Kami teko parau?”^†

It’s not quite the right words, but Xichen hopes that between the two languages, it’s close enough. Mingjue’s reaction surprises him. His mouth curves into a wicked smile, and he tips Xichen’s head back, kissing him hard, thrillingly harder than usual, sliding his other hand inside Xichen’s robes to rest on his chest, just above his heart.

“Ani, aitapaho, iko eko paka,” he says, and turns to settle on the bed between Xichen’s legs.^†

“Should I not?” he asks. He’s never seen Mingjue’s hair down, only either tightly coiled or loosely arranged. Perhaps it is not allowed.

Mingjue’s smile broadens. “You may. It is…” The dimples deepen, and Xichen’s heart rate climbs. “It is a sacred vow,” he laughs and turns to settle on the bed, sitting cross-legged between Xichen’s legs.

Xichen still doesn’t know exactly what he means, but he reverently touches the thick cluster of braids and tugs at it, looking for the circular pins that hold it. He collects them in a pile until the braids drop from their tight knot. They’re longer than Xichen expected, falling to Mingjue’s mid-back, and even plaited, they’re soft to touch. He runs his fingers through them and Mingjue makes a humming noise of contentment. Xichen’s fingers yearn to undo all of them, even though there must be close to a hundred. He wavers, still uncertain, and Mingjue looks back at him, eyebrow raised. He takes one of the braids and pulls off the thread that binds it, undoing the plait and shaking his head.

Swiftly, Xichen starts unfastening the rest of the braids. Mingjue seems to be enjoying himself, exhaling like a purring cat and rubbing his hands over Xichen’s legs and inner thighs while he works, occasionally adjusting to lean against Xichen’s groin in a very distracting way.

By the time the last braid is undone, Xichen is nearly breathless with arousal. The unbound length of Mingjue’s hair is as sublimely beautiful as the rest of him, wavy from the braids, with a reddish hue in the golden light of Xichen’s tent.

Xichen sinks his hands into the thick mass, scratching Mingjue’s scalp and running his fingers all the way to the edge. Mingjue turns his face to touch his lips to Xichen’s jaw. It is such a gentle, loving gesture, it ignites an immediacy in Xichen born of more than only lust. His heart, his soft heart, is pounding with unspoken words, and he suddenly needs to feel Mingjue’s skin against his. Xichen tugs at Mingjue’s clothes ineffectively, not exactly pulling any of the right places, but Mingjue obliges him, sliding off his jacket and generously removing his tunic without Xichen even needing to ask.

Kneeling to face Xichen, Mingjue shakes his head with mock sorrow. “Your clothes. Too many.”

So Xichen takes Mingjue’s hands and sets them on his belt. “Take them off,” he agrees.

Mingjue has become skilled at unfastening the many layers of robes and underclothes Xichen usually wears, and in exchange, Xichen has started wearing fewer of them. Today, he has only two robes, an undershirt, and the wide-legged pants the Ikarahu prefer. Mingjue grins when he realizes it and pulls Xichen’s shirt off with a flourish that makes him laugh. Mingjue leans forward to kiss Xichen, and his waterfall of hair covers them both, tickling Xichen’s neck and chest, turning the laughter into restless hunger.

“Xichen?” Mingjue asks, brushing his nose against Xichen’s ear, sending tingling sparks surging down his back and neck. “I want…with you...pikodau? Hm...sex?”

He sounds unsure in a way that makes Xichen smile, and he feels a little bad for what Huaisang’s efforts to teach Yuyan to Mingjue must be like. “We have. We do.”

Mingjue’s grin is a sideways tilt of his lips that makes him look charming and boyish, and Xichen tucks a loose strand of wavy hair behind his ear. “Yes, piko. It is good. Pikodau is different sex.” For once, Mingjue is the one who flushes, and he gives up trying to explain. “Trust me?”

Xichen does, especially here in this bed, where Mingjue is always attentive, always accommodating. And that blush, the one that scatters a rosy tint over the creases of Mingjue’s dimples—Xichen finds that he is willing to risk much for that blush. He wraps his arms around Mingjue’s neck and kisses him roughly, not certain what Mingjue is asking for, but certain he can trust him.

As is ever the case, he loses himself in the intensity of Mingjue’s demanding hands and mouth and hardly notices when Mingjue slips his pants down over his hips. He’s surprised when Mingjue rolls him on his stomach, though, and he’s thoroughly shocked when he feels warm breath on his buttocks. This is something new and strange and, he feels, entirely inappropriate. He doesn’t like that he can’t see what Mingjue is doing, but the hands on his back are soothing, even when they angle his hips up, and he relaxes.

Trust, he reminds himself.

“Mingjue, oh, no, please,” he stutters when he feels Mingjue’s tongue graze against his hole, but he leans into it anyway, his body reacting to the overwhelming pleasure before his thoughts can process. When his dazed mind catches up, he corrects his words so there is absolutely no confusion. “Yes, please, ani.”

The first time Mingjue had touched Xichen there with wet, oil-slicked fingers, Xichen had nearly passed out. He wasn’t entirely innocent—he understood how such a thing could be necessary. It never occurred to him that it was desirable until he had heard himself moaning and pleading for more, and more, and more, and he had climaxed with Mingjue’s fingers deep inside him.

Now, though, he doesn’t even recognize the keening sound of his voice. The hard and soft feel of Mingjue’s tongue against him, dipping into him, is worlds and stars beyond his wildest spring dreams. Mingjue reaches around Xichen’s waist, stroking his cock, too, and Xichen is made of fire, kindling wherever Mingjue is touching him. It’s almost too much to bear, but when Mingjue stops, Xichen falls back onto the bed with a disappointed whine he can’t quite suppress. The Ikarahu may not believe in gods, but at this moment, Xichen certainly does.

Mingjue reaches into the pocket of his discarded pants and pulls out a small jar. He pours oil onto his palm, coating his fingers in the small pool and spreading it along the length of his shaft. With courageous effort, Xichen moves his liquid arms and legs, rolling onto this back so he can watch Mingjue with hazy eyes, beginning to understand what Mingjue is asking for. Xichen debates whether or not this is something he wants. It is not a long debate. It is, in fact, simple. Inexplicable and unlikely as it is, he wants Mingjue, any way he can have him. Every way he can have him. Not only for a treaty, not only for duty, but for himself. What monotony his life would have been, he thinks, if he had not made this choice, and he opens his mouth to tell Mingjue.

But the words dissolve in his throat as Mingjue kisses the corner of Xichen’s knee and asks again, asks with his eyes and his hands and his mouth. “Xichen, yes?”

In answer, Xichen lets his legs relax and fall to the side, a curving smile shaping brazen lines on his face at Mingjue’s hissed curse and groan. “Mingjue, yes.”

Less tenderly than usual, and more like he is fighting his own shaking desire, Mingjue slides his finger inside Xichen, distracting him from the momentary discomfort by kissing his neck and nipping the edge of his collarbone. He curls his other hand around Xichen’s cock again, and there is nothing but the pleasure that shivers in great sheets across Xichen's skin. Mingjue’s finger—fingers, now—move inside him, and Xichen is eager to moan, eager to urge Mingjue on with his voice.

“Please, more, touha, ako,” he begs in both languages, and Mingjue chuckles, but it is tinged with an edge of barely restrained desperation.

“Aitapaho, ek eko mau Sikunadis, my bright heart. Eina katu anha aki akiti eko?” Mingjue tells him between kisses. “Da atem okira auha di teko kiria.”^†

Xichen is throbbing, the blood in his body threatening to explode out from him. He can not think to translate anymore. He can not. He grabs Mingjue’s face between his hands and looks into his eyes, the nearly black circles wide with surprise.

“Mingjue, stop talking and just fuck me.” He’s never used the word “fuck” before, but this seems like the right time to start. “Etikuntiga...pikodau...ako.”

Mingjue’s groan is half whimper, half sob, and he drops his head to rest on Xichen’s chest, but he shifts, adding more oil, adjusting himself and adjusting Xichen with trembling hands that are usually so confident and sure. He is hot and hard and wet against Xichen, and Xichen can’t quite comprehend how he can so powerfully want something he’s never experienced.

With a shaky sigh that already sounds overcome, Mingjue enters him, gradually pressing in, and Xichen immediately thinks he’s made a mistake. This will not work. They will not fit this way. The fullness is uncomfortable and unfamiliar and not immediately enjoyable. But Mingjue is slow and patient, despite, Xichen notices, his muscles quivering with the effort. He takes one of Xichen’s hands and kisses the palm, nibbling the tips of Xichen’s fingers, which is enjoyable. Very gently, he leans his hips forward and Xichen gasps at how something uncomfortable can quickly turn into something absolutely imperative.

“Aitapaho? Yes? Ereda sinedi?”^†

“Oh...…” Xichen manages, arching his back off the bed. It is better now, so much better, and the sparks that burst through him are different in the way the light from a lantern differs from the sun. “Ani, yes, continue.”

It is the last coherent thought he has, because Mingjue starts to move, pulling out of him and pushing in, and Xichen is consumed. He hadn’t known, he thinks distantly. No one had told him that there could be pleasure like this in the world, that having someone—no, not just someone, Mingjue, only Mingjue—in his bed, in his life, in his body could so unmake him and fulfill him.

The constant fireworks spread out under his skin, and he strokes himself, matching Mingjue’s speed, watching his eyes roll back, his mouth slack with panting desperation. He should not feel such pride in Mingjue’s passion for him, but he does, and a fiercely possessive sliver of his heart wants to see more.

“Ah...Huan...ahora, let me...help,” Mingjue says, holding Xichen’s hand in his, sliding along Xichen’s cock with him, repeating his name over and over.

It's the first time Mingjue has ever used Xichen's birth name, and he pronounces it with two syllables as it would be in Orera: who-ahn. Tears prick in Xichen's eyes, and he doesn't try to stop them. He hadn’t realized how much he missed his name and missed what it meant to have someone know him enough to use it. Family. Friends. Confidants. Even if it is only through sex, even if it does not meant to Mingjue what it means to Xichen, feeling known again, known to someone he cares for, is indescribable. Even when the sounds run together like nonsense, they are still music in Xichen's soul.

Xichen’s breathing is ragged and he is panting uncontrollably, teetering on the sharp edge between pleasure and release, his mind whirling with thoughts and feelings too immense to capture in words. It will never be exactly this way again. He will change, he has changed, for good or ill, and he wants to capture this moment, this singular moment, to remember it forever, to shield him against the uncertainty of the future.

The sudden vehemence of his orgasm takes Xichen by surprise, flexing muscles across his body, even down to the arches of his feet. He cries out, and Mingjue’s moans take on new, feral tones that vibrate through Xichen. Mingjue falls forward, catching himself on his hands and kisses Xichen madly, furiously. Xichen plunges his hands through Mingjue’s thick hair to the back of his head, anchoring his mouth, and he tastes like the fierce jubilation of love. In three powerful thrusts Xichen feels in his chest, Mingjue climaxes, clutching Xichen tightly to him and filling him with a shocking burst of heat before collapsing against him.

Xichen vows to never move again. Everything feels dull and sharp at once, and he wants more and less, he wants to scream and laugh, but he is too worn out for anything but contentment. When Mingjue tries to shift his weight off of him, Xichen wraps his arms and legs around him and growls a warning, which makes Mingjue laugh weakly.

“No. Stay,” Xichen commands, and Mingjue acknowledges with a chuffing exhale, tucking his head under Xichen’s chin.

Finally, though, even under Mingjue’s enveloping warmth, Xichen gets cold. Reluctantly, he gets up to clean himself and Mingjue before Mingjue leaves. It is how their evenings usually end, but this time, when they are done, Mingjue pulls Xichen back down to the bed.

“Wait. I have a gift.”

He gets a clay pot from the pocket of his long wool coat and opens it. The sweet scent of jasmine wafts from the jar and Xichen jerks upright. Mingjue grins at his hopeful expression, seeming pleased with himself. Sitting next to Xichen, Mingjue shows him the jar, and Xichen touches the thick cream inside that smells so powerfully of home, of the jasmine bushes that wind through the Cloud Recesses, the bees that form clouds around the flowers, and somehow also like the waterfall that crashes over the mountain.

“How?” Xichen asks, his heart clutched tightly in the memories the scent carries. “How did you know?”

Mingjue touches Xichen’s hair and leans forward to inhale, nuzzling his nose against the skin behind Xichen’s ear. “It is how you smelled when we met. I could never forget.”

Xichen feels broken open and defenseless, and he doesn’t resist when Mingjue begins to rub the cream onto his back. All he can think about it is how he’s rejected calling this love, even in his own mind. He likes Mingjue, he’s foolishly attracted to him, but Xichen is always aware that he has no real choice but to be here. And he can’t ignore what the Ikarahu are doing and have done. Can he?

Mingjue reaches Xichen's feet, rubbing them one at a time, and Xichen closes his eyes. He has been shown nothing but kindness here, treated with nothing but love. No one here has ever raised a hand or voice to him, belittled his opinions, or treated him like an object to be attained. If he had chosen, would he have chosen any differently? Would he choose anyone else? Would he want a life without Mingjue in it?

Before Mingjue can finish, before he can start to dress, Xichen grabs his hand.

“Ahoraho, will you stay tonight? Stay with me?” he implores, trying out the word—beloved one—and it fits perfectly in his mouth.

The radiant smile Mingjue gives him makes Xichen realize he had only been waiting for Xichen to ask.

Mingjue fits himself against Xichen, threading his fingers through Xichen’s under the warm blankets, and he feels safe, and loved, and wanted. Before Xichen falls asleep, with Mingjue’s breath on the back of his neck, Xichen wonders if this is what having a soulmate is like.

Like a hand linked in his.

Like the steady thump of a heartbeat next to his.

Like a gift he did not even know he wanted.

What more could there possibly be?

Chapter Text

Part 2: Hoakora

hoakora [hō-ä-kō’rä], noun

Affectionate regard or friendship between equals

❄ ❄ ❄ ❄ ❄

Xichen pulls the hood of his fur-lined coat over his head before tucking an arm behind his back and following Qingyang out into the snow. He is used to the snow, but winter on the flat land is very different than it had been on the mountain, Xichen thinks. It was not as cold here, but the shearing wind had the bite of dragons in it, and the snow piled high in drifts around the tents. Xichen would not have gone out into this weather at all, but Qingyang had asked for his help. Fortunately, they don’t have far to go.

Even from twenty paces, Xichen can hear the raised voices, and he stifles a smile. Qingyang, on the other hand, grimaces and hunches her shoulders. She hates stepping between two tigers.

“You don’t reduce pay in winter,” Huaisang yells. “That doesn’t make any sense!”

“But why would you pay your army more during an armistice in winter? You feed them, you clothe them. They are idle, Oringa'anhu Ikira, and you are not even encouraging them to be productive.”^†

Huaisang slams his hand down on a table, and Xichen raises his eyebrows. In the seven months he’s lived with the Ikarahu, he’s never seen Huaisang angry, although, he isn’t sure he is seeing him angry now. There is a sparkle in his eyes that does not speak of anger.

“They are riding formations, they are training in this bitter cold, and they are existing in this forsaken country. They have more than earned their pay.”

Guangyao rolls his eyes, brandishing a leather-bound account book. “Then pay the cavalry extra, but do not pay everyone extra. You will bleed your coffers dry before springtime.”

“If I only raise the cavalry’s pay, how will I explain that to the archers who protect the skies or the foot soldiers who guard their flanks? Or the people who fletch arrows, feed the horses, check their coats, pick their feet, watch for colic, oil their saddles? You pay the soldiers to protect the cavalry, the hostlers to care for the cavalry, and you pay the cavalry to win wars. You may be the Jin clan heir, but apparently, you don’t know the first thing about maintaining a successful army.”

Xichen winces. There are a few things Guangyao is likely to be genuinely offended by, and Huaisang is tiptoeing along an unkind path.

“Anati, Guangyao, will you join us for lunch?” he asks, and the two men look at him with identically aggravated expressions as though they had not noticed he was there.

It is interesting to see them both turn into different people; Huaisang’s expression melts into mirth and Guangyao’s shifts to solicitude.

“Ahora'ipa, did you make food? You know the way to my heart.” Huaisang is always cheerful about food.

Xichen opens the basket he is carrying and takes out the tureen of hot soup.

“Of course I did not make it. Thankfully, you pay your kitchens well,” he teases, smiling at Guangyao, who smiles back ruefully, just the corners of his mouth tipping up, but still revealing the deep dimples that always make him seem younger.

Huaisang is gracious in his triumph and serves out four bowls of meaty soup at the table in Guangyao’s tent, pushing aside a stack of account ledgers. It is a smaller living space than Xichen’s, more sparsely appointed, yet somehow messier and more inhabited. Books sit open on the bed, and there are papers in piles on every flat surface, some scribbled on, some not. It is one of the contradictions of this man Xichen finds fascinating, that he can be so meticulous in his person, but so disorderly in his space.

“Huaisang, we are bribing you with lunch. I finished the drawings you requested, and if you want changes, I will need to know now,” Qingyang informs him, and Huaisang nods, slurping soup enthusiastically. “And Xichen is here to teach the guqin, so you will need to leave Guangyao alone.”

It had been clear from the beginning that Huaisang’s position in the Ikarahu command was more than merely symbolic, but he usually preferred to hide his intelligence behind a mask of frivolity, and Xichen let him pretend. He tried not to notice the piercing way he watched Guangyao when he thought no one was looking, the soldiers in dark clothes that sometimes came with Huaisang to retrieve Mingjue in the night, or, most damning, Qingyang’s respect for him.

The only time Xichen had seen him reveal what lurked beneath his lighthearted demeanor had been that drunken night, and Huaisang has not said anything about his older sister since then. Xichen hasn’t asked, but the sorrowful words sit at the front of his mind every day.

She is lost to us forever. What else should we do?

Since Guangyao has been here, though, it has changed something in Huaisang, as though he was shooting arrows into the sky before and is now staring at a target. His clever mind has sharpened in a way that could either be productive or disastrous, and Xichen isn’t sure which way he will land.

The voice in the doorway surprises Xichen out of his thoughts, and he is vaguely aware that Guangyao, sitting next to him, straightens his back slightly.

“Edas ahora, I have a gift for you!”

Mingjue strides over to Xichen and kisses him enthusiastically, despite Huaisang’s dramatic groan.

“Will you come see?” he asks, and Xichen pretends to hesitate.

“Outside? In the snow? Ipira’orhew Ikira, you are too cruel.”

Mingjue grins, and Xichen has to fold his hands together to keep from touching his face. “I am. Very. I will prove it later. But first, gift.”

Xichen laughs and gets up. “I resent being threatened, Ipira’orhew Ikira. Perhaps I will be cruel later.”

“I hate you both,” Huaisang grumbles, but he follows them, his curiosity greater than his distaste for being a younger brother.

“Mingjue.” Xichen stares blankly at the shape in the snow, his gift for intelligent language—or any intelligent thought at all—failing. “It’s a horse.”

It is, in fact, a beautiful horse, dark grey with a pattern of light speckles dappling its coat. It looks strong and sturdy, and there is a curious glint in its eyes. The horse pokes Xichen in the chest and huffs a breath of visible air at him, a lock of black mane falling between its ears.

“Oh, another horse,” Huaisang says dryly. “It’s too cold to look at another horse.” He disappears back inside the tent, narrowly avoiding the snow Mingjue throws at him.

“Ta odinga is Liebing,” Mingjue tells Xichen, his excitement coming out in a confusing mix of Orera and Yuyan. “She looks like a cloud. Et iraka ta dakia. She moves well, ani? Mares are better than stallions in war, Xichen. You...hm...em ekos eko em amaka.”^†

If he does not stop him, Mingjue will tell him every detail of this horse in two languages, so Xichen leans against him and snuggles an arm around his waist. “I am already not disappointed.”

“She is a galau,” Mingjue says proudly, although Xichen doesn’t know what that means. Mingjue notices Xichen’s puzzled look and explains, “She is a wind horse of our mountains and came when I called.”

He whistles to demonstrate, and the mare perks up her ears, swinging her head to him and chuffing as though in answer. Xichen is appropriately awed. The Ikarahu value all horses, but Xichen hadn’t realized that more than only Mingjue’s beautiful black mare would answer his command. He wonders if it is magic or training or some other ingrained horse understanding.

“She is beautiful, ahoraho. Tiras mau,” Xichen says, and tips his head to be kissed.

“Yes, she is marvelous. Wherever did you acquire this magnificent creature?” Guangyao asks from behind them, polite, but with an unusual edge of sarcasm.

Guangyao often uses his largest words around Mingjue, but Mingjue always seems to think Guangyao’s attempts to confuse him are amusing. Xichen isn’t sure if Guangyao does it in spite of Mingjue’s reaction or because of it.

As always, Mingjue laughs, a deep belly-driven chortle, grinning at Guangyao. “Horses can be found anywhere, Yao-ti.”

Xichen closes his eyes and does not laugh as he realizes why the horse has a Yuyan name. “Ahoraho, did you steal this horse?”

Mingjue widens his eyes and tries to look as innocent as a warlord in armor can look. “I do not know this word, ‘steal.’ I will need to ask anati.”

They both turn at the snorting laughter from behind them. Even Guangyao seems startled by his outburst, because he breaks off as soon as they look at him.

“Excuse me. I must apologize to Oringa'anhu Ikira. His hostlers are worth every penny if they can keep up with Chifeng-Zun’s capacity for finding horses wherever he looks.” Guangyao looks innocent, but there are sudden teeth in his words Xichen doesn’t fully understand. He is not quite angry, not quite longing, but something sardonic in between.

Not for the first time, Xichen wonders who Jin Guangyao really is.

Chapter Text

Huaisang looked nervous, and it was not an expression that sat easily on his face. He paced in Xichen’s tent, ignoring his questions until Xichen finally set down his book and grabbed Huaisang’s arm.

“Anati, I am going to throw you out of my tent and into a snowbank if you do not tell me what bothers you.”

It was an idle threat, and they both knew it. Xichen was far too happy to do any such thing, and everyone knew it. He did try not to walk through every day with a foolish smile on his face, but he knew he failed most of the time, especially the days he woke to the sight of Mingjue’s face next to his. Especially on the days Mingjue stopped to see Xichen while he was working in the hospital to kiss his forehead. Especially on the days they put on their warmest clothes and rode out across the frozen plains together. Xichen was not so childish as to think they would never have any conflicts, but he was also not so naïve as to think the love he felt was common. It certainly wasn’t something he’d ever seen before.

Huaisang sank down onto a round pillow and sighed. “Anakau wants me to tell you something, but I’m a coward, and I don’t want to.”

Huaisang was in no way a coward, but he looked truly miserable, and Xichen’s heart stopped. All he could think was that Huaisang had heard some news about his family, or something terrible had happened to his brother, and his grip on Huaisang’s wrist tightened.

“Tell me,” he whispered hoarsely.

“We have had an offer from the Jin clan, an offer of good faith. They wish us to end our current advancement on their city and consider negotiations. I do not wish to accept anything…” Huaisang paused, his face darkening. “I’m sorry, I can’t explain more, but we are considering it, at least for the duration of winter. It would buy us time.”

Xichen let out a whooshing breath of relief, but Huaisang looked unhappy still.

“It is an offer like...like the Lan clan made.”

Xichen sat back and instinctively pulled on the stony, impassive mask he had not needed in months. “Mingjue wants to accept?”

Did he have a right to feel betrayed? Icy fingers crawled up Xichen’s back as he considered the terms of the treaty. For his pleasure. Given first consideration. In equal status. Pledge of life bond. No, they were breaking no terms, but he had thought…

It didn’t matter what he had thought. He reminded himself of the facts. He was a gift, not a choice. And he had no choices either. He could not go home to his father.

Xichen dug his thumbnail into his palm to focus his thoughts and still his expression into neutrality, but he must have looked betrayed, because Huaisang shook his head, words rushing out of him.

“It would not be like you. No one could be like you. There are reasons this is important, and they don’t have anything to do with you. Anakau is not happy with me, but it...I think we should accept a conditional agreement, a trial period of sorts, as though we are seeing if the situation suits. It would only be for three months, and it would not be real, Xichen. You are not being replaced.”

This last was said with such guilty vehemence, some of Xichen’s hurt faded, but not all of it. Perhaps not replaced, but he couldn't imagine this wouldn't change things.

“I think we need to do this,” Huaisang added. “We won’t get another opportunity to...well, anyway, anakau told me I had to talk to you about it first. If it helps, I think he’s punishing me.”

It did not help. Xichen still felt wounded, a creeping apprehension slithering around his gut. He should not have become so accustomed to his life over the past few months. He should not have forgotten what his role was here. He didn’t want this, but there was nothing he could say. No matter what he felt, no matter what he believed Mingjue felt, in truth, Xichen was only a visitor here.

“You do not need my permission, Huaisang,” Xichen reminded him, aiming for serenity but not quite managing to keep the disappointment entirely of his voice, and Huaisang sagged.

“I know, but I wanted you to know before...before he arrives. If I didn’t believe it was necessary…” He ran his fingers over his hair, disrupting some of it from his braid. Standing swiftly, he stalked to the door, but paused and turned back. “I think of us as friends and brothers, Xichen, and I hope you can forgive me.”

He disappeared, and Xichen hoped so too.

When Mingjue came for dinner, he hovered in the doorway, hands behind his back, uncertainty stamped on his face, until Xichen sighed and beckoned him in.

“This is not for me,” he said quietly, without moving. “You are...angry?

The worst part was, Xichen wasn’t. He believed Huaisang. He knew the brothers had secrets. And he loved Mingjue. He could trust them for a little while longer, he thought, ignoring the voice that said you have no other option.

“No. Just worried,” he said, mostly truthfully, and then Mingjue moved, crushing Xichen in his arms and tucking his face against Xichen’s neck.

“Komi auha, edas ahora,” he murmured, and Xichen let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, sinking himself deeper into Mingjue’s embrace like a slowly submerging stone.^†

Evidently, the Jin clan expected their offer to be accepted, because the Jin emissary—it made it easier for Xichen to think of him in political terms—arrived by the end of the next week. Huaisang asked Xichen to attend the greeting, and Xichen agreed only for the chance to silently observe the Jin man. He noted with unkind satisfaction that Mingjue’s face was still filled with storm clouds when he looked at his brother.

It was disappointing, though, that Jin Guangyao, the man Huaisang said was the eldest son of the Jin clan chief, was more appealing than Xichen wished he was. He was a little taller than Huaisang and looked to be Xichen’s age or even younger, with fine, delicate features and large soft eyes that reminded Xichen of the deer who lurked around the horse yards, hoping to steal their grain.

Jin Guangyao bowed deeply to Mingjue, spine stiff, shoulders straight. “Chifeng-Zun, this one is willing to serve in any way necessary to ensure peace for three months as agreed. Or longer.”

Mingjue’s expression didn’t change and he didn’t respond to Huaisang’s translation immediately, but Xichen thought his eyes had an appraising look in them, hopefully only curious about Jin Guangyao’s rigorous formality and not interested in his perfect skin and full mouth. Jin Guangyao looked up at him from lowered eyelashes, a curve of a smile on his lips, and Mingjue arched an eyebrow.

“Ti erodino anot auha. Eina et nagita di pia ti?” Mingjue asked Huaisang, and Huaisang frowned at him.

Neither of them was looking at Jin Guangyao, so only Xichen saw his reaction to Mingjue’s blunt assessment—He looks weak. What use is he? Anger flashed across his eyes, disappearing as swiftly as one of Wangji’s moods, and Xichen realized that if nothing else, Jin Guangyao spoke enough Orera to be insulted. How interesting.

Huaisang led them to Jin Guangyao’s tent, near Xichen’s. It was smaller and there were spells set in twisting lines of metallic thread on the door flap. Xichen had been learning about the Ikarahu magic since his birthday, hoping to use Sikunadis to its full potential. Their magic was more ambient than innate, theoretically unlimited in scope, and skilled users could form fire-like towers of heat, shift piles of dirt, control bodies of water, or cause great gusts of wind. However, it was slower and more difficult to access than Xichen’s power, requiring complex drawings in air or on surfaces to hold the magic, or precise positioning of the hands and fingers.

The magic could also be stored in small amounts in the metal Sikunadis was made of, and Ikarharu craftsmen used thin wires of it in weaving, in books, in healing tools, even in the bridles they used to break wild horses. Xichen wasn’t able to pull magic from the air, ground, or water the way the Ikarahu did yet—Huaisang thought he would eventually be able to learn the skill—but he could activate the woven spells. The ones on Jin Guangyao’s tent were, to Xichen’s eyes, very clearly a lock.

Jin Guangyao frowned at the guards. “Is this one a prisoner?”

Huaisang laughed merrily. “No, you aren’t a prisoner, Guangyao. The guards are for your safety, of course.”

The man’s chin tilted up slightly when Huaisang said his name, although Xichen wasn’t sure if it was offense at the informality or if he suspected the lie. Two interesting things, he thought.

Xichen had heard Kitingi crying overhead as they walked, but Huaisang always seemed to know when she wanted to land. He held up a hand before they entered Jin Guangyao’s new home, and with a rustle of wings, she was there, alighting so swiftly it was as though she had appeared from nowhere.

“Oh,” Guangyao said, and for a single breath, there was something different on his face, a look of naked wonder, a sudden tempest of intelligence that turned to luminous curiosity. “She’s beautiful.”

Huaisang’s expression sharpened. “How do you know Kitingi is a female?”

“Males have black eye masks,” Guangyao said absently, without taking his eyes from Kitingi, and Kitingi preened one outstretched wing, accepting his admiration as her due.

“You are very observant, Guangyao. Where did you learn about munaku?” Huaisang asked with a casual grin.

He set Kitingi on Xichen’s shoulder and Jin Guangyao’s fingers twitched, as though he wanted to lift his hand to intercept her, but as quickly as the impulse had compelled him, it passed. He straightened, the calm sea returning to his face.

Instead of answering Huaisang, he bowed to Xichen with a dazzling smile that showed off perfect white teeth and dimples that made him look younger. “Although we have never spoken, this one is familiar with your reputation. Would this one be allowed to visit Zewu-Jun?”

“Zewu-Jun is not a prisoner either, Guangyao,” Huaisang said before Xichen could answer. “When he is not with Ipira’orhew Ikira, he is generous enough to spend time helping our healers, though, so don’t be offended if he’s hard to find.”

Jin Guangyao’s smile was tight, and he nodded understanding. Xichen thought he truly did understand Huaisang’s meaning. He felt sorry for this man, who seemed gentle and polite and ill-suited to be a political prisoner.

“Is Ipira’orhew Ikira the title Chifeng-Zun would prefer?” Jin Guangyao asked blandly, and Huaisang waved his hand dismissively.

“It doesn’t matter one way or the other. Whichever is easier for you to say.”

Jin Guangyao took a moment to digest this and then asked, “Does Huaisang have a title he would prefer?”

Xichen was startled. He had never thought to ask if Huaisang had a title. Huaisang seemed startled too, and Xichen thought he might not answer.

He pursed his lips thoughtfully, but eventually replied, “I do not necessarily prefer it, but my title is Oringa'anhu Ikira.”

Hidden Cat Lord, Xichen translated in his head without smiling as he wanted to. It seemed fitting.

Jin Guangyao rolled the words around, faster with the unfamiliar tones than Xichen had been. “It is pleasing to say. If there is no objection, this one will use it.”

Huaisang turned with a careless shrug, taking Xichen’s elbow to lead him out of the tent, but the expression on his face was not one Xichen had ever seen before.

“I don’t like him,” Qingyang told Xichen later over dinner, sniffing her cup of white tea.

Xichen had found that the Ikarahu actually liked their bitter, dark tea. For months, he had despaired of ever drinking anything palatable again until the day Mingjue presented him with a jar of delicate white tea that smelled like summer and was immediately recognizable as one of the finest Zhao teas. Xichen hoarded it fiercely, but he was willing to share it with Qingyang, because she, at least, would appreciate it.

Although she still taught him Orera, Qingyang had recently begun spending her free time in the company of Titakau, the Ikarahu healer who was teaching Xichen her tribe’s way of using tiny needles to alleviate pain and adjust energy flow. The woman had watched Qingyang with huge dark eyes for months and had eventually worked up the courage to do more than look. Xichen was happy for Qingyang, whose feet seemed to be drifting on air, but he missed her and was not above bribing her with tea. Selfishly, he wanted her opinion on Jin Guangyao.

He took a sip and held it in his mouth before asking, “Do you know him?”

“I have met him. He’s considered charming and handsome.” She shrugged as if they were rumors she couldn’t personally verify, and Xichen suppressed a smile. “I’m not sure anyone knows him. More importantly, and more unfortunately, I know the Jin chief. At best, Guangyao is an agent of his father. At worst, he is a true son of his father.” She shuddered and took another sip.

“It would be better if he was a spy?” Xichen asked, and Qingyang nodded without elaborating. “Do you think that is likely?”

She shrugged. “Who knows, but he is too clever and too self-possessed to be here for any reason but his own. I don’t trust him, and you shouldn’t either.”

Xichen nodded and thanked her for her advice. He trusted Qingyang, but Xichen couldn’t bring himself to condemn the man for his father’s sins, whatever they might be, as Xichen hoped no one would think he was like his father.

In only a few words, she had confirmed what Xichen thought about Jin Guangyao. He was clever and composed. He was handsome and polite. He was undoubtedly there for some concealed purpose. And now, Qingyang had made Xichen even more curious about what exactly it was.

Chapter Text

It rains for a week as spring approaches, great sheets of water that turn the Ikarahu camp into rivers of mud. Everyone is miserable, dirty, and fractious. Huaisang and Guangyao get into an argument that ends in shouting, and they stop talking to each other for three days, taking turns complaining to Xichen. Even Mingjue seems altered—pensive and solemn—his boisterous affection distracted by thoughts he doesn’t share. Xichen spends most of his time reading and avoiding people, huddling under blankets by his warm brazier.

But once the storms pass and all the water seeps back into the ground, the end of winter turns sunny and clear, as if the gods are apologizing for their earlier tantrum.

After so many days inside, Xichen welcomes Huaisang’s suggestion of a day’s ride into the foothills to the west of the camp. He’s aware that there is likely a secondary reason for the suggestion—with Huaisang, there is rarely only one reason—but the chance to feel the wind on his face overrides any care he has for Huaisang’s schemes.

They are a larger group than Xichen expected: himself, Huaisang, Guangyao, Qingyang, Titakau, and three guards. But of course they would need guards. Even Huaisang would not be so incautious as to risk their safety, and now that he considers it, three guards seems like fewer than Mingjue would have insisted on. Xichen wonders if Huaisang made his brother aware of his plans.

After only a few minutes of riding, a rolling canter that, on Liebing’s light feet, feels almost as smooth as walking, Xichen slows at the sound of pounding hoofbeats behind them.

“Aurakat! Wingani! Roka eneti heto tega om eta heromu,” Mingjue yells, pulling up his horse in front of Huaisang and forcing him to stop.^†

“Three soldiers for four people is plenty, anakau,” Huaisang argues. “Unless you think Xichen is incapable of defending himself.”

It is a low blow, and Xichen has to bite his lip to keep from laughing at Mingjue’s consternation.

“I did mention we were having a picnic. What did you think that meant?” Huaisang asks with a flippant smirk.

“Will you come with us, ahoraho?” Xichen asks, distracting Mingjue, who looks ready to tackle Huaisang off his horse. “If you are not too busy?”

With a huff, Mingjue scowls at Huaisang one more time before falling back to join Xichen. They ride in silence for a while, in part because Xichen is at a loss for words. Without the army, without the camp, he’s not sure what to talk about. He has rarely felt awkward around Mingjue, but he suddenly can’t think of a single thing to say. Instead he watches his friends. Qingyang laughs at something Titakau says, and Xichen can see Titakau smiling, even from here. Ahead of them, Huaisang pokes Guangyao in the shoulder and points to something in the distance, the silhouette of a huge eagle eventually gliding into sight, banking above them and heading north, toward the mountains. Guangyao watches the path of the bird until it disappears from sight.

“Poets in my country speak of your land as empty and barren, but I think they have never been here,” Mingjue says suddenly, breaking the silence. “There is beauty in your plains and hills, as there is in our datik.”

Xichen blinks at him, taken aback by Mingjue’s interest in poetry as much as his continued insistence that the mountains of Xichen’s home are mere hills.

Mingjue grins, reading Xichen’s expression. “They are not even covered in snow, Xichen. But tell me, do your poets write of Ikara?”

They do, and Xichen tells him that Ikara is seen as a mystical place, frightful and wild, with giants of men who ravage maidens and warrior women who wield dark magic. Mingjue roars with laughter.

“Xichen, you are kindio touha...more danger...hm...more dangerous...than most of our people. Although I do not know how it is possible. How do your people grow strong drinking the weak tea?”

Xichen pretends to be offended as he explains the supremacy of delicate, aged white tea. After so many months, it is unexpectedly charming to see yet another side of Mingjue. Xichen hadn’t fully appreciated how heavily caring for the well-being of so many people weighs on Mingjue. Within the encampment, Mingjue is always kipakau, always the general. But the further they get from the city of tents, the less he seems like a commander and more like an ordinary man Xichen doesn’t know well enough yet.

They enter a copse of pine trees, and Xichen is subdued by the beauty of this evergreen forest. Even though it is not yet true spring, there is the whisper of wind in the boughs, bird song all around him, and the peace of it inhabits him like home. When they emerge into a clearing on the other side of the woods, a quiet lake with the remains of summer reeds on its shores lays before them. Xichen nearly asks how Huaisang knew it was here, because it is clearly his intended destination.

“Time for lunch!” Huaisang announces as he dismounts, and with an unnecessarily dramatic gesture, he sets up a large flame burning in the grass.

Even with no wood to sustain it, the flame produces heat, fueled by the magic in the air. Xichen and Guangyao exchange a look. It is another reminder of how different Ikarahu magic is, and Xichen wonders how long the fire can last.

The ground is dry, if cold, and they unpack thick wool blankets to sit on. Their three guards’ horses had been carrying baskets of food, all designed to be eaten cold, as well as jars of ale and water, and Xichen is amused at how carefully Huaisang has prepared this adventure.

Huaisang whistles and Kitingi joins them, although she settles on Guangyao’s shoulder, not Huaisang’s, and bites his hair affectionately. He hands her tiny pieces of food he usually has at the ready. Guangyao’s face softens as it always does around Kitingi, and he scratches the top of her head, smoothing her feathers as she eats. Xichen thinks she might prefer Guangyao even to Mingjue these days.

Titakau whispers something to Qingyang, and Qingyang laughs. “I don’t know, auhani. I’ll ask. Why doesn’t she fly away? She isn’t tethered like the other munaku.”^†

“I feed her too well,” Huaisang jokes, but Mingjue gives her a true answer.

“Aurakat only pretends he does not care,” he explains, smirking at Huaisang as though revealing a deep, dark secret, and Huaisang throws a cup at him. “He raised her from a chick. She could leave any time, but she stays for love.”

They finish eating, and then, of course, they sword fight. It would have been a strange way to pass the afternoon in the Cloud Recesses, but Huaisang claims to be cold after their meal and challenges his brother to a duel, a match even Xichen has never seen before. It shouldn’t have been a contest, but once they start, it’s obvious that Huaisang has learned from spending his life sparring with Mingjue. He knows every counter to every move, and he even pulls out his kitingi fan as an extra distraction, blocking Kaumadis with hard swipes and spinning the sharp blades of the fan in front of Mingjue’s face. It doesn’t seem likely that he’ll win, but he keeps Mingjue on his toes until Mingjue laughingly dodges a parry and picks Huaisang up, slinging him over his shoulder and depositing him back onto a blanket by Guangyao.

“Enough! You will have me dancing for hours, anati,” he says and looks as though he intends to sit too, but Xichen stands.

“Will you dance with me, ahoraho?” he asks, drawing Sikunadis, and Mingjue’s eyes darken.

Xichen likes that look on Mingjue’s face. He turns his back to the rest of the group, biting his lip and giving Mingjue a private smile he intends to convey just how much. Mingjue shakes his head.

“You do not fight fair, aitapaho,” he complains with a wink.

It is not a serious bout, not in the tall dry grass, and not after Mingjue has already sparred with Huaisang, but Xichen never tires of learning how he can use Sikunadis differently than an ordinary sword. As Huaisang had suspected, the sword responds to his magic, filling like a well, holding the power for as long as necessary and allowing Xichen to recover his strength. And when he pushes in more power than the sword can hold, the release is magnified, a brilliant explosion of darkness and light that can fling even a shielded attacker away.

Xichen would not say he is showing off, but at first, he lets Mingjue take more risks and get closer than usual, leaning back to let Kaumadis glide past his face, flipping sideways to evade strikes, and putting even more speed into his parries. When he realizes Mingjue is tiring, he runs his fingers across the back of Mingjue’s neck as he spins behind him, grinning when Mingjue groans and falters.

He wins against Mingjue easily and far too quickly, only using enough of the power reserves inside Sikunadis to buzz against Mingjue when he tags him on the back first, then the stomach. Mingjue falls to the ground, laughing and raising his hands in defeat. He holds Xichen’s gaze just long enough to promise rewards when they get back to camp, long enough to make Xichen grin foolishly.

“Guangyao? Do you wish to fight with me?” Xichen asks, not wanting to leave anyone out, and Guangyao deliberates before shaking his head.

“I am no expert, and Zewu-Jun is. I might only be able to keep up with Oringa'anhu Ikira,” he says, entirely serious, smiling only when Huaisang realizes he’s been insulted and reacts with mock outrage.

Qingyang declines as well, but to Xichen’s surprise, Titakau agrees to fight, borrowing Huaisang’s sword. She has excellent form and technique, and she is nearly as quick as Xichen. She catches him off guard twice, forcing him to scramble to block. They end the match in a draw, and Xichen compliments her skill. She ducks her head and tells him that her father is a swordsmith, and she has held a sword since she was a baby.

“Ei kamhawa mau peita ei eta ino iro tiato, gani ora anot inko paketau sima auha di Ipira'orhew Ikira. Et paketau di sima eta kipakau,” Titakau says, smiling shyly.

Qingyang translates, ostensibly for Guangyao's benefit. “My father was embarrassed when I became a healer, but now he is so proud that I am in service to Ipira'orhew Ikira. Everyone is proud to serve the crown prince.” With a quick grin that lights her eyes, Qingyang adds, “I am as well, you know.”

Mingjue makes a sound of dismissal and shakes his head, but he’s smiling. There is a thoughtful crease in Guangyao’s eyebrows for a split second before Kitingi leaps off of his shoulder with a sudden scream, flapping high into the air and wheeling to dive into the nearby underbrush. Huaisang and Guangyao follow her to see if she snared whatever she was hunting.

Xichen is curious about which part of Titakau’s words intrigued Guangyao, but he lets the thought go when Mingjue wraps a blanket around him and kisses Xichen’s cheek, sitting next to him with a sigh. Xichen pulls Mingjue’s hand under the blanket and rubs his thumb over Mingjue’s knuckles, leaning against him to absorb his warmth. He wonders what his father or brother would think of how easily he shows and accepts affection like the Ikarahu. He had never minded the formal distance his family kept in the Cloud Recesses. It had felt respectful and unintrusive. But now he craves the simplest touch; there is a space inside him that can never be full enough. Wangji would probably look away in embarrassment, he thinks. Or, remembering the look on Wangji’s face when he talked about his archer, maybe not. He can’t hide his smile and he decides not to ruin his day by thinking about what his father’s reaction might be. Perhaps he is an unfilial son, but he is glad his father will never have the chance to disapprove.

Guangyao and Huaisang finally retrieve a chattering Kitingi from the bush clutching a finch in her claws, and somehow, they are arguing. It’s only been minutes, and Xichen can’t understand how they’ve already found something to disagree about.

“An ambush will not work,” Guangyao says as they rejoin the group, unhooking the two birds and setting the little finch free. “I don’t care if your hawk is always successful. You’ve been camped outside of Jinlin Tai for months. They know you’re here.”

“That’s why it will work, Guangyao,” Huaisang explains, patient to the point of condescension. “They expect us to continue the siege or bring the whole army. We’ve tried waiting patiently. A frontal assault will result in too many casualties. Perhaps we need a different strategy.”

Guangyao’s eyes narrow, and he frowns. “Perhaps you should stop pestering them entirely.”

Huaisang’s grin is swift and careless, but his voice softens. “You know we won’t. Perhaps they should give in.”

Xichen wonders if they realize how obvious it is that they aren’t only talking about Jinlin Tai anymore.

Chapter Text

Xichen didn’t see Jin Guangyao again for days, largely because Mingjue barely let him leave his tent, as though trying to reassure Xichen that Jin Guangyao’s presence created no change. It was less reassuring than he intended, because Xichen thought that if his position here with Mingjue was wholly secure, perhaps he wouldn’t need so much reassuring.

Still, he couldn’t pretend he didn’t enjoy Mingjue’s presence seeping into every empty space of his life. Xichen had already learned that it was as earth-shattering to give pleasure as it was to receive it, and he had spent the winter months making a very thorough exploration of Mingjue’s body. There was almost no end to the things Mingjue was willing to let Xichen try, and he was, himself, remarkably inventive.

But he loved the small domesticity of Mingjue in the morning almost as much, of waking next to him, listening to the way his breathing shifted so suddenly from asleep to awake. He always seemed surprised to find Xichen with him, surprised and delighted, stretching his arms and pulling Xichen to him the same way every day.

With the siege temporarily eased, Mingjue was less busy, and most of what he did was familiar to Xichen, the work of running a city rather than commanding an army. There were internal conflicts to settle, supplies to organize, and plans to make for the future. Mingjue did most of it from the comfort of Xichen’s bed, to the great amusement of his generals. As Mingjue’s grasp of Yuyan and Xichen’s skill in Orera improved, Mingjue began asking Xichen’s opinion about everything, from the small issues of disagreements between the horse trainers and romantic entanglements gone awry, to the bigger and less exciting problems of crop rotation, food storage, and waste removal.

It wasn’t all work. In the down times, Mingjue fed Xichen rare mountain plums, massaged his back with jasmine cream and sweet-smelling oils, and braided Xichen’s hair in complicated twists and plaits, as doting a lover as Xichen could ever have imagined. In truth, Xichen reveled in being cared for, each day bringing new reasons to fill his soul. The only indulgence Xichen truly felt guilty about involved the copper tub.

Prior to winter, the huge tub had been used mostly for washing clothes, and Xichen had assumed it was the tub's only purpose. When it had been warmer, Xichen had bathed the way the rest of the Ikarahu did: very quickly in the cold river. But once the weather shifted, Xichen had been astonished to learn that bathing tents were set up near the river and a team of Ikarahu mages moved and warmed water for baths. It was still cold, but warmer than washing in the Cloud Recesses would have been in winter.

It was not, however, Mingjue’s preference. He liked hot baths and decided to convert Xichen to his point of view.

It took dozens of people to move water from the river on the eastern side of the camp to the huge cauldron that sat on a magical fire in the center of camp and then from the cauldron to the tub. No one seemed to mind obliging their commander, although Xichen found it embarrassing that everyone knew when he bathed. Mingjue had just laughed and asked how it was different than bathing in the communal tents, and Xichen didn’t have an answer for that.

He was immediately won over when he sank into water hot enough to sting, and he nearly cried with happiness. Apparently, the sound he made was such that Mingjue stripped and joined him, settling Xichen in front of him and washing his hair with gentle fingers until Xichen could no longer stand the positively provoking way his body was rubbing against Xichen’s under the water. Xichen rolled over to provoke him in return, sloshing water over the sides of the tub in a flurry of kisses. Mingjue’s solution was even messier, pulling Xichen out of the tub and tossing him onto the bed, which made Xichen laugh and shiver at the heat in Mingjue’s eyes. Luckily, the copper tub kept the water warm enough to still be enjoyable after their not-so-brief interlude.

It was almost enough to make him forget the flutter of Jin Guangyao’s long eyelashes when he looked at Mingjue.

Despite Mingjue’s efforts to keep him distracted, Xichen had seen and even talked to Guangyao in the common areas of camp, usually with Huaisang hovering nearby. But sometimes he saw Jin Guangyao sitting alone, always watching the men and women around him but never interacting. Xichen couldn’t help wondering what Jin Guangyao did to occupy his time. He knew from experience what a lonely place the Ikara camp could be.

Xichen finally decided to take the initiative. He couldn’t ignore the man forever. The next time he saw Jin Guangyao alone, leaning on a hitching post and watching the munaku training, he stopped.

“Jin-gongzi, I notice you are fond of the munaku. Have you seen the eagles hunting as well?” Xichen asked, and Jin Guangyao’s smile filled his face.

“Zewu-Jun, this one has only seen them in the distance. Oringa’anhu Ikira says they are too dangerous to approach. They are magnificent, even from afar, although this one would be willing to take the risk.”

He seemed to be watching Xichen’s face carefully, as though gauging his reaction, and Xichen wondered what he was looking for. He made an impulsive decision.

“Jin-gongzi, would you allow me to share a pot of Zhao tea with you tomorrow? I do not know if you have had Ikarahu tea yet, but...it is likely not what you are used to, and it is always a pleasure to drink good tea with someone who appreciates it.”

Jin Guangyao blinked in surprise and then chuckled. “Indeed, Zewu-Jun, this one has tried the...tea. It would be an honor to avoid sampling it again.”

Xichen laughed despite himself. At least they had that in common.

He’d taken Jin Guangyao one of the many potted plants Mingjue had gifted him in the autumn along with the tea. When he arrived, Jin Guangyao was writing at a table piled high with books, something else they had in common, and they settled into conversation easily. Even though Xichen continued to find Jin Guangyao more cautious than necessary, always correcting his course to avoid any offense, he was easy to talk to, never at a loss for words, and Xichen’s dislike thawed. It was easier to hate someone he didn’t know.

However, the first time Jin Guangyao visited Xichen, more than two weeks after he arrived, was entirely without warning on a bath day. Jin Guangyao had shown himself to be so unflaggingly proper in every other way, his unannounced appearance at the tent entry came as an unwelcome shock. It wasn’t precisely rude, but it set Xichen off balance, and he had to scramble to recover.

“Zewu-Jun, the camp is so large! There must be a thousand tents. This one struggled to find this tent, only to discover how near it is after walking down many other rows,” Jin Guangyao laughed, bright and winsome as he shook snow off his clothes, and it helped erase Xichen’s annoyance at being interrupted.

And then Jin Guangyao saw Mingjue sitting cross-legged on the bed, his still-damp braids loose around his shoulders. It was obvious the moment Guangyao noticed him, because his posture changed slightly, as though a rope pulled taut inside his body, and he bowed respectfully.

“Ipira’orhew Ikira, this one did not expect such an honor.”

Mingjue was eating a plum, cutting into it with the sharp blade of a small curved dagger, and he nodded at Jin Guangyao with a smile. Xichen took that to mean he didn’t mind Jin Guangyao’s presence, so he invited the man to join them. Xichen had been playing the guqin before Jin Guangyao arrived, and he wasn’t sure if he should continue, but Mingjue grinned beseechingly at him.

“Edas ahora, will you finish the song?”

Xichen sat back down behind the instrument, settling his fingers against the strings. Jin Guangyao chose one of the large cushions in front of Xichen to sit on, but only after darting an assessing look at Mingjue that was altogether too interested.

“Zewu-Jun is a master musician,” Jin Guangyao exclaimed, his dark eyes alight with what looked like genuine admiration when Xichen finished a song about peonies fading in summer.

“Thank you, Jin-gongzi,” Xichen replied, unable to be informal in the face of this man’s unflinching politeness.

“Do you play?” Mingjue asked, laying back against the bed pillows and crossing his ankles.

He popped a piece of plum in his mouth and raised his eyebrows curiously. He looked relaxed and decadent, and, in Xichen’s opinion, gorgeous. Xichen was not surprised by the minute flare of Jin Guangyao’s nostrils and fleeting lift of his eyebrows before he shook his head regretfully.

“Only a little. This one’s skill is minor by comparison. My talents lie elsewhere.” He looked away with a flush and added, “I write poetry, sometimes.”

Xichen played through two more songs before Mingjue stretched, back arched, arms above his head, catching both Xichen and Jin Guangyao’s full attention. He got up and kissed Xichen’s forehead, touching a thumb to his lips. “Da iko auha, Ahora’ipa.”^†

To Xichen’s surprise, he ruffled the top of Jin Guangyao’s head on his way out. “I see you, too, Guangyao.”

The look that passed over Jin Guangyao’s face was mostly baffled. But not entirely.

“He does have that effect,” Xichen murmured, trying to repress the flare of irritation.

Jin Guangyao instantly schooled his expression into neutrality. “He is different than this one expected,” he said flatly, and then added with a deferential tip to his head, “Zewu-Jun, may this one ask? What does Ahora’ipa mean?”

It was an interesting question, as Xichen was quite sure Jin Guangyao knew precisely what the endearment meant. But perhaps he was asking for the deeper understanding of the phrase, which Xichen himself was still not fully sure of.

“It means ‘well loved,’ and it seems to be the Ikarahu equivalent to Zewu-Jun. When my family arranged the treaty with the Ikarahu, one of the terms was that I would be given…” Xichen paused, trying to be mindful of the lie he was about to tell. “I would be given ‘equal status.’ I believe it is in acknowledgement of my rank as my father’s heir and commander.”

Although it was true that the contract specified that he was “given in equal status,” Xichen had never understood why he was granted a title. He knew perfectly well the title was not part of the agreement for Wangji, nor was it part of the rewritten contract Xichen had created. Perhaps it had been in an earlier draft of the negotiations, but to ask would make it clear that he had deceived the Ikarahu without his family’s knowledge, and he was still not certain how that news would be received. If nothing else, it would disclose how he had lied to them, and he was not eager to face that revelation.

Jin Guangyao nodded thoughtfully, a small crease between his eyes. “It is a title, then. Undoubtedly one that has been earned, given the way it is said around camp.”

Xichen felt his cheeks heating, and he was quick to soften the possible insult that, despite their similar status and station, Jin Guangyao was given no title by the Ikarahu, “Ipira’orhew Ikira is fond of endearments for people he knows well. Ahora’ipa, treasured one, beloved man…it is just his way.”

Jin Guangyao smiled, wider than Xichen had seen before. “You are different than I expected as well,” he said, creasing the dimples into his cheeks.

The shift to informality took Xichen by surprise, as did the implication that Jin Guangyao had expectations of Xichen. How could he have known anything about Xichen other than gossip?

“Your brother sends his regards,” Jin Guangyao said softly, and Xichen jolted upright, standing before he could take a breath.

He dropped to the ground next to Jin Guangyao and gripped his hand. “You have seen Wan...Hanguang-Jun?” he asked, hoping, hoping.

“No, Zewu-Jun,” Jin Guangyao said kindly. “I wrote to him to congratulate him on being made heir of the Lan clan and again when my father...when I was asked to come here.”

Wangji had already been announced as heir. Of course their father would not have delayed. Wangji must hate it, Xichen thought, and his heart sank when he realized that all he had done was lock his brother in a second prison instead of the first.

No, he could not believe that. At least at home, Wangji would have the chance for happiness with his archer. Here, there would have been no hope. Wangji was fair and just, and he would learn to be a fine leader of the Lan clan.

“Did he...send anything...for me?” The question felt childish, and he knew it was unfair to expect his brother to send a message when Xichen had not, but he was filled with an overwhelming sense of loss for the conversations he would never have with his brother. This was the closest he had been to Wangji in months; he couldn’t help asking.

Did he imagine the hesitation?

“No, Zewu-Jun, but he did say he had not heard from you since you left?” Jin Guangyao said tentatively, the question in his voice inviting Xichen to explain.

Xichen felt guilty for suspecting him of hiding something. It was Xichen who was hiding the truth. He couldn’t even explain it. He couldn’t explain all the letters he wrote and discarded, the words he did not dare share with his brother. Wangji would never believe him. I am sorry I deceived you. I am happy here. And even if I was not, you are safe.

In the end, he had written only once to his father, shortly after his birthday, saying the words he knew would protect his brother and the Cloud Recesses. This is my choice. I am safe. Evidently his father had not chosen to share that with Wangji, which was an anger Xichen could not show Jin Guangyao. For the first time, he wondered if he made a mistake in not trying to convince Wangji that he was happy. He hadn’t wanted to drive a wedge between his father and brother, and he hadn’t been certain if Wangji would believe anything he said. No, he knew Wangji. He would be angry with Xichen for deceiving him, but he was prudent and thoughtful, and he would never endanger the Cloud Recesses. A contract was a contract, no matter how much he might hate it. Understanding of the ramifications and his natural cautiousness would keep Wangji from taking any action.

“I left abruptly and...I was angry,” he said, hoping Jin Guangyao would accept his equivocation. “Anything I said now would be a disappointment to them.”

Jin Guangyao’s peals of laughter sounded forced from him, and he covered his mouth. Xichen raised his eyebrows, puzzled.

“Oh, Zewu-Jun,” he finally managed. “My apologies. It is only that...I have never considered what it would be like to not disappoint my family.”

It was such a terrible thing to say, Xichen felt it must be the truth. He wanted to reassure Jin Guangyao, but he didn’t know this man or his family, and he didn’t want to appear either cruel or condescending.

“My brother would not be disappointed in me, but I did not want to put him in the position of having to tell my father that I was not unhappy,” he said, exchanging a truth for a truth.

“No, you do not seem to be.”

Jin Guangyao looked around the tent speculatively and Xichen flushed. He was not ashamed. He was not. He had not expected to ever feel anything but loneliness and resentment, and what he had found was, at the very least, friendship and acceptance. Xichen didn’t think there was any nobility in seeking out unhappiness, but it was difficult to admit his contentment to this man who was his countryman.

“Of course, I mean no judgement, Zewu-Jun,” he added, understanding Xichen’s reaction. “But if you would like the company of someone who can, perhaps, appreciate your situation, I would take comfort in having a friend who can appreciate mine.”

The words meant one thing, Xichen thought. But the slow smile and the sidelong look said something quite different indeed.

Chapter Text

The warm afternoon starts to fade, but no one seems inclined to leave these hours of peace, this almost-utopia. It’s easy, here in this bubble of quiet, to forget who they are.

Mingjue walks with Xichen to the lake’s edge. He picks a handful of flat rocks and flicks them at the water, skipping the stones across the surface. Xichen smiles and raises his eyebrows, spinning his own rocks as far as Mingjue, earning a dimpled grin he doesn’t resist kissing.

Tall dry grasses brush their legs as they stroll further around the lake, and Xichen holds out his hand, running his fingers through the weeds that remind him of springtime, remind him that if he was home, he would be helping farmers schedule the planting season, livestock grazing, irrigation changes, next year’s rotations. He doesn’t actually wish he was there now, but he misses it anyway, the person he'd been. The responsibility he'd enjoyed. It is only nostalgia, he thinks, but he wishes it was simpler to dismiss from his mind.

The water reflects the sky in warped ripples that look like sound. Mingjue points out a silent crane in the reeds, hoping not to be noticed, and they pass ducks congregating under a pine tree whose branches sag into the water. Xichen wraps his arms around Mingjue’s waist inside his fur-lined coat and adjusts his tunic, sliding it up to touch the skin on Mingjue’s back, settling his thumbs in the dips on either side of his spine. He is pleased by the way Mingjue laughs deep in his chest and touches Xichen’s cheekbone, smoothing his thumb across the ridge. He gazes into Xichen’s eyes, turning serious at whatever he finds behind them.

“I am sorry,” he says suddenly, too sorrowfully, too unlike himself.

Xichen feels a chill from the water, the wind, the words—they are twined together and can’t be separated.

“Etikuntiga? For what?”

Instead of answering, Mingjue frowns, tangling a lock of Xichen’s hair around his finger, letting it slip away, twisting it again, letting it go, again and again. He seems to be thinking, and Xichen doesn’t want to repeat his question, but he is afraid, and it’s hard to stand still in a pool of fear.

“I have done...poa ahinu.” There is terrible regret in his voice, and Xichen scrambles for a translation.

“Many...bad?” No, ainu is bad. He doesn’t know ahinu.

“Bad things,” Mingjue corrects, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against Xichen’s, the familiar gesture of affection feeling more like resignation this time, like waiting for punishment. “I have done many bad things. To you. Your people. I can not explain, and I do not know how to say I am sorry.”

Xichen doesn’t do him the disservice of laughing away his remorse. He doesn’t know the answer either.

“Ahoraho, you have never harmed me,” he says finally. “I can not forgive you for anything else, although if I could, I would.”

Xichen doesn’t say because I love you. He knows Mingjue would return his sentiment, even mean it, but there is a chasm of obligation between them. His love and Mingjue’s are two different creatures, and to say the words would call attention to the inequality. Xichen doesn’t know if he’s protecting himself or Mingjue, but either way, he can’t lay out his heart so bare.

Mingjue kisses him, rough and searching, seeking something specific. Xichen doesn’t have absolution, but he kisses Mingjue just as firmly, tightening his arms and digging his fingers into the pliant flesh of Mingjue’s back. Mingjue pulls Xichen’s hips against him, grinding against his thigh. Xichen stiffens and drops back with a smile, not a rejection, only not wanting to be seen. Understanding, Mingjue takes Xichen's hand and leads him further under the pine tree until they’re hidden from view on the other side of an old trunk and draping limbs.

“Shh,” Mingjue tells Xichen with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, that’s still too contrite, and Xichen can’t bear it. He doesn’t know what Mingjue intended, but he wants to show Mingjue, even if he is too much of a coward to say it, that he is loved and forgiven.

Xichen kneels in the soft carpet of dead needles before Mingjue, ignoring his hoarse, “Xichen, no, wait,” and unties Mingjue’s pants enough to wrap his mouth around Mingjue's cock in one deep suction of hard tongue, soft lips, and wet throat that makes Mingjue’s knees buckle. It was such a surprise, Mingjue is not yet fully hard, and Xichen loves that he can take him in completely, feel him stiffen against his throat, coax him with his hands. Mingjue leans against the tree and covers his mouth, holding back the moans that want to escape, but Xichen is relentless. Love, he thinks. He loves Mingjue. And whatever pain he feels, whatever melancholy haunts the caverns of his heart, Xichen will take it away if he can.

Xichen fills his hand with the power of his gift and lays it on Mingjue’s stomach, channeling the soothing magic into Mingjue the way he does with Sikunadis. Mingjue gasps, and bucks against Xichen’s mouth, hissing his name.

Xichen meets his eyes and Mingjue looks almost panicked, almost close to tears, out of control in a way Xichen has never seen. His hand clenching involuntarily in Xichen’s hair is the only warning before his climax explodes through him, and Xichen gladly takes that too, holding Mingjue steady as he shudders uncontrollably, licking his still-beautiful softening cock and kissing the lines of muscle that curve around his hip bones until Mingjue slumps to the ground.

“Aitapaho, what...what you did...ah Xichen, why are you so kind to me?” Mingjue stammers, still catching his breath, brushing his fingers over Xichen’s face as though memorizing the planes.

Xichen wants to laugh. Kindness hasn’t been his first thought, but he had wondered if he could soothe Mingjue’s sadness like he could heal a cut or scrape. He hadn’t known if it would help or if Mingjue would understand. But he had.

“Because you are kind,” he says. “Because you deserve kindness.”

With a sigh, Mingjue pulls him into a hug and does not let go for a very long time.

They walk the rest of the way around the lake before they rejoin the others, who don’t seem to have even noticed their absence. Titakau looks like she is sleeping, curled up next to Qingyang, who is reading and thoughtlessly looping Titakau’s pair of long braids through her hands. Huaisang and Guangyao are engrossed in maka, a strategy game Xichen hates playing. It’s not because Xichen lacks skill or knowledge. He used to love to play with his brother, but it is the one thing Huaisang is truly, deeply, passionately serious about, and it takes all the joy out of the rare times Xichen can outmaneuver him. Luckily, Guangyao is very good at it too, and far more diplomatic. He has proven to be an enjoyable opponent for both Huaisang and Xichen.

Maka is also, curiously, one of the few things the Ikarahu have in common with Xichen’s people, and he wonders whether it was the Ikarahu who brought the game south, or whether his people took it over the mountains. When did everything go wrong between their lands? Before he came to live with them, Xichen had known so little about the Ikarahu, not the simplest basics of their language, not even their name for themselves. If more had been shared between their cultures, would there have been a war?

It occurs to him how much more Guangyao knows than he did, and he curses himself for never caring about what happened beyond the Cloud Recesses and beyond what affected him directly. He has been a fool for too long.

The winter light turns into long shadows, and there’s a snippy cut to the wind by the time Huaisang stretches, looks around, and decides it’s time to leave. Once they’re packed up to return, Mingjue pulls Xichen behind Liebing to kiss him soundly, pretending the world contains only them, and no one else can see them here. Xichen clutches him tightly, hoarding every minute of Mingjue's attention he can.

It is, perhaps, the reason they don’t notice the approaching horses until right before the soldiers attack.

“Anakau!” Huaisang screams, and there is the sound of metal clashing, but Mingjue is already reacting, drawing Kaumadis as he runs, Xichen right behind him.

Without thinking, Xichen heads for Qingyang and Titakau, blocking a rider who is thrusting a heavy spear at them. Spinning Sikunadis, he swings the sword toward the man, releasing a wave of blinding power from the iraho and immediately channels more into the blade. Xichen’s magic rocks the man backward, throwing him from his horse. Xichen slaps the horse on its rump with the flat of the sword, sending it running back the way it had come.

He does not want to kill this man, who he now recognizes is wearing the insignia of the Jin clan. But the man leaps to his feet and charges, and Xichen has only seconds to make a choice. He brushes the spear aside and runs the man through, giving him, at least, a swift and merciful death. He feels sorrow and a twinge of guilty betrayal, but it is not enough to die for. Not enough to sacrifice his friends for.

Xichen is torn between staying to protect Qingyang and Titakau and finding Mingjue, but Titakau grabs the spear and hoists it.

“Ereda,” she tells him. “Ema outam eti eko.”^†

Xichen runs toward the sound of fighting. It must have been a scouting party, Xichen thinks, although they are very far from Jinlin Tai. There are only ten or twelve men, and already four have fallen, including the one Xichen killed. One of the Ikarahu guards is on the ground, injured or dead, Xichen can’t tell, and the other two are with Mingjue, guarding his back against the majority of the soldiers.

Huaisang has shoved Guangyao behind him, holding off one of the soldiers, but Xichen watches helplessly, too far away to help, as a second Jin soldier runs to the attack.

“Oridit!” Xichen yells in Orera, knowing Huaisang and Guangyao will understand him, and hopefully the Jin man will not.^†

Guangyao spins too late, and the soldier stumbles forward, shock and horror on his face as his sword slides deep into Guangyao’s chest. He mouths something Xichen can’t hear and Guangyao cries out in pain, falling to his knees. Huaisang lunges furiously at the man he is fighting, sword flashing across the Jin soldier’s throat. He kicks him away viciously before turning to the man who stabbed Guangyao.

The man holds up his hands, but Huaisang either doesn’t see or doesn’t care. He crooks his fingers, and flings what looks like a solid boulder of magic at the man, throwing him into the trunk of a tree. Xichen has no doubt that the dull crunching sound he makes on impact is a death sentence, and the man slides bonelessly to the ground.

“Mik! Xichen, nahima!” Huaisang shouts, panic and fear reverting him to his native tongue. He braces Guangyao, holding him up, careful not to jar his injured right side. “Yao-ti, mik, mik, mik, dak anot ainu?”^†

Guangyao’s skin is already pale and waxy, and he is fighting for every gurgling breath. Xichen tosses Sikunadis to Titakau, who catches it gracefully. Qingyang takes the spear and they move to guard positions. Xichen reaches inside Guangyao’s robes to press his hand against the wound, testing it with his magic. It is deep, and he heals the punctured lung immediately, knowing that to be the greatest danger. The blood is still flowing more swiftly than Xichen likes to see, but nothing else vital is damaged, and there are no broken bones.

“Huaisang, I will heal him. Go help your brother,” Xichen orders, but Huaisang shakes his head mutely, his expression blank. “Aurakat,” Xichen says more firmly, and Huaisang’s chin snaps up, still defiant. “Ereda. Nahima eko Mingjue. Ako.”^†

He does not say because I can’t, but Huaisang finally seems to understand. With a frown, he releases Guangyao and goes, and Qingyang takes his place, bracing Guangyao as Xichen heals him.

“He knew me,” Guangyao whispers, and Xichen nods. It was what he had suspected.

“I do not think he meant to strike you,” Xichen says, and Guangyao tries to shake his head but grimaces in pain.

“No,” he agrees scornfully. “I should be relieved that at least they were not here to kill me.”

Xichen wants to ask Guangyao if he thinks his father would try to kill him, and why, but he doesn’t want Guangyao to waste his strength. When he meets Qingyang’s eyes, she nods, teeth clenched. She, at least, would not doubt it, he thinks.

“Perhaps they are here for your horse,” Guangyao says, managing a reedy laugh, but Xichen has to strain to hear his rasping words. “Your Liebing used to be my father’s, you know. Only the finest possessions for...”

His voice trails off as he bites back a pained grunt, and Xichen touches a hand to his forehead, adding a second stream of magic to ease the hurt.

When the sound of fighting abruptly stops, Xichen looks up to see Huaisang and Mingjue—safe, thank the gods, they are safe—with the two Ikarahu soldiers. The third is lying motionless, and when Mingjue checks him, he closes his eyes and shakes his head, motioning the other two soldiers to secure the dead man to his horse for transport.

Xichen is sick. This day that had started so beautifully has turned so ugly, and even though his friend will heal, Xichen is shaken by the possibility of what might have been. No one interrupts him as he heals Guangyao, but Mingjue rests a hand on the back of his neck, rubbing a soothing circle. When Xichen takes his hand away from Guangyao’s shoulder, the skin is as smooth and unblemished as it had been.

“You are very skilled, Zewu-Jun,” Guangyao tells him faintly. “But why am I so tired?”

Xichen pats his hand. “Thank you, Guangyao. You were injured badly and lost a great deal of blood, so you may feel weak for some time. Can you ride?”

Guangyao’s eyes flutter shut as he considers, but eventually, he shakes his head.

“Aurakat, will you ride with Yao-ti?” Mingjue asks. “I do not wish him to fall.”

It makes sense, Xichen thinks. After all, Huaisang is the lightest, and it will put the least strain on his horse. It will leave Mingjue free to guard them, as they are down a soldier. But he can’t help but think that Mingjue looks calculating. Perhaps Huaisang is not the only brother who can scheme.

Huaisang nods, even though he looks unusually anxious, and Mingjue lifts Guangyao, helping him sit in front of Huaisang. Xichen doesn’t think the man is feigning this weakness—he doesn’t think Guangyao would ever intentionally show true weakness. The ride back is uneventful, although slower than the ride out had been, and when they get back, Guangyao has fallen asleep, leaning back against Huaisang’s shoulder.

It seems that being stabbed has made Qingyang dislike Guangyao less. She and Titakau help him into his tent, staying, Titakau says, to ensure he doesn’t slip into an unwakeable sleep. Huaisang looks caught between two minds, as if he wants to follow them, but instead, he turns away. Mingjue catches his arm before he can flee.

“Aurakat, we must end this,” he says gently, “Heto romi heti romi eidar.”^†

Huaisang’s eyes close. He looks forlorn and heartsick, and Mingjue pulls him into a quick hug before letting him go.

It is one of those things Xichen doesn’t understand, and they aren’t willing to explain yet. He waits as Mingjue hands the reins of the horse carrying the dead man to the other soldiers, resting a hand on the man’s head with a frown. He murmurs something that sounds like “mau ato.” My fault. Xichen doesn’t know what to say, so he only takes Minjgue’s hand and leads him to his tent. There will be work to do tomorrow, but tonight, he needs to be held and loved, and he suspects Mingjue does too.

Xichen hopes that someday they’ll trust him enough to share the story that brought them south.

Chapter Text

They may have been technically in an armistice, but it did not escape Xichen’s notice that the scouts still patrolled, and groups of Ikarahu soldiers still rode out in the evenings. Trust, Xichen thought, but not without contingency.

Still, it meant that Xichen had less to do during his days. He still spent mornings with the healers and time working with Mingjue, but there were fewer injuries to heal and fewer decisions to make. It had been too cold to sword fight, sometimes even too cold to ride. It hadn’t taken long for him to grow bored with so many idle afternoons.

Fortunately, Guangyao had expressed interest in deepening his knowledge of the guqin, and it became a welcome distraction in Xichen’s day. Xichen had been uncertain of the wisdom of befriending him at first, but Guangyao made no demands of him and kept a respectful distance, letting Xichen guide their conversations, and eventually, Xichen found that he liked the man’s quiet, thoughtful company.

Sometimes they spoke of poetry, as they had discovered a mutual appreciation for the poetry of Mu Bai, one of the greatest pastoral poets in their country’s history. Sometimes they shared tea and talked about the strange world they had found themselves in and the peculiarities of living in an army camp.

And sometimes, they spoke of home.

Obliquely, of course. Xichen preferred not to share details of his family, and Guangyao was, if anything, more reticent about his life in Jinlin Tai. But they could speak of their cities, the infrastructure, the people, their day-to-day tasks. As much as Xichen valued Qingyang and Huaisang, it wasn’t the same as having a friend who understood the position and life he’d left. Guangyao could laugh with Xichen about the famously disastrous contract between the Wen and the Zhao two decades ago that ended with the dissolution of two marriages, the return of the silk dowry that had already been made into dresses, and a vow that the Wen would never drink Zhao tea again. He sympathized with the failed compact between Xichen’s uncle and Yunmeng, although in the end, that alliance had been made stronger through a triad of exchanges that cost the Cloud Recesses fewer concessions. Guangyao told funny stories of bickering merchants in Jinlin Tai and Xichen told stories of escaped goats. It made him miss his home both less and more to talk about it, and he thought he saw the same wistfulness in Guangyao.

Today, however, at the time they usually sat to play, he was surprised to find Guangyao’s tent occupied with other people.

Mingjue was sitting in a chair, leaning over a map on the table. Qingyang was holding a brush over a map she seemed to be guarding, never fond of anyone touching her maps, and especially not fond of Guangyao around them. He had, only once, debated the placement of a territory border, and she clearly had not forgiven him. Guangyao and Huaisang were having an animated discussion about...something Xichen didn’t catch because as soon as Mingjue saw him, he grinned, mouth tipping up at one corner, eyes crinkling at the corners, and Xichen’s focus narrowed to the beloved shape of his face.

“Aitapaho, come. Sit,” Mingjue beckoned.

Xichen set down his guqin and sat in the chair next to Mingjue, which Mingjue moved closer, cupping the nape of Xichen’s neck to kiss his forehead and nose, the warmth of his mouth spreading slowly across Xichen’s skin. Always so demonstrative, Xichen thought, but he couldn’t help smiling.

“Are you finished?” Huaisang asked, with a disgruntled huff. “Guangyao was just explaining the route the Jin supply chain takes from Ganyu, and I would very much like to discuss how we can remove it.”

“No no, please continue. I am taking note of the different shades of red Huaisang has turned for mixing colors later,” Qingyang interrupted, laughing when Huaisang flicked a map weight in her direction.

Xichen folded his hands in his lap serenely. “I would not interrupt your work. I can not speak for your brother.”

Mingjue’s hands closed around Xichen’s, and he pulled them to his mouth, blowing hot air on Xichen’s chilled fingers, grazing the knuckles with his lips and looking at Xichen in a way that made his stomach flop agreeably. “I do not interrupt you either,” he said, and Huaisang snorted.

Xichen tilted a smile in his direction, and Mingjue sat back, pleased with himself, still holding Xichen’s hands. “Go on, Guangyao,” he encouraged magnanimously. “We are all here.”

Guangyao appeared as annoyed by the interruption as Huaisang, but he only let out a small, aggravated sigh and began pointing to spots on the map again. Qingyang marked the path he indicated with swift, light touches. Xichen could see that they were sketching a route leading north from Jinlin Tai and skirting the coast to a tiny harbor on the sea.

“Will destroying it not violate the armistice, anati?” Xichen asked Huaisang.

He reached out to Kitingi, standing on the padded leather perch Guangyao had made for her, feathers fluffed around her. She closed her eyes in avian rapture as Xichen scratched the back of her neck, and Xichen peeked at Guangyao out of the corner of his eye.

His face was perfectly relaxed, and he seemed entirely unconcerned that he was giving the enemy of his father valuable military intelligence. Was it genuine? A dangerous ruse? Xichen couldn’t read the small expressions of his face easily. Or rather, he didn’t always understand what he saw on Guangyao’s face. They sometimes twinged against the back of his mind like an untuned guqin string, and he couldn’t be sure if what he saw was true or calculated.

It was Guangyao who answered. “No, not if the disruption is a natural disaster. There is allowance in the agreement for the inherent unpredictability of nature. The caravan travels over this bridge.” He pointed to a river on the map. “It is guarded well, but if there was a sudden flood and the river overran its banks, who would be to blame? The next time it rains, the bridge could very well be washed away, and it would be an insurmountable setback. If the timing was right, someone enterprising might even find the supplies from the next caravan washed downstream.”

Qingyang turned what looked like the start of a laugh into a grimace, and Huaisang’s eyes widened in mock horror. “Guangyao, do you think the Ikarahu can create rain?"

It wasn’t quite fair to say they could create rain, nor could they stop it, as Xichen had found. But they could make the air fill with water from one part of the river and move it to another, dispersing it rapidly in droplets. It would, Xichen thought, look a lot like rain. Especially to the Jin.

Guangyao flushed and shrugged, and Huaisang laughed, a quick chuckle. “That clever bit of advice comes very close to admitting you know more about our magic than you have previously acknowledged.”

To Xichen, he sounded admiring, but Guangyao dipped his head and hunched his shoulders away from Huaisang as though he expected a reprimand. “You cannot fault me for being observant.”

Huaisang bumped his arm against Guangyao’s, and the man looked up in surprise. “It wasn’t an insult, it was a compliment. I’ll be more clear in the future. This has...you have been a great help.”

The expression on Guangyao’s face was, for a moment, so unguarded, so stunned, Xichen wondered if it was the first compliment he’d ever received.

“Yes, Yao-ti, thank you,” Mingjue agreed, and he leaned forward, catching Guangyao’s attention and waiting until he nodded acknowledgement with a tentative smile before sitting back and folding his arms thoughtfully.

“Whatever magic you use, if it is possible, aim for subtlety, Oringa’anhu Ikira,” Guangyao added. “My father is not an idiot.”

“Are you sure?” Huaisang asked, and Qingyang looked away, eyes dancing with mirth. “But I find subtlety so overrated.”

“I am.” Guangyao‘s words were tight and clipped. “You would be an idiot if you underestimate him.”

“Ah, Yao-ti,” Mingjue smiled indulgently. “Aurakat is often an idiot, but he is not a fool. Da ati eko anha, Aurakat? Roka et kindio di amau daku?” he asked, glancing back at Guangyao. “Heti pia amau daku.”^†

Huaisang clicked his tongue and grumbled, “Em ekos auha kindio eta iraminga, anakau.”^†

He didn’t seem truly offended by Mingjue’s question, and Xichen glanced at Guangyao to see if he understood Mingjue’s meaning. Guangyao’s face seemed relaxed, but for one fleeting moment, his fingers flexed and his jaw tightened, long enough for Xichen to be certain. He did realize that Mingjue was including him as one of their people to protect. Strangely, though, he did not seem pleased and Xichen wondered why.

“Is this a good idea?” he asked, and Huaisang tipped his head curiously.

“Why wouldn’t it be, Xichen? It’s such minor magic, anakau could do it himself, but if it makes you feel better, I will order him to take a squad.” He grinned impishly and Mingjue shook his head.

“He teases. We will be careful, aitapaho.” He looked smug, pleased with Xichen's concern.

Xichen sighed but didn’t argue. They were a formidable team, and he trusted that they knew what they were doing. And yet, he couldn’t help thinking they were taking such a risk based on the word of a man they barely knew.

A few days later, though, Xichen had a different reason to be displeased.

He should not have intruded. It was ill-bred of him to enter Guangyao’s tent without permission, but Xichen had begun to think of Guangyao as a friend he could share worry with, and Mingjue had been gone for several days, longer than he had expected.

Evidently, he had returned.

Mingjue was sprawled on the wood floor of the tent in only his tunic and pants, his armor in a heap next to him. Huaisang was perched on a pillow, back to the door, but he turned to acknowledge Xichen with a brisk nod. Guangyao was standing barefoot on Mingjue’s back, as graceful as a dancer, walking in tiny, careful steps next to his spine. He stopped and shifted, bending at the knees to press his weight down, and Mingjue let out a heartfelt groan that pierced Xichen with an icy dagger.

Guangyao looked up and tipped his head, noticing Xichen watching.

“You will have to teach this…” Mingjue groaned again and Xichen’s lips tightened. “...massage to our healers, Yao-ti.”

Without looking away, Guangyao smiled, toothy and inviting, his dimples like punctures in his cheeks. “I am yours to command, Ipira’orhew Ikira.”

Xichen’s eyes widened, unable to comprehend why Guangyao was looking at him like that, and yet speaking to Mingjue the way he was. It was unsettling, and he let his glance slide away, down at Huaisang, who was looking up at Guangyao, eyebrows drawn together in a pensive frown.

Mingjue chuckled, a flat and pained sound. “I command you...to teach…this...” he said between grunts as Guangyao dug his toes into the muscle on Mingjue’s lower back.

“Then I will do whatever you want,” Guangyao answered, lifting on the balls of his feet at the curve of Mingjue’s buttocks, like he was about to jump, before settling back on his heels. He lightly stepped back to the floor and Mingjue rolled over, twisting his neck and back on the floor like a wriggling puppy.

“What do you think I want, Yao-ti?” he asked softly, stretching his head to the side and raising his eyebrows.

Huaisang stood so quickly he knocked the pillow across the room. “If you're all done, I want dinner,” he huffed and stormed out.

Perhaps “storm” was too dramatic of a word. He walked the way he always did, with a lilting step and a smirk at Xichen, but there was something tight in his jaw Xichen did not like. He felt the same tension on his own face. Guangyao didn’t look at Huaisang, not even when he slapped open the tent flap, instead, fixing his gaze on the ground just beyond Mingjue’s shoulder. Mingjue met Xichen’s eyes, though, like he had just noticed him, like he wanted to ask something, like he wanted to say something that mattered. Xichen didn’t wait for Mingjue to collect the words.

“My apologies for interrupting, Ipira’orhew Ikira, Jin-gongzi.”

Xichen found it depressingly simple to hide the chill in his voice and the hurt in his eyes behind the half smile of ingrained civility that had always protected him. The ingrained civility also thought he should explain himself. It told him he should offer plausible excuses for leaving. But he didn’t. He just followed Huaisang out into the cold.

Chapter Text

Xichen could not have guessed that the Ikarahu would throw a festival in an army encampment in the middle of a war. It seems so dangerous for so much of the army to be distracted. And yet here he is in the transformed sparring arena, surrounded by hundreds of people eating spicy meat grilled in huge open pits, drinking the sweet Ikarahu ale, dancing in pairs and circles, and singing boisterous, noisy songs. Any watching scout could see that there are brightly striped flags, strands of bells, and colorful lanterns looped over ropes suspended between posts around the outside of the arena. Xichen suspects the lanterns mean this festival will extend long into the night, and he tries to squelch the nagging concern.

After all, it is a party. It’s supposed to be fun.

Xichen had helped Huaisang hang lanterns for what felt like years, and Huaisang had explained that the festival was called Hatapi, a celebration of the ahuti’s birthday. The ahuti was considered a valued ruler as well, and the Hatapi was a chance to thank them.^†

“But really, it’s just an excuse to eat and drink,” he’d said, completely seriously. “Who doesn’t love that?”

When Xichen had asked how he had time to plan a festival, Huaisang had just laughed and said it was a yearly event, which gave him plenty of time.

“Right now Hatapi celebrates my mother’s birthday, but it used to be my grandfather’s birthday. And before that, my great-grandmother. It’s always celebrated on the birthday of the ahukau’s spouse,” Huaisang had winked. “Eventually, Hatapi will be on the eighth of…”

Xichen had slapped a hand over Huaisang’s mouth and refused to let him finish that sentence.

Even after Huaisang’s descriptions, Xichen hadn’t fully expected the sheer chaos of the day. It’s riotous and loud and full of surprises. There have been strength and skill contests all day: sword fights, hurling giant logs, foot races, even a surprisingly early drinking contest. Every winner gets a trophy and an enthusiastic clap on the back from Mingjue, and it pleases Xichen that it’s hard to tell which the winners prefer.

At the moment, Xichen, Qingyang, and Guangyao are watching the last contest of the day, the mounted archery competition, which Xichen has to admit is spectacular. More than fifty of the finest archers in the Ikarahu cavalry are riding without saddles or bridles in a tight circle, bows drawn, shooting arrow after arrow into bales spaced around the outside of the circuit. The judges, including Huaisang and Mingjue, are on the other side of the arena. They're all standing on horses, presumably for the vantage, which raises questions Xichen has never thought he would ask.

Guangyao sniffs. “It hardly seems like a challenge. They’re just riding in a circle.”

“Huaisang says the second half is more impressive.” Qingyang shrugs. “There are bonus points for style, but I don’t know what that means.”

However, it's immediately obvious when the real competition begins. One by one, the riders take a circuit of the arena, making impossible shots as they stand on their horses or cling to the bellies of their horses or drop to the ground and bounce lightly off their toes to turn backward or dangle across the side of their horses to shoot from under their necks, hidden from view, all while galloping full speed. Xichen has simply never seen anything like it. He’s not sure there even is anything like it.

“My mother would have loved this,” Qingyang sighs, softly enough that Xichen almost doesn’t hear her above the din around them. “She missed the galio of her homeland more than anything else, I think. I’m sorry she never went back to Ikara before she died, but I’m glad I had as many years with her as I did.”

His own mother’s death is still a sharp pain in his side, but Qingyang doesn’t seem as unhappy as Xichen would expect. She looks at him with a wistful smile, one that seems to want to share this memory, so he ventures to ask, “When did she die?”

“Two years ago, before the Ikarahu came,” she answers, and Xichen squeezes her shoulder. So recently. He is amazed that she’s willing to talk about it.

She smiles at him, a bravely crooked tilt, and Xichen suddenly wants to tell her. To tell someone. Maybe sharing the pain will release it. Holding it tightly certainly has not.

“My mother died when I was twelve. Of a wasting sickness,” he says, and Qingyang makes a sympathetic noise. “I have always wished I had more time.”

Qingyang nods. “There is never enough, is there? I will always want to see her face again or hear her call me a-Yang. She was an artist too, and I was fortunate to work with her for years, until her fingers were no longer agile enough for fine details. The only comfort is that she didn’t have to…” Qingyang exhales sadly. “She didn’t have to know why I left Lanling.”

Guangyao is quiet and seems to be caught up in watching the last rider, a slim, short man who rides the circuit in constant motion. He is nearly a blur, bouncing off the ground, sliding under the horse’s belly to pop up on its other side, slinging under the horse’s neck, flipping backward, and somehow still shooting arrows. The crowd roars when he takes top honors and Mingjue bounds over to present him with the prize, a huge gold bowl filled with water that the man shares with his horse.

“My mother is dead too,” he announces, the words slicing cleanly through the noise of the crowd.

For once, Guangyao doesn’t seem to be trying to hide the emotion in his voice. He sounds as though he has been brutally stabbed in a wound that had not yet healed. When Xichen looks at him, there is such animosity on his face, his eyes narrowed to slits and his jaw clenched so tightly, Xichen can almost hear his teeth grinding together.

“Since you didn’t ask,” he says, his lips flattening into a tense slash. “I was seven when I found her. She wrote that she was sorry, as though she had something to apologize for.”

Xichen reaches out instinctively to slide his fingers around Guangyao’s tense hand, wanting to erase this terrible tragedy, this horror that still haunts his friend.

“Aitapaho, Qingyang, Yao-ti!” Mingjue’s booming voice interrupts, and Xichen jumps as though he’s been caught peeking at something forbidden, as though he’s been caught doing something forbidden.

Mingjue kisses Xichen firmly, with all the enthusiasm of a man thoroughly enjoying his life, but not before Xichen sees the quick, appraising look Huaisang gives him and Guangyao.

Guangyao sees it too, and laughs, the sound higher and more strident than usual. “We were only bonding, Oringa’anhu Ikira. Over stories of our dead mothers.”

He takes a deep, bracing breath as though he will say something else, something even worse, and Xichen is suddenly afraid of what it might be. Guangyao seems like a mirror about to shatter and slash whatever might be nearby.

Huaisang grabs Guangyao’s wrist and interrupts him with a teasing grin. “Guangyao, you were wrong about the winner, so I am claiming your forfeit. You are required to learn the next dance. Ani?”

Guangyao frowns. “You didn’t tell me his horse was a galau, so I think you should forfeit,” he argues, but he lets Huaisang pull him toward the dancers.

Mingjue laughs and kisses Xichen again. He tastes like winter mint and joy, and Xichen lets it distract him. Mingjue can always distract him.

“Come, aitapaho. We will eat and drink and dance!”

Only part of that sounds enjoyable, and Xichen shoots Qingyang a pleading look, but she laughs at him too, shooing him away cheerfully as Titakau joins her. Friendship is not what it used to be, he thinks. He will have to get revenge later.

There is no reason he should not be able to learn this foot kicking, jumping, spinning dance, Xichen thinks crossly, but he is growing increasingly irritated with the frequency his feet get caught together, and he trips, falling against Mingjue, who only catches him with curious, roving hands. Finally, Xichen throws up his hands in exasperation.

“Ahoraho, I am going to watch,” he yells over the music, singing, and shouts of laughter.

In answer, Mingjue grabs Qingyang’s hand and drags her into the circle where she, Xichen notes enviously, picks up the steps almost immediately. Titakau silently hands Xichen a bottle of ale and he takes a drink.

“Roka iko auha em koni,” she tells him sympathetically, “Pia ei sakona auha em ga. Et taka ti eta engati hako.” ^†

She’s right about that much. It is fun to watch. There are two lines of dancers, one on the inside, one on the outside. The two circles turn, flicking their heels in the air, kicking forward and backward, spinning from the inside line to the outside line, changing partners and changing back. It seems random and reminds Xichen of spinning maple seeds that flutter from the tops of trees in gusts of autumn wind.

Xichen catches sight of Huaisang, whose face is alight with mirth, and Guangyao, who looks—not quite angry anymore. Begrudging, perhaps. Huaisang leans in to say something and Guangyao rolls his eyes, but his expression softens. Huaisang tips his head back and laughs, suddenly spinning Guangyao toward Mingjue who catches his hand smoothly, exchanging it for Qingyang’s. Mingjue’s grin is impossible to resist, and a smile, one with dimples that reaches his eyes, settles on Guangyao’s face, and he shakes his head with a reluctant laugh. Mingjue’s face, which Xichen knows so well, shifts just slightly, from watchful hawk to satisfied cat, and he ruffles Guangyao’s hair as the song seems to finally end.

Xichen wonders. He wonders if Huaisang and Mingjue worked together to coax Guangyao out of his bleak mood. He wonders why. He wonders if there is something else here, a more complicated set of steps here than Xichen can comprehend.

As the night wears on, the crowd grows ever larger, including nearly every member of the Ikarahu encampment. Ale flows freely, the food tastes even more delicious grilled over huge open fires, and Mingjue convinces Xichen to try dancing again. It does not go any better than his first try, and in retaliation, Xichen trods on Mingjue’s toes. This is also unsuccessful, as Mingjue merely stops dancing and wraps his arms around Xichen, kissing him until his knees are weak and he forgets the whirling, swirling tumult around him.

“I’m ready for bed,” Xichen whispers to Mingjue.

Mingjue tightens his embrace and rests his forehead against Xichen’s. “After fireworks?” he asks hopefully.

Xichen nods, unable to resist the sweet, boyish grin. He traces one dimple with his thumb and Mingjue inhales, turning his face to Xichen’s palm. Xichen slips his fingers over Mingjue’s ear, into his hair, down the strong line of neck, and Mingjue sighs.

“Or now,” he says, voice husky, and Xichen chuckles.

“Now,” he agrees, taking Mingjue’s hand and leading him back through the crush of people where they run directly into Huaisang and Guangyao.

“Anakau! Xichen!” Huaisang hands Mingjue a bottle. “You have not toasted our mother with me! It’s tradition!”

Thwarted, Xichen can do nothing but take the bottle Guangyao offers him and raise it.

“Di ika gati,” Huaisang and Mingjue say the obviously familiar words together. “Sika galio, em inga oduna!”

Shaking his bottle at Guangyao and Xichen, Huaisang repeats the whole thing again—to long life, swift horses, and blue skies—until they join in.

Huaisang and Guangyao finish their bottles, and Xichen hands Mingjue the rest of his. He already feels lightheaded, and he doesn’t want to be drunk.

“What is your mother like?” Guangyao asks, surprising everyone. He looks like he regrets his words, though, and tenses as if preparing to run. “Does she enjoy this festival?”

Huaisang furrows his brow and answers the second question first.

“She endures it because my father loves it. Truly, she is the most generous person I know and the most terrifying.” An unconscious smile tilts his mouth. “She’s clever and stubborn and ambitious. She is not a soft mother, but she is wonderful. She would have been an exceptional ahukau, but she doesn’t like…” he looks at Mingjue for confirmation, “Being in the front of the room?”

“She is called Kiri’anata,” Mingjue offers. “It means…” He wiggles one hand and uses his other hand to move it around.

Huaisang laughs. “It means Shadow Hand,” he fills in, and Mingjue nods agreement.

Guangyao looks unusually confused. “It is known that she rules from behind your father?”

Huaisang shrugs. “They rule together, as partners. It’s not one or the other. They’re necessary to each other.”

Xichen can’t imagine what it must be like to have parents who love and respect each other. Who value each other.

He looks at Guangyao, who is staring at the ground, his expression a wholly neutral, blank mask Xichen recognizes from wearing it so often himself. Like now, when he is trying not to think of the treaty that forced Mingjue into this relationship or now, when he is trying not to think about what it means that Mingjue is the crown prince of his country and he is only Xichen.

“She is loved for who she is,” Mingjue adds, threading his fingers through Xichen’s.

“She is,” Huaisang agrees. “All the good and the difficult. Sometimes so difficult.” Huaisang’s eyes dance, and he laughs lightly, but he is watching Guangyao’s pensive, unchanging expression.

Huaisang is always watching everyone, Xichen thinks. Whatever he’s looking for, whatever it means to him, it’s too great a mystery for Xichen to puzzle out today. There is something else he would rather be doing.

“We’re leaving,” Xichen announces and turns, pulling Mingjue behind him. He looks back once to see Guangyao finally look up and meet Huaisang’s eyes without flinching.

The fireworks begin just before they reach Xichen’s tent, and the explosions reverberate through him, numbing his fingers and toes. Mingjue slows, intending to watch, but Xichen pulls him on, tugging off his coat before they’re even in the tent.

“Xichen,” Mingjue murmurs, cupping Xichen’s face in his hands, gentle as always. “What was your mother like?”

It isn’t what Xichen expected, but he says the first thing, the easiest, truest thing.

“She was beautiful.”

Xichen pauses and thinks. He seldom talks about his family. He rarely even talks about his former home. It has seemed like a necessary separation of the two halves of his life. And until now, Mingjue has never asked.

Xichen chooses this, too. He can not have a future without sharing his past.

“She told my brother and I stories of monsters and heroes. Stories of carp who became dragons, tigers who granted wishes,” Xichen says, smiling at the memories. “We played the guqin together. She was a healer. When we were boys, she taught my brother and I how to befriend the rabbits in the woods, although my brother was always more patient than me. Only the bravest rabbits would let me feed them.”

Mingjue laughs. “Ani, you are very fearsome, my bright heart.” He kisses Xichen’s forehead softly, lingering in the embrace. “Huan, will you tell me one of these stories?”

What can he do but agree?

Xichen undresses Mingjue, and Mingjue undresses him, and they lay together in bed, legs tangled, Mingjue’s head on Xichen’s shoulder. Xichen tells him a story of a magical carp who granted bigger and more magnificent wishes to a man and his wife until the last wish was too greedy, too selfish, and the carp took everything away again.

“Tiras mau, Ahora’ipa,” Mingjue says drowsily, and Xichen smooths a hand over his hair and down his shoulder, listening to the sound of his breathing even out into sleep.

Love is such a surprise, Xichen muses before he, too, falls asleep. It is a wonderful and perplexing surprise. Whatever their future holds, if he were to repeat the past, he would gladly pledge his heart and life, his honor and obedience to this man again, even if only in a treaty and not a true marriage contract. It is enough. Xichen curls deeper into the safety of Mingjue’s arms feeling lucky to have this much of him, his love and affection, and he will not wish for more, in case there comes a day he wants too much, and it is all taken away again.

Chapter Text

It didn’t take long for Xichen to find Huaisang leaning on a hitching post, watching a herd of horses gallop through the valley on the north side of the encampment. If Xichen hadn’t fully appreciated it when he had first arrived, by now, he understood how seriously the Ikarahu took their horses.

There were four herds, divided for safety and for grazing, and during this winter armistice, the hostlers moved them in a circle between the camp and across the plains to find new pastures in the mornings and afternoons. Between the fields, they ran the horses to preserve their strength, to discourage infighting, and, Xichen heartily believed, because it was so spectacularly beautiful to watch.

He stood silently with Huaisang for a while, the horses a patchwork of color in the distance.

“I never really wanted to come on this campaign,” Huaisang said as the herd thundered in a circle toward them.

If Xichen had not seen them do this before, he would have been terrified to be standing in their path. As they always did, though, the riders driving this river of horseflesh turned the group with shouts and flashing whips. The horses banked, slowing as they swept past Huaisang and Xichen so closely, Xichen could almost have reached out and grazed his hand along their silky flanks. It was only the appearance of danger, though, and the riders were always in control, guiding the horses whether they realized it or not. The herd slowed as they approached the corrals on the western edge of the camp. Xichen knew they would be walked now, and each would be groomed and brushed and cared for as diligently as though they were people.

“Why did you?” Xichen asked, pressing Huaisang about his mood more than he usually would.

Huaisang sidestepped, dodging what Xichen was truly asking. “I couldn’t say no. I will finish what we started but...I’m ready for something else.”

He sounded unusually discouraged, and Xichen patted his hand. He couldn’t think of calming words for Huaisang when his own thoughts were filled with clanging anxiety, spinning eddies of ice and snow. He was afraid he didn’t have the option of something else, or, if there was something else, Xichen was afraid he wouldn’t like it. Two months ago, he had thought he knew where his life was headed, but now...now he wasn’t entirely sure what Mingjue’s plan was for him. And after seeing such clear evidence that Guangyao’s interests were not merely political, Xichen was worried that some other arrangement might be determined for him. He wished he had someone to talk to. He wished he could talk to Wangji.

“If I wrote to my brother, would you find someone to deliver the letters?” he asked, swallowing the shame of asking a question he should have voiced months ago.

Huaisang tipped his head like his hawk, eyebrows snapping together. “Of course, Xichen. You...we would never keep you from your family.”

Xichen nodded, already planning the words to write. He had taken too long, and he couldn’t even remember what he was waiting for. No, he did know. He hadn’t wanted to face the consequences of leaving and then, later, the difficulty of explaining why he didn’t want to return. He would send letters tomorrow. He didn’t know if his brother would forgive him for leaving or forgive him for his silence, but it was time to find out. He couldn’t spend his life running only in a circle.

A smile flitted across Huaisang’s face, but it couldn’t quite disguise the sadness in his voice. “I miss my family too, Xichen. I miss my home. I know you lived on a mountain, but you have not seen datik like ours. They will take your breath away. Do you know what the sunrise looks like from the top of a mountain?”

For once, Xichen didn’t allow the change of subject to distract him. He pushed back, one act of bravery spurring another. “Why did you leave the tent?”

This time Huaisang’s quirked smile seemed authentic. “I could ask you the same.” He shrugged. “I thought Guangyao would be an opportunity, but I might have been wrong. He is unpredictable and chaotic.”

Unpredictable and chaotic were not words Xichen would have used. He had always thought of Guangyao as cautious and purposeful, if not always fully honest, and he wondered what Huaisang had seen that he hadn’t.

“Qingyang says he has reasons of his own for being here,” Xichen offered, and Huaisang snorted.

“Of course he does. But his actions don’t make any sense.” Huaisang paused and chewed thoughtfully on his lip. “Not as far as I can tell. If he is a spy…well, if I was a spy, I would do things differently. And if I was a prisoner, I would also do things differently.”

“Was your mission with the bridge a success?” Xichen asked, wondering if that was what Huaisang was referring to. He also found it strange that Guangyao would help the Ikarahu.

“Yes, it was,” Huaisang answered with a frown. “I am certain it was.”

He pulled his kitingi fan from his belt and snapped it open, spinning it in circles, flipping it between his hands, obviously pondering something. Xichen watched and waited, but with a sigh and a frown, Huaisang eventually put the fan away. His most glib smile settled on his lips, a smile meant to hide his true thoughts, and Xichen knew the conversation was over.

“Shall we make anakau suffer a little longer? We don’t get many sunny days, and I feel like a ride.”

Xichen’s lips twitched. He would not have worded it quite that way, and yet...

“What a remarkable idea, anati. I haven’t ridden in days,” he agreed and together, they trailed along behind the horses all the way back to camp. Xichen audaciously borrowed Mingjue’s black mare and followed Huaisang in a pounding gallop across the hard-packed plains.

Xichen had become a skilled rider by now—not as confident as any of the Ikarahu, but adept enough to let muscle memory keep him on the horse’s back while the pace and the cold cleared his mind and settled his doubts. He thought about his future. He thought about what he needed and what he was willing to give up. And he thought about whether he was a coward who would walk away or a man who would fight for what he wanted.

By the time Xichen returned to his tent, he was tired and sated in a way he had not felt in some time, and he was able to shove aside the flood of anxiety that tried to whirl back when he saw Mingjue waiting for him. Mingjue was barefoot, braids loose around his shoulders, wearing only pants, and Xichen was absolutely certain Mingjue intended to look as irresistible as possible. He had not miscalculated. Xichen wanted him immediately, wanted to claim every part of him.

Well, why should he not?

Throwing his belt and coat on the floor, he reached Mingjue in three long strides and pushed him back onto the bed, straddling his hips and kissing him with teeth and fangs. He gripped the flesh of Mingjue’s shoulder with one hand, fingers agile from playing the guqin. The other hand, strong from wielding a sword, wrapped around Mingjue’s thigh and Xichen ground down on him, hard enough that Mingjue hissed, cupping his hands around Xichen’s buttocks and arching under him.

Xichen’s heart sang as Mingjue matched his force and ardor without question. He only tried to roll Xichen over once, his voice already halfway to pleading, but Xichen didn’t relent. If he belonged to Mingjue, then Mingjue would also belong to him.

When Mingjue was desperate, bucking wildly underneath him, Xichen kicked off his pants without bothering to fully undress and crawled forward.

“Open your mouth, ahoraho,” he said, relishing how eagerly Mingjue obeyed.

Xichen caressed his face, the straight slope of his nose, the lines around his eyes, the creases in his cheeks that hid the dimples he loved so much as he fucked Mingjue’s willing mouth. Mingjue’s hands on Xichen’s hips urged Xichen to thrust harder, and Xichen did, wanting to mark every piece of Mingjue as his, his, his.

Before the gnawing ache of climax could overtake him, Xichen grabbed a handful of Mingjue’s braids and yanked, angling his head back and wresting a moan from Mingjue that vibrated around his cock and through his gut. Mingjue’s fingers dug into Xichen’s back as he sucked him further into his mouth, forcing his cock against the back of his throat, sending sparks shooting through Xichen’s entire body. With a satisfied groan, Mingjue swallowed, once, twice, the tension nearly keeling Xichen over. The third time Mingjue swallowed, the tightly bruising band around Xichen's heart released its grip, and he saw stars dancing in his eyes as the world dissolved in a white cloud of pleasure.

Xichen was dimly aware of falling to the side, closing his eyes to bathe in the fading warmth that still pulsed through him. Mingjue curled tightly around Xichen whispering endearments, stroking his hair, nuzzling his neck. He used the other hand to unfasten Xichen’s robes and rubbed his stomach when he finally got them undone. Xichen almost laughed at how much of him Mingjue was trying to touch at once.

“Ah, Xichen, I am sorry. I know I should not tease,” Mingjue murmured, soft breath tickling Xichen’s ear. “But I love when you are fierce.”

“You meant for me to be jealous so I would…ravish you?” Xichen asked. He couldn’t decide if he was annoyed or not. Maybe a little annoyed.

Mingjue snuggled closer to Xichen, and despite his pique, Xichen turned toward the scent of earth and cedar.

“I did not mean it, but I did not dislike it. You shine like the sun when you are defending what is yours, my bright heart.” Mingjue’s hand reached the arch of Xichen’s hip bone and traced the line lower.

“Do you want him as a lover?” Xichen asked, trying to sound as though it didn’t matter, but it did matter. In that moment, it was the only thing that mattered.

Mingjue leaned up on one elbow to regard him, his perceptive expression reminding Xichen that for all his gentle ways, he was not a fool.

“No. If he had come to me before you, I might have...considered it,” he answered cautiously. “But he did not, and so it is no matter. There is only you now.”

Mingjue’s expression shifted, as if he wanted to say more. Xichen wondered if he would ask the same question.

“If you wish him, or wish us both, I will not argue, aitapaho,” he said finally, his fingers skimming circles on Xichen’s chest.

Xichen intended to deny it immediately, but something about Mingjue’s expression gave him pause. It was unusually guarded and neutral, and Xichen felt he owed him honest consideration.

It was true that Guangyao was attractive, intelligent, cultured—all the things Xichen would have looked for in a partner or second spouse when he was heir to the Cloud Recesses, difficulties with inheritance and politics aside. Perhaps if he was a better man, Xichen thought, he would be generous enough to share Mingjue with someone he liked well enough. But he was certain he didn’t have that kind of unselfishness in him.

Xichen knew the unpredictability of war, even if he preferred not to think of it. He knew the Ikarahu would return to the mountains someday. He knew eventually, things would change between him and Mingjue. Whatever time they had together, Xichen wanted to keep it for himself.

And then, of course, there was Huaisang. Xichen still wasn’t certain what the extent or truth of Huaisang’s interest was, but he did not wish to cause any impediment if it was real.

“I do not. He is not you, ahoraho,” Xichen said, taking Mingjue’s hand and kissing the knuckles, touching the tiny nicks and scars from years of carrying a sword and pulling a bow. “No one is you.”

Mingjue threw his leg over Xichen and rubbed against him, hard still or hard again, his fingers trembling in Xichen’s hair. “I want to see you ride me tonight, Huan. Every night. You, and no one else.”

He should be past blushing at Mingjue’s shameless words, but Xichen knew his cheeks had reddened, and he was chagrined to realize that he was as insatiable as Mingjue. He retrieved the bottle of oil and climbed on top of Mingjue’s solid form, to let him be a bulwark against all of Xichen’s uncertainty. He wanted to trust this love, at least.

Leisurely, meticulously, he pulled his robes off, basking in the light of Mingjue’s heated gaze. With a slow smile of his own, he poured oil onto his hand, slicking his fingers.

“I will,” he agreed. “But first, I want to taste you, ahoraho.” He kissed Mingjue’s throat, raking teeth across his collarbone, licking the salt from his skin and trailing his lips in a path down his broad chest. 

“And touch you.” Xichen slid back to straddle the hard muscle of Mingjue’s thighs, rubbing his thumb across Mingjue’s lips, pushing between them when they parted. Mingjue closed his eyes with a muted whimper, biting down, the hard tip of his tongue asking Xichen for more. 

“And hear you,” Xichen said, before he agreed to more, closing his hand around the hot velvet of Mingjue’s cock with a rough, decisive stroke. He did, indeed, love the sounds Mingjue made, the faltering exhale of Xichen’s name, a rumbling moan, the quickening of his breath.

This is what I never knew I always wanted, Xichen thought, lips and hands stoking the smoldering fire in Mingjue’s eyes. To be yours and no one else’s, he thought, settling back and joining their bodies agonizingly, sublimely slowly. As you are mine, and no one else’s, he thought, smiling with love, exulting in the satisfaction of their union.

Chapter Text

Huaisang is a more skilled archer than he has admitted, Xichen thinks. Perhaps not as exceptional as Mingjue or Wei-gongzi, but then, Xichen has never seen either of them shooting arrows as drunk as Huaisang is right now. Truly, it is a miracle he is standing, much less hitting anywhere near the center of the target with swift, fluid pulls.

In the last few days, since Hatapi, something has changed in the Ikarahu encampment. Xichen can’t explain it, but instead of feeling as though the army was content to sit in one place, there is a sense of anticipation. The people who live on the outer edges of the camp are being shifted, their tents packed and their belongings moved into tents closer to the center of camp. The kitchens are salting and drying meat and fish. But the most obvious sign is that the fields of grain and plots of vegetables the Ikarahu had taken from the local Lanling farmers are no longer being prepared for planting. It seems like the Ikarahu are planning to leave.

But Xichen has lived here long enough to know the Ikarahu will not retreat so meekly, and so he does not believe what he sees. The companies who do patrol wear more armor and take more arrows. There are whispered conversations and late night meetings. The smiles and camaraderie Xichen is so used to seeing in the commissary and dining tents has been replaced by quick, tense meals. Something is happening that worries him.

And Huaisang is still shooting arrows. That worries him too.

“Anati?” Xichen asks, pulling his coat tighter around him. “Can we go inside now?”

“Count the arrows, Xichen. How many are left?” Huaisang slurs, looking up at him and swaying, and Xichen sighs. He would lie, but he suspects Huaisang already knows the answer.

“Six,” he says, and Huaisang nods.

“In six arrows, we can go inside.”

When the nervous Ikarahu soldier had come to his tent and told him an inebriated Oringa’anhu Ikira had asked for him, Xichen had expected to find Huaisang drunk in one of the taverns, or possibly laying on his own floor. He had not expected to be standing outside at twilight in the bitter cold. There are half a dozen bottles of ale on the ground, an astonishing amount, even for Huaisang. Xichen doesn’t know why he is drunk, because Huasiang will not explain why he is drunk, so Xichen waits patiently for his friend to tire himself out.

After five arrows, Huaisang drops the bow, lurches forward, and Xichen catches him before he hits the ground. Tears are falling from his eyes—from emotion or from the cold, Xichen can’t tell—and Xichen carries him back to his tent.

“Anati, what’s wrong?” Xichen asks, setting Huaisang on the couch and getting him water from a porcelain pitcher.

If Xichen’s tent is beautifully decorated, Huaisang’s is an expertly curated masterpiece. He has an eye for fine art and sculpture, and even the water basin in the corner is a priceless antique. Xichen doesn’t come here often. It is hard for him to see these treasures and know they were taken from people—his people—the Ikarahu have conquered. He asked once, and Huaisang had looked grim and told him they were payment. Xichen had not asked again.

Huaisang takes the water and pulls his feet up. He looks smaller and younger than he is, and nearly all of his hair has come loose from his braid. Xichen unties the braid and begins to re-plait it. Braids signify more to the Ikarahu than Xichen had first realized. Not only is touching them an intimacy shared only with family and close friends, he now knows that Huaisang’s single braid is a mark of his position in the same way Mingjue’s many braids are. A warrior counts victories. But Huaisang is a strategist, and this one plaited crescent that starts at his forehead and curves over his scalp means he does not have to prove himself in battle.

“Xichen, would your people hate us if we kept Bujing Shi?” Huaisang asks unexpectedly, leaning into Xichen’s hands like an affectionate kitten.

It is in no way what Xichen thought Huaisang would say, and it seems unlikely to be the root of his mood, but Xichen considers it. Bujing Shi is the largest city within Qinghe, and from what Xichen understands, had been utterly devastated by the Ikarahu.

“I can not say if they would hate you, but Qinghe is a valuable territory with much of the greatest mining in the country. Metals and precious stones are Ikara’s primary exports as well, are they not? It would give Ikara a great deal of control over one industry,” he muses, thinking out loud. “I do not believe the child emperor would allow the Ikarahu to hold even a part of that region unchallenged.”

Huaisang nods ponderously, and seconds tick by quietly as Xichen’s fingers work.

“I made a mistake,” Huaisang whispers, so softly, Xichen almost doesn’t hear him. “No, not a mistake. I don’t make mistakes, but...I did a stupid thing, and I said a stupid thing.”

“Whatever you did, you can fix,” Xichen reassures him, and it isn’t mere indulgence. Huaisang is rarely incapable.

Huaisang shakes his head, the motion becoming a pendulum swing, wild and out of control, and Xichen twists with him, keeping the braid in his hands. “No, no, he thinks I only lie, and he doesn’t believe me. My mouth...my stupid mouth…”

Ah, he must have argued with Guangyao today, and whatever it was about—it ran the gamut from horse feed to map ink—must have grown more heated than usual. It is unlike Huaisang to be unkind; he is usually too careful for truly harsh words. And Guangyao is usually too proud and self-contained to express hurt, even when he feels it. Perhaps Huaisang’s maudlin is only melodrama related to the drinking.

“Would you like me to speak with him? It can not be as bad as you think.”

Huaisang nods, then shakes his head, twisting to grab the front of Xichen’s robes and look up at him with red eyes. “I do lie. But I didn’t lie. Well, I did, but I’m not. It’s not a mistake. I don’t like him,” he says earnestly, as though it is Xichen who needs to believe him. “It doesn’t matter. I know. I’ve always known. And it doesn’t matter. It never did. But it really doesn’t.”

Now Xichen is sure that the problem is mostly inebriation. Huaisang isn’t making any sense.

“If they would...if those damn stubborn Jins would just...I want to go home, Xichen.” It comes out as a whine, and Xichen rubs a hand over Huaisang’s head.

“Anati, go to sleep, and I will speak with Guangyao.” He uses his firmest voice, and Huaisang obeys, reluctantly dragging himself to his bed and falling into it face first.

For once, Xichen misses the Cloud Recesses prohibition on alcohol. Taking care of drunk friends is challenging, especially when they are unhelpful. He pulls off Huaisang’s boots and rolls him onto his back.

Huaisang looks up at him with wide, vague, red-rimmed eyes. “I had a plan, but...I’m sorry...I had...I should have asked...not fair…”

He swallows like his tongue is in the way of the words he wants to say, and Xichen lays a hand on his head, filling him with golden warmth and sleep.

“We’ll fix things tomorrow, anati,” he says softly, and Huaisang closes his eyes with a sigh, a heavy, relieved sigh. Xichen hopes it’s not a lie. He covers Huaisang with a blanket before extinguishing the light spell and leaving him, already snoring, to find Guangyao.

He is in the first place Xichen looks, but for a moment, Xichen is not sure he’s in the right place. Guangyao’s tent is immaculate. All the papers and books have been put away, all the brushes set in their stands, all the blankets folded. All but two of the dishes are stacked neatly on the table. The only thing that still looks messy is the bed Guangyao is huddled on.

“Guangyao? Do you need anything,” Xichen asks hesitantly, and then he notices the liquor bottle clutched in Guangyao’s hand.

He sighs and fills a cup of water from the basin, handing it silently to Guangyao. He sits up to take it, peering into the cup to avoid Xichen’s eyes. He looks—rumpled. He is always so fastidious and yet his robes are askew, gaping at the neck, his hair is tangled, and he smells of alcohol.

“You should know better than to take anything Huaisang says too seriously,” Xichen says.

Guangyao’s laughter is harsh and choking. “Oh I do know, Zewu-Jun. I absolutely do not believe a word he ever says. It is a strict policy.”

“Was he very unkind?”

Xichen hates to pry, but he has never seen either of his friends so overwrought, and they have to get along for a little longer, at least. He frowns at the reminder that Guangyao’s three months are nearly up, and Xichen isn’t sure what will happen to him after that. He hopes the man will stay; it’s hard to imagine how different his life—their lives—will be if Guangyao leaves. He is contradictory and full of sharp places, but he is clever, funny when he wants to be, and in his other life, Xichen thinks, when he was still heir to the Cloud Recesses, he would have been proud to call Guangyao a true friend. Xichen hopes that in this life, he will still have that chance.

“No. He was not.” Guangyao says the words as though they are sour in his mouth, and then looks at Xichen with a pleading expression. “I thought it would be...generous...I invited Huaisang for dinner. Because I...we...I disagreed with his plan for Qinghe. He wants to keep Bujing Shi, which is unreasonable. I was...rude. Sometimes I am rude. But he is so stubborn and frustrating. And yet he still brought a bottle of wine.”

He brandishes the bottle, and Xichen nods placating agreement, tucking an arm behind his back to listen. This is an astonishing amount of intemperate words, and he does not want to interrupt.

Guangyao closes his eyes and fights to compose himself. He doesn’t open his eyes, even though he keeps talking.

“It was good wine, Xichen. Jin wine. He said my family was foolish for sending me away, and I deserved better. He doesn’t know. He can’t know. His father has always loved and respected him. But it was...it was kind of him to say, and I...I made a mistake, a foolish mistake. My father would not be proud.”

Guangyao drops the bottle, and it thumps in a circle before hitting his foot. He stares down at it, furrowing his brow.

“I don’t understand him. I understand you, and I understand Chifeng-Zun, but I don’t understand Huaisang. I don’t like Huaisang. I don’t. He tells me...things...things that aren’t true...he tells me that he knows, and then he tells me it doesn’t matter.” The words turn into a harsh staccato, and they seem painful and forced. “He can’t know. Not everything he thinks he does. So how can I believe that it doesn’t matter? Thus,” he spreads unsteady hands in a wide arc, finally looking at Xichen, “the policy of not believing anything Oringa'anhu Ikira says.”

Xichen is fairly sure he only understands half of what Guangyao is saying. His rambling makes as little sense as Huaisang’s did.

“Do you not also keep secrets?” Xichen asks gently. He doesn’t need to ask if Guangyao lies.

“Of course,” Guangyao huffs, ignoring the distinction. “That is how I know he lies.”

Xichen knows he is too trusting, too willing to believe in other people’s goodness, but it seems like such a burden to never have faith in anyone.

“Yao-ti, I am sorry,” he says, not apologizing for Huaisang, but for the sadness of his cynical friend. Without thinking, he pulls Guangyao up into a hug.

Guangyao is as still and rigid as a tree for a heartbeat too long, and Xichen regrets his impulsiveness. Guangyao has never been comfortable with the open affection of the Ikarahu. Xichen starts to let go, but with a sigh, almost like resignation, Guangyao takes Xichen’s face in his hands and kisses him.

Chapter Text

Xichen has never kissed anyone but Mingjue. He is at first too shocked to react, and then an intrigued, analytical side of his mind registers the differences, the unaccountable differences. Guangyao tastes like salt and wine. He is less demanding than Mingjue in some ways, but there is a fierce intensity in him, like a darting fox on the prowl. Instead of the inexorable heat of Mingjue’s passion, Guangyao’s mouth and hands are the tantalizing flutter of wings, a brush of eyelashes across Xichen’s skin. What does it mean, Xichen wonders, that he is not repulsed by kissing Guangyao as he suspects he should be?

Guangyao makes a soft sound of surprise in the back of his throat and slides his arms around Xichen’s neck, pressing forward with his hips, pushing him back further, and Xichen realizes his intent. With a clanging gong of clarity, it stops being an entertaining experiment. Even if he is distantly curious about what it would be like to bed someone else, it is less appealing without Mingjue to share it with. And no abstract reward is worth this risk to Mingjue’s trust, to Xichen's family’s treaty or—Xichen is now fairly certain—to Huaisang’s heart. It is no hardship to plant his feet and untangle Guangyao’s arms from around his neck.

“Guangyao, stop. You’re drunk.” Xichen murmurs, cupping his hands around Guangyao’s shoulders and pushing him gently away. Tousled and flushed, Guangyao looks hurt and vulnerable, and Xichen has a flutter of regret. But this close, he can see a faintly purpling mark on Guangyao’s neck, on the soft skin just under his jawline. “And I do not think you truly want me, do you?”

“You underestimate your appeal, Xichen,” Guangyao says, with a charming smile, smoothly shifting from brittle and aching into an openly flirtatious man Xichen is even less familiar with. He skims slim and agile hands over Xichen’s chest, hooking one finger in the neck of Xichen’s tunic. “I am not too drunk to know what I want.”

“What purpose does this serve?” Xichen asks, truly mystified. There seems to be no value in seducing the Ikarahu commander’s lover, and he is not so vain as to imagine Guangyao does anything without value.

Guangyao blinks slowly at him, glancing up through downcast eyelashes, and his smile holds an enticing promise. Xichen isn’t as immune to the seduction as he ought to be and he moves back a step, putting space between him and this dangerous version of Guangyao.

“Perhaps I am lonely, Xichen,” Guangyao says, taking a half-step toward Xichen. “Ipira’orhew Ikira has made it clear he will not be alone with me, which is flattering, but unhelpful. You, though, are beautiful and, I think, not so uninterested.”

He tips his chin up, lips parting slightly, the invitation clear. Xichen is tired of being the only one who doesn’t seem to know the rules or stakes of this game he is somehow a part of. Unhelpful, Guangyao had said. What did he mean by unhelpful? It seems an important key to unlocking this puzzle, so Xichen accepts the offer, letting Guangyao’s lips meet his and trying to ignore the hands circling his waist.

“How could I possibly be helpful to you, Yao-ti?” he murmurs against Guangyao’s mouth, and Guangyao draws back with a frown, his spine straightening. Xichen expects him to lie or deflect, but instead, Guangyao’s response is unfortunately straightforward.

“Help me.” He lifts his chin and looks Xichen in the eyes, which does not reassure Xichen in the least. “Help me find a way to send the Beifeng home or extend the armistice while my father builds an army great enough to defeat them.”

Xichen steps back, this time more firmly, this time with fear. He had so hoped that Guangyao’s aim was only personal and not political, but of course he was wrong. Of course the Jin chief would not send his son to the Ikarahu without an ulterior motive. Xichen’s father had not, although at least his father was forthright with his goal.

“What you are asking of me...Guangyao, it would endanger…” Xichen is unwilling to share the extent of his fear, and he is uncertain of how this Guangyao will react. “It would endanger the treaty with my clan.”

“If we are successful, it will not matter,” Guangyao says, a strange light in his eyes, and his right hand clenches unconsciously. “Please, Xichen. You do not understand. There is nothing else I can do. I am running out of time, and I am running out of options. I can not fail here.”

Xichen does understand, actually. Perhaps they had not intended to kill him, but Xichen suspects Guangyao’s father has already sent him an impatient message about the consequences of failure. Xichen feels a well of sympathy for Guangyao, but...

“What have you done already?”

Guangyao stiffens, and Xichen is so afraid of the answer, whether it is a truth or a lie.

“Nothing. I have done nothing, which is the problem, Xichen. I have sent my father one message, and his answer was...not satisfied. But I can not...there is no delay he will accept.”

Xichen can not imagine how Guangyao could have sent his father a message without Huaisang noticing. But then he knows. It is the only answer that fits.

“The bridge?”

Guangyao picks up a book, an account ledger, sitting neatly on a shelf and turns it over in his hands, brushing fingers across the rough leather, a tight expression pinching the corners of his mouth into a flat line. “The Ikarahu magic is unique, Xichen. Fascinating and powerful in such a different way than our people’s. My father does not think it holds danger. He values only foot soldiers and cavalry, but...he needed to see. It is a factor to consider if he is to build an army.”

Xichen wonders how intentional it was that tricking the Ikarahu into putting their magic on display also cost Guangyao’s father a bridge, a supply route, and provisions.

“Even if your father can launch a successful attack, the Ikarahu will not turn tail and go home without what they came for,” Xichen points out. “They will fight.”

Guangyao slams the book down, his voice turning bitter and angry. “Do you even know what they came for, Xichen? What they started a war for? What your family sold you for?”

Xichen shakes his head. “Does it matter? You know, do you not? Do you think it unimportant?”

He is angry now too, and frustrated by the lies and secrets of war. It seems like a child’s game of keepaway, and Xichen feels like an unwitting pawn. This time, he will not be used.

“You do not have to stay here, Guangyao. Mingjue will send you home in a week, and you can play maka from the comfort of Jinlin Tai. I will not endanger my family on your word, and…” He squares his shoulders, making a choice. “I will not sacrifice my own happiness for the Jin.”

“Then you have killed me as surely as if you speared me through the heart here and now. My father will not accept anything but success from his eldest son. I have no choice but to do whatever it takes. Whatever I must to be welcomed back home.” His tone has a vicious bite, but inexplicably, a tear slides down his cheek, and he turns away.

“Does inheriting the Jin clan mean so much to you?” Xichen asks. “You have another choice. You could choose to stay with people who care about you.” He ventures into deeper water. “You could choose to stay for Huaisang.”

Guangyao whirls on Xichen, bursting with unconcealed outrage. “How could you possibly understand? Your life in the Cloud Recesses was a dream. A sheltered fantasy. A family who loved you, a clan that respected you, a mother whose memory you were allowed to cherish? You have always had the privilege of your status and position, and you have never known what it was to fear for tomorrow.”

The words twist with venom in Guangyao's mouth, and Xichen is stunned, taken aback by the accusations he doesn’t understand. They are both the privileged eldest sons of their fathers, both given away to buy peace. Of course he has known despair. Of course he has known fear. Yet, Guangyao’s fury is so raw, Xichen senses he’s missing something vital.

“I am as much a subordinate here as you are, and unlike you, I can never go home,” Xichen reminds him, and Guangyao’s brow furrows before he laughs, as brittle and bleak as the winds that shear through the camp.

“Are you truly that ignorant, Xichen? You are the edas ahora, the beloved husband of Ipira’orhew Ikira, and I assure you, he takes that definition seriously. Ahora’ipa is not a military title like Zewu-Jun, it is a bestowed honor, the acknowledgement of a relationship so dear it has a name. Did you think they were only words? That they meant nothing more than sound? Why would you want to go home, when clearly, your fortune here is never ending, aitapaho?”

He bites off the sentence with a jagged snap, turning the endearment into a curse. Xichen ignores both the spiteful words and the words that twist in painful hope. They’re only a distraction, he thinks, a veil to hide the truth. Until now, he hadn’t been sure, but Guangyao’s determination to hurt him, to turn his eyes away, has convinced him.

“Your fortune could be the same as mine, I suspect. Why can you not accept Huaisang’s affection as real?” Xichen touches the mark on Guangyao’s neck, the darkening love bite he recognizes. “Why can you not accept that your feelings matter too?”

Guangyao flushes and meets Xichen’s eyes. “Affection is a liability, Zewu-Jun.”

Xichen has to smile because finally, Guangyao has backed himself into a corner. “If that was true, you would be seducing Huaisang instead of me. I have no power here and no military knowledge. Could it be that you do not want to use him as I know you could?”

The only answer Xichen gets is an irate exhale, and in the silence, Xichen hears something that stops his heart.

The scream of fireworks in battle.

Chapter Text

Part 3: Aunahora

aunahora [ou’nä-hō-rä], noun

Natural or instinctual affection between family members or committed partners

⚔ ⚔ ⚔ ⚔ ⚔

The fireworks bursting overhead sound like Xichen’s unvoiced scream of panic. Without thinking, without waiting to see if he is followed, he runs away from Guangyao’s tent, weaving through camp, headed to the war room he so rarely visits.

The Ikarahu encampment is a writhing mass of men and women pulling on armor, already in armor, running to stations, putting out fires, shielding the injured. Despite his years leading his clan in battle, Xichen has never been on the receiving end of a surprise attack before, and the taste of fear is thick in his throat.

After hours, days, weeks of running, he reaches the tent he seeks. Mingjue is inside with his generals and Huaisang, who looks bleary, but sharp enough. Xichen doesn’t interrupt, but seeing him there safe—seeing them there—safe, is enough. Their eyes meet and Mingjue’s close with an audible sigh of relief before turning back to his meeting. Xichen sags into a chair. He knows he will not be able to rest for long.

The night moves in a blur of stops and starts, a flow of people all around, speaking too quickly to understand, moving too swiftly to follow, and Xichen does his best to fill the gaps of whatever is needed. It’s all he can do.

One by one, the generals leave.

Huaisang leaves too, handing Kitingi to Xichen, and she shifts back and forth on his shoulder, agitated by the noise and fear. He scratches the top of her head and she stills, closing her eyes. He wishes he could ignore the furor as easily.

Mingjue’s shoulders relax a little when the shield is raised, protecting the camp from the barrage of explosives, giving the cavalry time to mount and assemble into formations. Xichen had no idea the Ikarahu could raise a shield large enough to protect the entire camp. He looks out of the tent flap at the dark barrier of magic surrounding them. How many people must this take? He wonders how long it can last.

Qingyang arrives, rolls of maps in her hands, a bag of ink and brushes slung across her shoulder. She only glances at Xichen, but there’s fear in her eyes that chills him. She is writing almost before she sets down her things, drawing the camp and, from what Xichen can see, a vague, empty space where the enemy must be approaching from the south.

One by one, messengers trickle in.

Xichen makes Ikarahu-style tea and sends two of the hovering secretaries to the kitchens. He presses hot cups into the messengers’ cold hands and they drink woodenly, gulping down the thick liquid as though it is a healing elixir.

The secretaries return, carrying baskets of food that can be eaten easily while working or on the run, and Xichen silently hands dumplings and sticks of meat to Mingjue and Qingyang. They accept without looking away from the maps, their discussion of troop movements in Orera too complex for him to follow. Qingyang turns their words into pictures, filling in the enemy army’s movement with quick sketches.

One by one, scouts return with reports.

Xichen hands them cups of water or tea and dumplings tied in cloth to take. He brushes a healing hand over the few with scrapes or arrow scratches too minor to visit the hospital and nods at the murmurs of thanks. Some he sends to the healers, despite their protests. They won’t be much use with broken arms or ribs.

The scouts say the shield is holding and casualties are minimal, but their enemy has dangerous magic they’ve never seen that is destroying arrows as quickly as they can be fired and cloaks their true numbers. The two armies are at an impasse, evenly matched, but the attackers are advancing, slowly but surely.

In a quiet moment when the tent holds only them and Qingyang, Mingjue stops Xichen and wraps him in a hug, which at first, Xichen thinks is for his comfort and then realizes is for Mingjue’s. Mingjue tucks his face against Xichen’s shoulder, breathing in his scent, and Xichen hugs him back.

“Komi auha, Ahora’ipa,” Mingjue whispers, and Xichen isn’t sure what he’s apologizing for, whether it is because of the danger or because he wants to be reassured, or something else. Xichen fills his hands with soothing warmth and presses them to Mingjue’s neck, passing on what strength he can.

Guangyao appears in the door, hesitating until Mingjue beckons him in. He sits next to Xichen instead of joining Mingjue at the table. Xichen raises his eyebrows, but Guangyao only looks down. Even if he knew his father’s plan was to build an army, Xichen does not want to believe Guangyao knew about this attack. Surely he would not have stayed to be a victim if he had known? Xichen thinks Guangyao looks as shocked as everyone else, but...he is no longer certain.

Huaisang returns as dawn is only just starting to spread light into the sky.

He looks at Xichen, looks at Mingjue, and bites his lip with indecision.

“Xichen, anakau, come with me to the front,” he finally says, an unusually sharp, authoritative note in his voice.

Mingjue’s head snaps up, about to countermand his brother, about to remind his brother who leads this army, but he stops at Huaisang’s expression. It is too many things to describe. He looks stunned and angry and sad and curious, all at the same time.

“Anakau, you need to see.” As though it was an afterthought, he adds, “Guangyao, you too.”

Huaisang has brought their horses, and Mingjue raises an additional protective shield around the four of them for their ride to the southeast edge of camp, where Xichen can see fireworks and arrows shattering against the barrier in the sky.

“How far, Aurakat?” Mingjue asks as they approach the shimmering edge of the Ikarahu magic.

But Xichen knows the answer. They are close enough. Even in the shifting dawn, even at this distance, he would know the man on the horse at the head of the attacking army as he knows his own heart.

Wangji has come for him.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Xichen stared numbly at his father, who narrowed his eyes and repeated his words more slowly as though Xichen hadn’t comprehended them.

“Xichen, Wangji is missing. Find him, and ensure he is on time for dinner.”

On time for dinner. What difference did dinner make, Xichen wondered savagely, finally nodding his assent and walking away without a word. He, at least, knew exactly where his brother was, even if his father didn’t.

He did not want to disturb Zhan-di’s grieving, but he knew his father would keep looking, and whatever cousin or uncle found him would not give him space to make his own decision about dinner as Xichen would.

Xichen walked to the outskirts of the Cloud Recesses and picked his way up a winding path to the small cottage that perched on the slope. Every step added weight to his feet, sharp knives under his heels. He did not want to go. He did not want to go. But he wouldn’t leave Zhan-di—he still couldn’t use his brother’s newly-given formal name as his father did—to be found by anyone else.

It was an outrageously beautiful day, the clouds perfect white mounds in a blue sky, the air just the right temperature to be comfortable. Even the air seemed to taste like the first bloom of summer.

It was the worst day in Xichen’s twelve years of life.

The second worst day had been three days ago, the day his mother died. At least he had seen her that day, although she had been too thin and pale. He had held her weak hand and smoothed the hair from her brow. He had told her he loved her. She had smiled at him.

Today was the day they had burned her pyre, giving her back to the earth and the water and the sky. Today was the day she was truly gone.

Xichen ducked under a branch and stepped through a break in the thick jasmine bushes at the back of her house, the house that had been her home, but never allowed to be theirs. He didn’t see Zhan-di at first, not until he walked around the curved stone shaped like a table where they had eaten so many summer lunches.

Zhan-di had made himself as small as possible, arms wrapped around his knees, chin resting on them. There were no tears in his eyes, only a hollowed out bleakness that hurt Xichen even more than weeping would have.

The gathered rabbits scattered when they saw him, but Xichen knew they’d be back if he held still long enough, so he sat next to his brother’s huddled form without touching him. He pulled a few leaves of lettuce from his pocket, scattered them on the ground, and waited.

“How did you find me?” Zhan-di finally asked, after the third rabbit started nibbling a dark green leaf.

Xichen smiled wryly, and he touched his brother’s elbow, squeezing it when Zhan-di didn’t pull away. “Didi, I always can. Besides, I knew you would want to see the rabbits today.”

Zhan-di considered this. He held out a hand to one brave brown rabbit, and it hopped over to sniff him.

“Who is left, Huan-ge?”

Xichen didn’t have to ask what Zhan-di meant. Who is left to feed rabbits with? Who is left to play music with? Who is left to tell stories of pirates and heroes? Who is left to love us? He thought about it before he answered. He wished he had a better answer, but he only had the truth.

“You have me,” he said. “And I have you.”

And then Zhan-di did cry, scattering the rabbits again with his sobs, and then Xichen could hug him, sharing his sorrow as best as he could. He vowed to mean it. He would always find Zhan-di. He always would protect him. He would always tell him the truth.

They would always be brothers.

Chapter Text

“It is my brother,” Xichen whispers, and Mingjue curses.

Huaisang looks grim. “Yes. He has broken the treaty, Xichen. They both have. In force.”

Now Xichen sees that there is someone else riding next to his brother. It must be Wei-gongzi, but his hands are not holding a bow. They hold a flute, Xichen thinks, and an abnormal power, more like the Ikarahu magic, is emanating from him, pressing toward them. Where it touches the barrier, the Ikarahu shield recoils, and in some places, this new magic breaks through before the soldiers holding the shield in place can reinforce it.

Xichen is sick. “How many?”

Huaisang answers absently, still staring at the approaching army. “Three thousand, maybe? Not as many cavalry or archers as we have, but more soldiers.”

No, that isn’t what Xichen meant, and he would rather not have known that answer. “How many casualties, Huaisang?”

Huaisang closes his eyes and doesn’t answer, but Mingjue does, reaching over to take Xichen’s hand, to share the pain of a grievous truth.

“Seventeen. More injured, but few seriously. Xichen…”

“Let me go. Let me stop this,” Xichen whispers. He doesn’t want to hear that this isn’t his fault, when it very clearly is. When none of them react, he says it again, enunciating every word. “Aukas. Auha. Ereda.” He can not sit and watch anyone else harmed, and there seems to be no other way to prevent it.^†

Mingjue looks obstinate, and Huaisang looks dismissive, but Guangyao nods.

“There is no choice. They will break through, and they have an army. A true army. Even if you win, the losses will be enormous. If anyone can stop this bloodshed, it is only Zewu-Jun.” When Mingjue still doesn’t react, Guangyao adds, almost gently, “Do you want to take the chance of killing his brother?”

It’s cruel of him to say it aloud, but it is the truth. Mingjue looks at Xichen with heartache and indecision in his eyes, though, and Xichen thinks he still will not agree. He draws Sikunadis and fills it with power, ready to go anyway, with or without permission and debates how far he can get on Liebing before they catch him, when Mingjue speaks.

“Will you come back?”

Mingjue's voice scratches against the words, breaking at the end, and Xichen squeezes his hand. What can he say? His heart yearns to say yes, but he doesn’t know if it is fair to promise something he is so uncertain of.

No, Xichen decides, lifting Mingjue’s hand to his lips and kissing the knuckles, closing his eyes to breathe in his scent, precious and beloved. He has made so many mistakes and hurt so many people with his reticence and caution. He will make this the truth.

“You are mine, ahoraho. I will come back.”

Closing his eyes, Mingjue nods. “Go.”

“Zewu-Jun!” The sudden apprehension in Guangyao’s voice stops Xichen before he can kick Liebing forward. He frowns, impatient, tempted to ignore him. Guangyao lifts his chin, but almost immediately drops it, looking guilty. “You should know before you go. I...your brother did send a letter. It...was destroyed. My father...Xichen, I am…”

Xichen bites his lip, bites back the fury and the sudden burning need to retaliate. He doesn’t wait to hear whatever explanation or apology Guangyao has, just turns Liebing’s head and whispers, “Sita.”^†

She runs, as fast as the north wind, as light as her name, carrying Xichen through the barrier and across the frozen field between two armies. He lifts Sikunadis, prepared to fight his way through the descending storm of arrows, but in seconds, he realizes he is riding inside a cloud: Mingjue has sent the barrier with him, protecting him as long as he can.

It’s long enough.

Xichen throws himself off Liebing’s back and runs the final few feet into his brother’s arms.

“What have you done?” he snuffles through tears of sorrow, tears of joy.

Wangji laughs—his brother laughs—and hugs Xichen tightly. "You did not think I would let you sacrifice yourself for me, did you?”

Xichen wants to say yes, you should have accepted my gift, wants to tell his brother he is a sentimental fool, but all he can think to do is apologize. “I am sorry, I am so sorry. I should never have deceived you.”

Xichen feels Wangji sigh, and his quiet words, the most beautiful words, are audible near Xichen’s ear. “I forgive you.”

It is a generosity Xichen doesn’t deserve, and he wants to cry. He pulls away and looks at Wangji carefully. He seems—different. He is wearing armor and his hair is knotted high on his head. The controlled restraint that has always lived in his expression has softened. There’s a confidence in his bearing that Xichen hasn’t seen before, and for the first time, he believes he truly did make the right choice seven months ago, for both of them. He smiles at his brother. So little time can make such a difference.

“Wangji, we must talk. This isn’t...it isn’t how it seems. Will you cease fire and draw back?”

Wangji’s eyebrows knit together and he frowns. “Xiongzhang, we violated the treaty. If we stop our attack, the Beifeng will cut us down.”

Xichen shakes his head. “I swear to you, they will not. As long as I am safe, you are safe.”

Wangji looks past Xichen at the Ikarahu barrier and purses his lips thoughtfully. He doesn’t halt the soldiers, though, and Xichen opens his mouth, ready to push, demand, beg, whatever he has to.

“Lan Zhan, invite them to parley.”

Xichen turns to see who made the suggestion, who has used his brother’s most intimate name, and Wei-gongzi smiles cheerfully at him.

“Zewu-Jun, it is a relief to see you safe and well,” he says. He is still holding the black dizi, twirling it idly in his fingers rather than playing it. And yet, Xichen notes distantly, the magic that protects this army persists. “Your brother has been worried. Since we had not heard from you.”

Xichen dips his head, accepting the rebuke. “I never received your letter, Wangji, but it is no excuse. I should have written. I thought…” All of his thoughts seem foolish. “I was wrong.”

Wangji absolves him again without a word, the slight shift of his mouth and brief nod enough for Xichen to know. But silent acceptance is not Xichen’s way anymore, and he hugs Wangji again, laughing despite himself at his brother’s surprise and the weight of guilt that feels lifted from his back.

“Will they parley?” Wangji asks when he lets go, and Xichen answers with certainty.

“Yes.”

Parley is usually a complicated dance of negotiations before either side will even be willing to enter the same room, but Xichen has no time for pride or debate.

“If you will guarantee his safety, I will ask the warlord’s emissary to meet us. He will agree.”

Despite his obvious skepticism, Wangji calls for a cease-fire and sends a messenger with a flag of truce and a letter from Xichen.

Huaisang, will you come to parley?
My brother has sworn to your safety.
I trust him with my life.
I hope you know to trust me with yours.

The reply is one word, given in writing and confirmed by the messenger.

Yes.

A simple and open tent is erected in the field, furnished with chairs and a table, and in the early morning light, Xichen watches the Ikarahu cavalry shift, moving to the front of the shield in front of rows of archers. Trust, but not without contingency.

While they wait, Xichen asks his brother where he found a united army, for it is too large to be comprised of warriors only from Yunmeng and the Cloud Recesses. Wangji doesn't respond, and he looks embarrassed, but Wei-gongzi is only too happy to answer in his stead.

“Your brother,” he says, with obvious pride, “petitioned the emperor. It took six tries. We had to kneel at the palace gates for hours! But the child emperor was so moved by his story of familial love and devotion that he made him a general of the empire and assigned an army to him.”

Wei-gongzi—although Xichen suspects he will be told to call him something less formal soon—squeezes Wangji’s arm affectionately, and something almost like a smile tips the corners of his brother’s mouth.

“You did not have to kneel,” Wangji murmurs, but Wei-gongzi brushes his words away.

“Of course I did. And Lan Zhan is so persuasive, the Yunmeng clan chief allowed me to bring archers to assist,” he adds.

“He is your brother. He would do anything for you,” Wangji protests, but his smile doesn’t fade.

Xichen’s does, however. His mistake is more terrible than he realized. He should have written. He should have written. And now his brother, who has risked so much for him, is in such danger. Xichen knows their father will expect success. The Yunmeng chief will hold him accountable for his people. The emperor will not accept any failure.

“Wangji, I need to tell you something.”

The words clog painfully in Xichen's chest. How can he admit that he does not wish to be rescued, and all Wangji has done is in vain? How can he tell them there is something more happening here, when he isn’t certain what it is, and he doesn’t have the words to explain his suspicions?

But he doesn’t get the chance. Someone calls to Wangji—General Lan—and they all turn to look. At first it seems that Huaisang and two of the Ikarahu soldiers are riding out to the tent.

No. It is Huaisang, Mingjue, and Guangyao. Tears spring to Xichen’s eyes. They are trusting him far more than he expected.

“You must take me with you,” Xichen hisses, and Wangji looks like he will argue.

“The day under the plum tree. When you showed me the letter?” he asks. “Do you remember what you said?” Xichen’s eyes flick to Wei-gongzi, and Wangji nods warily. “The warlord—his name is Mingjue. It is the same...we are the same.”

Wangji’s eyes close with a pained exhale. “I understand. But it does not change our purpose here, xiongzhang. They started a war. The emperor has decided they can not be allowed to continue it, and I will not return you to be a prisoner.”

Turning to Wei-gongzi, Wangji tells him, “Stay here with Zewu-Jun,” and Wei-gongzi grins, a smile with sunshine and steel in it.

“No.”

“Wei Ying,” Wangji pleads. “You must stay with the army, and I can not endanger you.”

“Lan Zhan,” Wei-gongzi says in the same tone, tucking the flute into his belt and lifting his bow. “I don’t care. I’m going. And I think you should take your brother. Somehow, I suspect we’ll be in more danger if we don’t.”

Wangji sighs and his mouth tightens stubbornly, but Wei-gongzi doesn’t give him an option, walking backward in front of him with a lilting, beckoning smile until Wangji shakes his head and follows him to the horses, one arm tucked behind his back.

So they all go to parley, and Xichen hopes he will be able to stop a war.

Chapter Text

They heard reports, reports that couldn’t be true, and yet.

And yet.

They could not be lies, either.

Qishan’s Nightless City was under attack from an invading army, the Beifeng of the northern mountains, a land of rumor and myth. The child emperor had refused to intervene for unknown reasons. The elders of Xichen’s clan held meetings that stretched into the night, meetings Xichen was not permitted to attend. He was, after all, only the heir, he thought bitterly. He was only the leader of the Cloud Recesses’ defenders. And unlike most of his clan, he had actually been to Nightless City recently. What opinion could he possibly have?

When his father asked to speak with him one morning, Xichen became aware of why they had not allowed him in the meetings. Without even pretending to ask his consent, it had been decided that Xichen could no longer leave the city, and his education must now focus wholly on leading his clan. Wangji would take over command of their defenses.

Xichen was not happy.

He had trained his whole life to lead the Cloud Recesses, and he had known that eventually, his father would expect him to leave behind his sword and take his position as clan heir. But there was no sense in making this decision now. Wangji was still a boy, only nineteen, and Xichen had no doubt that his father merely felt Wangji was expendable in a way Xichen was not. He did not fool himself into thinking it was because his father loved him more. However, their clan had certainly invested more time into Xichen’s education, and time was valued. Xichen had been taught negotiation, contracts, treaties, land management, dispute resolution, tax collection, and so much more of the mundanities of leadership. It would be a waste for him to die tragically protecting his home.

Qishan fell.

Ouyang fell.

One by one, clans from the north fled south and east, bringing stories of havoc and fear, but also strange tales of unexpected lenience—clans left untouched, cities passed over. The residents fled anyway, the practical ones, at least, afraid to be caught in the wave of destruction. Some came to the Cloud Recesses, mostly trading partners or allies bound through marriage to sons and daughters of the Lan clan. They could not merely be turned away, as the Cloud Recesses elders intended, so Xichen and Wangji held their own secret late-night meeting and came up with a plan.

“Don’t you see, father?” Xichen explained patiently, “If we allow our allied clans to stay outside the city, they can assist with the harvest and planting, and not only will they feel obliged to protect us from any threat, their existence will act as a buffer to the city. Feeding and sheltering them is only a small token to ensure their cooperation.”

The words felt like poison on his tongue, and he hated using such ugly arguments to protect these scared and homeless people, but he had already discovered that we should care for them because it is the right thing to do was not a winning proposition.

Once his father agreed to let the northern and western clans stay, albeit outside the city gates, Xichen began to send Wangji to other cities to negotiate for supplies. With every successful trip, Xichen saw his brother’s command of the Cloud Recesses warriors change him. They were mostly small changes like a softening around his jaw and the occasional tip of the corner of his mouth. But there was no doubt in Xichen’s mind—having this responsibility and spending so much time outside the city had given Wangji wings.

As summer stretched into autumn, Xichen discovered a shard of selfish jealousy growing his heart. He longed to do something other than write letters and talk to the elders. Some weeks, the most exciting thing he did was mediate land boundary disagreements. He missed the grip of Shuoyue in his hand. He missed using his magic for something other than lighting his path at night. He missed being side by side with his brother.

When Yunmeng responded to Xichen’s request for aid with an entire company of archers, Xichen tried asking his father to let him join the defenses again. He did not have to command, he argued, just participate. How could he send men to die without being willing to fight at their sides?

His father refused.

And so Xichen stagnated in place as he watched his brother move farther and farther away. He could not reconcile wanting his brother to bloom like the first hardy flowers that poked through the snow in spring with his own growing misery at the banal life that stretched before him.

Qinghe fell.

Jinlin Tai was holding, but...it seemed only a matter of time.

Xichen stopped wishing for a different life, and hoped only that he had a future. Any future.

“Xiongzhang?”

Wangji’s soft voice startled Xichen, pulling his gaze back from the window. He had been gone for weeks, scouting the progress of the Beifeng army with a small company of swordsmen and Yunmeng archers. He looked taller, somehow, and his skin was a shade darker, warmed by the early summer sun. If he had always been handsome, Xichen thought, there was a glow that followed him now, making him almost ethereally beautiful.

“I did not know if you were busy?”

It wasn’t like Wangji to sound so hesitant, and Xichen tipped his head, motioning for Wangji to join him at the desk in his receiving room.

“Would you...would you like to have tea? I have...missed you. Father often says you are busy, so...” The corners of Wangji’s eyes crinkled slightly. “I waited for him to be busy to find you.”

Xichen wanted to laugh and cry.

“I am never too busy for tea with my brother,” he said, and Wangji smiled, only a quick flicker, but enough.

What a fool I am, Xichen thought, watching Wangji pour the tea. Of course, they had no choice but to grow up. But growing in different directions was not the same thing as growing apart.

He drank tea and listened to Wangji’s report on the Beifeng army—he did not miss the slightly altered tone of voice when Wangji noted how helpful the Yunmeng archers had been—as thorough and comprehensive as Xichen would have been. Xichen let the pride fill him instead of wallowing in the whispering envy he’d felt for months.

Impulsively, he reached out and touched his brother’s hand.

“I’m glad you’re home, didi. Shall we play a game of maka?”

He could live with this, Xichen decided, as Wangji divided the pieces and set up the board to begin the game. He would care for the needs of his clan here and trust Wangji to keep them safe from the rest of the world. It would not be forever. And this way, he could give Wangji as much time as possible for his wings to grow.

Chapter Text

In some ways, it is like every other parley Xichen has ever attended: quiet, tense, formal. The Ikarahu and Guangyao are seated on one side of the table with guards standing a respectable distance away, Wangji, Xichen, and Wei-gongzi on the other, their guards equally polite. Xichen is the only person who knows everyone, and he introduces them swiftly, without even faltering on Guangyao’s name, although he can’t bring himself to look at the man. But neither side speaks when he is done, and even Huaisang looks uncertain. Finally, Xichen can bear the silence no longer.

“Tell him,” he demands, facing Mingjue. “My brother has risked much to build this army and ride to my rescue, and we are now all in more danger than we were. I do not know every detail, but I know enough. Ahoraho, tell him why you are here, and let us find a solution. Or at least,” Xichen swallows hard, hoping he’s not wrong, “tell me.”

He knows that he’s asking them to trust him again, to open up their past and secrets in front of their enemy, and he suspects this won’t be as straightforward as negotiating mining rights or land grants. He remembers the wedding he went to three years ago and the whispers he’d heard of a scandal. This war, he knows, is personal.

Huaisang sighs. “Ahora’ipa, he wanted to tell you. It was my choice. At first...I didn’t think you’d understand, and then…”

His eyes flick sideways, and Xichen knows what he means. It has turned out to be an unnecessary precaution, in so many ways, and Xichen tries not to be insulted by Huaisang’s mistrust. If anything, Guangyao knows the stakes of this war better than any of them. Xichen seems to be the only person who doesn’t.

Fear—for his brother, for his love, for the lives that will be lost if this madness continues—erupts from Xichen in anger, and he slams his hand onto the table. “There is no other option anymore, Huaisang. Tell me now!”

“Et enikau tou outam. Amarakos,” Mingjue says, eyes red and glistening. “Di opaira ta da epitima aki aitamera.” He ducks his head as the tears fall, and Xichen immediately wants to take back his words.^†

Huaisang translates and continues explaining when it’s obvious Mingjue won’t. Or can’t.

“We had an older sister. Her name was Amarakos, and she fell in love with a visitor to our country. She wished to be married, and…” he shrugs, the gesture more of a flinch than his usual carelessness. “What could our father do but say yes? Amarakos would have married him if he had offered nothing but his name, but she was the beloved daughter of our father and he was the clan leader of Qishan, so a treaty was arranged. Peace between our land and his clan. Horses in exchange for safe trade routes.”

Xichen looks at Guangyao, whose face is no longer blank and unreadable, but clenched and desolate. That, more than anything, tells Xichen how truly awful Huaisang’s next words will be.

“Three years ago, we received word that she had died.”

“Ituraiko ta!” Mingjue roared. “Murdered! By that Wen demon.”^†

Huaisang meets Xichen’s eyes as unflinching as any man who knows he has been wronged. “Her husband, Wen Ruohan, sent us a letter, announcing her death and asking us to continue the treaty regardless. There were rumors almost immediately, but he was our sister’s husband, our brother, and so we could not believe it at first. How could anyone not treasure Amarakos as we did?”

“One of her guard escaped Qishan to return to Ikara,” Mingjue says, anger still roiling in his voice, but his eyes, his bleak dark eyes turn to Xichen, begging him to understand. “Hetu kana ai haki.”^†

“We...investigated. There is no doubt,” Huaisang continues. “Wen Ruohan murdered our sister to marry his current wife, a daughter of the Jin clan chief. I am told the marriage contract was lauded by both parties as advantageous for generations. After Qishan fell, Wen Ruohan, his wife, and much of their clan, found sanctuary in Jinlin Tai.”

He spreads his hands, bitter poison in his eyes. “Amarakos is lost to us forever. And so we wait for the Jin clan to be hungry enough to relinquish Wen Ruohan or for the tower to fall, and we will take him ourselves. Either way, we will not leave without justice.”

It is what Xichen had feared. He had not wanted to pry, hoping they would tell him in their own time, but it is more terrible to hear it from their lips. He understands why they hadn’t told him. He can’t imagine losing his brother to someone he trusted.

“Ahoraho, anati, I grieve for you,” he says.

The words are too small, too inadequate, but Mingjue holds out a hand, and Xichen takes it. He wants to hide himself inside Mingjue’s embrace, to share the burden of sadness, but he can’t leave Wangji’s side, so he only grips the fingers he loves so well tightly across the table.

“You speak of justice, but you started a war to kill one man.” Wei-gongzi’s voice is hard, and Xichen is alarmed to see the flute in his hands. “So many have died for your justice.”

Instead of bristling at the accusation, Mingjue closes his eyes and sighs. “I did not wish to start a war. I came for the husband of our sister with only two hundred men. He sent soldiers against us and magic we did not know.”

He shakes his head, tears falling again, silent markers of grief. “Poa ai outam ei katau eta anis pei. Ahio. Weigia. Ei ekani auha. Roka et hani uta da iru nakan eta munta, gani epa irupo auha.”^†

Huaisang translates before anyone asks. “We lost so many that first month. Friends. Cousins. We were angry. We had no choice but to call the army, but...we have regrets.”

He glances at Mingjue, almost as if he is asking permission, but Mingjue’s eyes are closed, head bowed, so Huaisang adds, “We did inform the emperor of Qishan’s ‘breach of contract,’ although it was...it is an unforgivable insult to consider our sister nothing more than a term of treaty. But it was your way, and so we fulfilled our duty. He made no attempt to prevent us from crossing the mountains.”

His clipped words, so elegant and formal, hide tiny, sharp knives in the ribs.

“You didn’t stop at Qishan, though, did you? Do you regret Qinghe?” Wei-gongzi asks, unrelenting.

“Yes, of course.” Huaisang’s words are still distant and cool, but Xichen hears the slight quaver and wishes Huaisang would just show his pain and anger instead of hiding behind this unfamiliar mask of serenity.

“When Wen Ruohan fled, he traveled through Qinghe and stayed in Bujing Shi. We pursued him with force. We didn’t care what happened. After all, your clans are constantly at war. Why should you care either? But...they weren’t prepared.” He shrugs, and Xichen can see the haunted guilt in the hunch of his shoulders. “It was a mistake. We would...we would make amends if we could.”

Wei-gongzi starts to rise, but Wangji touches his elbow lightly and the man settles on the edge of his chair, frowning, although he puts the flute away. Wangji looks down at the table, and the line of his jaw tightens in thought. Xichen is afraid he’s only made things worse. How could he have thought there could be any peace here?

“I will help you end this,” Guangyao says into the quiet, and everyone turns to look at him, but he is looking at Xichen, unfamiliar regret on his face. “You were right, Zewu-Jun. I owe you...apologies.”

He stands and faces Wangji as a man to a magistrate. “Hanguang-Jun, you know who my father is. What they have said is true. Wen Ruohan’s wife is my half sister and my father’s favorite daughter. They sent me here to report back with information they could use to end the war, if I could, or assassinate Ipira’orhew Ikira if I could not. I choose neither.”

Huaisang and Mingjue don’t look as shocked as Xichen feels, and he realizes that this is what Huaisang had meant. He knew. They knew. They had always known. And...it didn’t matter? Why, why didn’t it matter? Merely because they had known? Had they intended to use him to bargain with the Jin chief? Or had their goal always been to turn the Jin heir against his own father? With what, friendship and trust? Affection and kindness? Love? Which part of this game is real and which is artifice?

Xichen’s thoughts are whirling too swiftly to land on anything he is certain of, but underneath all his questions is a growing fury. Not only has Guangyao lied to him, which doesn’t surprise him, but Mingjue and Huaisang have as well, and made choices for him as his father would have done. He sits back and folds tightly clenched hands in his lap, digging his fingernails into his palm to hold back the wrenching pain in his chest. Even though it seems they had not been wrong, he wants to throttle them both for playing such a dangerous game, for keeping secrets, for risking Mingjue’s life without telling him. Mingjue is on the edge of his chair, leaning toward Xichen, eyebrows drawn together in silent pleading, but before he can say anything, Guangyao’s voice draws his attention.

“Ipira’orhew Ikira. If I help you do this, will you grant me what I ask?” Guangyao asks, focusing only on Mingjue, studying his reaction.

At this, Huaisang’s gaze turns murderous, but Mingjue holds up a hand and answers without hesitation. “Yes. Anything it is in my power to give. Any thing,” he enunciates.

Guangyao nods briskly, as though it is what he expected. “I would like Bujing Shi, and the means to hold it.”

Huaisang stands so swiftly, he stumbles forward. He is still furious, but there is something else, something bewildered and hopeful that overtakes the anger. “Bujing Shi? Why? Guangyao…why?”

Guangyao’s chin lifts the way it always does when he is concealing something, but this time, Xichen thinks it is only the unaccustomed vulnerability of telling the truth.

“It is well known that I am my father’s eldest son, but it is not known that he has ensured I will never inherit Jinlin Tai. My mother was only a third-tier concubine, barely more than a servant, who had the audacity to birth me four hours earlier than his true heir, the son of his first wife, an insult he never let my mother forget.”

Guangyao smiles wanly at Huaisang’s open shock. Apparently Guangyao had been right too. There were things Huaisang didn’t know.

“With me as his putative heir, his true heir has been protected from his enemies, and I have...”

Guangyao looks away again, and it seems like shame in his eyes. Xichen wonders what Guangyao’s life has been worth to the Jin chief, and what he has done to keep it.

“I have had access to people and things I would not otherwise. I do not wish to be my father’s weapon anymore, nor do I wish to serve my brother. Someone should rebuild Qinghe, and I doubt the Ikarahu will be allowed to.”

Mingjue interrupts, silencing Huaisang’s opening mouth with a single glare. “If we take Wen Ruohan, I will give you Bujing Shi. I will give you whatever you need to rebuild and defend it for five years. But I have no quarrel with your father. I can not blame him for sheltering his countrymen.”

Guangyao laughs like the honed edge of an ipira. “‘Take’ is not an option. You will have to kill him. You will have to kill them both, Ipira’orhew Ikira.”

Mingjue looks ready to argue, but Xichen knows the stubborn set to Guangyao’s jaw. It reminds him of his brother.

“I can not help you unless you agree. My father will not let me fail and live,” Guangyao tells him, and there is only bleak resignation in his voice. “I have seen firsthand what he does to people who are no longer useful. But think, Ipira’orhew Ikira. Who encouraged his oldest, dearest friend to eliminate your sister and join in a treaty with him instead? It meant nothing to him. She meant nothing to him, just an obstacle in the way of what he wanted. In so many ways, your quarrel is only with my father.”

By the looks on Mingjue and Huaisang’s faces, Xichen knows Guangyao’s blunt words have won, but Huaisang forces out another question with a pale, strained expression and a tiny hitch on the inhale. This is the question that matters, Xichen thinks.

“You could ask us to kill your brother too, and then you would inherit Jinlin Tai. You could have everything you want.”

Guangyao’s smile lines the corners of his eyes, and in it is a reflection of a different man, the man he could be. He shifts his gaze to Huaisang and sounds almost puzzled by his own words.

“Perhaps I don’t desire my former life as much as I used to. Perhaps there is something I want more.”

Finally Huaisang sits, sagging into the chair, a crease deepening between his eyes. He looks like he is out of words, but Xichen is still angry.

“How can I...how can anyone trust that this is not a trap, Guangyao?” He doesn’t even try to keep the censure out of his voice, and Guangyao bows his head.

“I truly regret that I can not expect your trust. I wish...” He looks back up and there are a thousand apologies in his eyes that Xichen is not ready to acknowledge. “It does not matter what I wish. If this is a trick, Zewu-Jun, and anything should happen to Ipira’orhew Ikira, I do not expect Oringa’anhu Ikira will let me live.”

Guangyao’s lips twist into a wry smile. “Or that you will. I have offered to help the Ikarahu kill my own father in front of Hanguang-Jun. My life is in his hands—your hands. You can trust my fondness for my continued existence, if nothing else.”

It isn’t an apology, not exactly, and Xichen refuses to look away until Guangyao does, a flush coloring his throat and neck.

Still. Xichen suspects he will forgive him anyway, as he will forgive Huaisang and Mingjue. Eventually. It’s the nature of his heart after all, his soft heart, and he won’t fight who he is. It is not a fault to believe the best of people.

There is a silence that stretches for long tense minutes, broken only by the stamping of horses’ hooves and the chatter of sparrows. Xichen can feel Mingjue’s eyes on him, but he steadfastly stares at the hint of green beginning to cover the field around them, waiting for someone else to speak first.

“Before I return to Jinlin Tai in a week, there is an opportunity...” Guangyao starts to say at the same time Wangji clears his throat and stands.

He tucks an arm behind his back, his eyes tight and flinty. With a long exhale, he seems to settle a cloak of command over his shoulders, becoming a confident leader accustomed to being heeded and obeyed.

“Whatever business you have within Jinlin Tai is not currently my concern. The emperor expects me to end the siege. You can not stay in this country any longer, and my brother will not remain a hostage of the Beifeng. I must insist that Zewu-Jun return with me. But…” Wangji’s eyes flicker to Xichen. “If he wishes, we will wait to leave until you return from your appointment.”

The unspoken if you return, hangs loudly in the air.

Xichen is weary of people making decisions for him, and as quickly as the thought appears comes the secondary, shameful realization that he, too, is guilty. He has lied to protect those he loves. He has chosen to keep secrets from his brother, from Huaisang, even from Mingjue. He has made decisions he believed were for the best, but without fair communication. Perhaps the stakes were different, but he has been no less selfish and arrogant.

“Will your emperor make any other demands?” Mingjue asks, and he seems almost relaxed, as if now that all the worst truths are out, military negotiation is a familiar and comfortable conversation to have.

Wangji considers, taking a moment to assess Mingjue’s face. “If you agree to leave without further hostility, I believe the emperor will be generous and allow you to go without demanding restitution to his army, so long as you do not demand restitution for yours. It would be a sign of good faith if you would make reparation to Ouyang as well as Qinghe, however.”

Meaning, Xichen thinks, the emperor does not wish to risk himself or his army more than necessary, but does not wish to see the Ikarahu go without recompense of some kind. Xichen wonders if Qishan and Lanling were originally on that list as well, and his brother has summarily removed them, or if the emperor is taking this opportunity to weaken two of the strongest clans.

Mingjue nods slowly, thinking. “Do you speak for your emperor?” he asks.

Wangji nods.

“Very well.” Mingjue stands and speaks a series of very formal, very complicated Orera sentences. Xichen only understands half of the words, binding words of contract and treaty, and they creep up his spine, a tingling warning spreading ice through his veins. When Mingjue is finished, he turns to Huaisang, who looks conflicted.

“Heto ani edai pukia?”^†

“Anakau, you don’t…” Huaisang tries, but Mingjue cuts him off.

“Aurakat, is it enough?”

“Yes,” Huaisang confirms, “It is enough.”

“Ani. Ako setera.”^†

With a sigh, Huaisang reluctantly translates.

“On the honor of Ipira’orhew Ikira, the empire of Ikara will withdraw with penalties paid to the territories of Ouyang and Qinghe, to be determined through further negotiation with the emperor’s representative, Hanguang-Jun. The city of Bujing Shi and its assets will be left under the jurisdiction of a suitable leader selected during further negotiation. Zewu-Jun, I free you and your clan from any duty to fulfill our treaty. You may leave with Hanguang-Jun, and the Ikarahu will honor our agreement. The Cloud Recesses and Yunmeng will remain allies of Ikara for three generations as previously arranged. This agreement is binding in life or death.

“Hanguang-Jun, is it acceptable?” Mingjue asks.

Wangji does not answer immediately. “Do you speak for your king?” he asks instead.

Mingjue smiles as though he is proud of Wangji for asking and holds out a hand, palm up, to secure the agreement, “I am the voice and hand of Galo’anio Ikira, ahukau of Ikara. My word is his.”^†

Wangji nods once and sets his hand on Mingjue’s. “Then it is acceptable.”

And Xichen’s heart breaks. Throughout Huaisang’s translation, the ice has sealed around him, crushing him with every word as understanding sinks in. Mingjue is absolving their clan. Either he doesn’t expect to succeed or...he does. He does expect to succeed and is planning to leave, giving Xichen back to the Cloud Recesses like a gift he no longer wants.

Mingjue hesitates, indecision darkening his expression. He leans over Xichen and kisses his forehead, lingering, but not long enough, not long enough for questions or explanations, not long enough for the reconciliation Xichen wants. It will never be long enough, Xichen thinks helplessly.

“Ahora’ipa, I did not tell you everything. I was…” he rests his forehead against Xichen’s and of their own accord, Xichen’s hands touch his cheeks, to feel him there, existing, real, even if it is the last time.

Xichen still feels hurt and angry, but it is nothing compared to the roaring panic of Mingjue leaving without him, dreadful and acute, a horse’s kick to the shins. No, he thinks. You are mine. He opens his mouth to say the words, I will not let you go, to stop him however he must, but they are locked in his throat, too painful to force out.

“Mingjue...no…” is all he manages before Mingjue pulls away, shaking his head.

“I was wrong, Huan, but I have meant every word I have ever said to you.” A flicker of a smile crosses Mingjue’s lips. “Even the ones you did not understand. I need to know you are free. I must go and fight.”

And with that, before Xichen has a chance to ask if he will come back, if he fights only for his sister’s justice and his family’s honor, or if he will fight for Xichen too, Mingjue is gone, swinging into his saddle with one graceful move and galloping away.

Gone.

Gone.

Chapter Text

It is not until his brother takes his arm and pulls him away from watching the horizon that Xichen realizes Wangji is still there, standing next to him after everyone else has left.

It is not until his brother takes his arm and pulls him away from watching the horizon that Xichen realizes he is still waiting for Mingjue to come back.

There is no strength in him to resist, and even mounting Liebing is a struggle. He follows Wangji back to the center of the army encampment, dully noting how organized it is already, and he wonders how they managed to get here without Huaisang noticing.

Wei-gongzi has food waiting when they arrive, and they feed Xichen a sweet and savory stew with chunks of meat and an unfamiliar vegetable as though he is a helpless child. The irritation of being coddled finally shakes him out of his stupor. He asks Wangji about their father and family, and eventually thinks to ask Wei-gongzi—who immediately insists Xichen call him Wei Wuxian—about his family as well. He learns that the Yunmeng clan chief was surprised to receive a message from the Beifeng that his city had been spared through a treaty with the Lan clan, but by the time he had sent word to his brother in the Cloud Recesses, Wei Wuxian already knew from Wangji.

Xichen’s deception hadn’t been discovered until dinner, but his letter was not found until much later, sometime in the night, sometime after he was too late to catch. Wangji had tried to go after him anyway, but their father had stopped him. Forcibly. This is said with an angry growl, and Wei Wuxian covers Wangji’s clenched fist with his hand until it relaxes.

The Cloud Recesses came first, their father had said through the locked door, and only fear for Xichen’s safety if the Beifeng did not take kindly to the exchange had convinced Wangji to wait and plan.

“I suggested the emperor,” Wei Wuxian says. “He’s just a child, but children love stories, especially stories with handsome heroes.” He winks at Wangji, and Xichen nearly laughs to see his brother’s ears turn pink.

Despite the worry that rides like a stone on his back, Xichen is grateful for this time with his brother, proud to watch him excel as a leader. Although the soldiers look at Xichen with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion—his long, fur-lined Ikarahu coat and brightly-striped scarf set him apart—they follow Wangji without question or hesitation. In such a short time, only two months following his orders, they are undeniably Hanguang-Jun’s army.

“Do you truly believe the emperor will let the Ikarahu go?” Xichen asks Wangji one evening, and Wangji nods with a frown.

“It is complicated, xiongzhang.” Wangji picks his words carefully, mindful of nearby ears. “My orders were only to see to the withdrawal of the...the Ikarahu. The emperor would have conceded more than a single man’s life, if it had been asked, although perhaps not in this way. They are valuable trading partners for much of the country. It is my understanding that the emperor does not wish to interfere with the potential for future alliance.”

Surely there must be more to it, Xichen thinks. There was a war. People died. Cities were sacked. But then he remembers how many clan disputes have ended through marriage or treaty because the economics of peace were more beneficial than ongoing hostility. Perhaps it is enough for the empire, although it does not seem like it should be.

“Xiongzhang...you have lived with them for months. I believe…” Wangji hesitates, looking around at the people going about their work, the horses and soldiers tensely waiting. “I believe the emperor is not certain that antagonizing the Ikarahu further would be worth the cost.”

On this point, Xichen is sure he’s right. There is no question that the Ikarahu are dangerous enemies, and if he was the emperor, he would also err on the side of prudence. It seems surprisingly sensible for a child. He wonders if there will be a chance in his lifetime for the two countries to be allies instead of adversaries.

“What will you do when the Ikarahu leave?” Xichen asks, and Wangji gives him a curious look, perhaps wanting to ask the same question. But he considers his answer, thoughtful and thorough as always.

“Resign my commission and return to the mountain. Let our father find another heir. Retire to a small cabin above the waterfall. Raise rabbits. Play music. Live a simple life.”

“That sounds almost perfect,” Wei Wuxian agrees, joining them with a bottle of wine, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

Wangji looks offended. “What more does it need?”

Wei Wuxian pretends to think. “More romance? Someone to share your simple life with?”

Until that moment, Xichen hadn’t known what his brother’s true smile looked like—a wide flash of teeth that crinkled his nose—and seeing it broke through some of the ice collecting in his own heart, tilting the corner of his mouth up.

“‘Hm. Maybe. If I find my soulmate, perhaps he will join me,” Wangji concedes. “Anything else?”

Even without knowing him well, Xichen knows Wei Wuxian’s next words are the ones he truly means. There’s a softness in his eyes when he answers, “Children?”

It’s easier to smile at Wangji’s slack expression of shock followed immediately by blinding joy. Xichen had never realized that Wangji wanted children, and he wondered if Wangji had even known. It was worth it, he thinks, to watch them shine, radiant in love, and he warms to this new configuration of his family. Even if Mingjue doesn’t come back—a thought he will not dwell on—even if he has to go back to the Cloud Recesses and resume his life as clan heir, it was worth it.

After five anxious days, Huaisang rides into the field between the armies at dusk, Kitingi on his shoulder, and asks if he can wait with Xichen.

“Anakau won’t let me go with him. I’m technically in charge, but he didn’t technically tell me that I had to stay at camp, so I’m choosing to wait with you. If you’ll have me.”

His words are light, but he looks nervous, the expression reminding Xichen that in many ways, he is a boy who was asked to do a terrible duty for a tragic reason. Xichen still has questions, but he hugs Huaisang with a sigh that’s only a little exasperated. Huaisang hugs him back, the air rushing from his lungs in relief so palpable, the rest of Xichen’s ire fades. He can ask his questions later. He won’t punish Huaisang, who will always be his anati, for a maybe that never happened,

“Huaisang, I am honored,” Xichen says. “I am glad to see you one more time.”

Huaisang looks at him, puzzled. “You won’t come home with us when this is over? Why?”

Xichen is relieved that Huaisang believes Mingjue will succeed, and he considers the different ways he can answer that question without lying and without weeping. Finally, he says, “Our treaty was annulled. It was kind of your brother to cease the enforcement of it without punishing Wangji or Yunmeng for breaking it.”

“Yes. He’s a besotted fool like that. So?”

What more is there?

“So I will return to my home and you will return to yours. As he said.”

Huaisang laughs loudly, far too exuberantly in Xichen’s opinion. “Xichen, that isn’t what he said. Ahora’ipa, haven’t you been paying attention? I keep telling you. We marry for love or not at all.”

Xichen grips Huaisang’s arm. “I...what do you mean?”

Huaisang sighs patiently. “We have two words for love, you know. Well, four, but only two that matter here, opaira and aunahora. Xichen, your family negotiated a marriage contract. If Etikuntiga had not loved you—opaira—ridiculously at first sight, I might add,” Huaisang waves a disdainful hand, “he wouldn’t have agreed to it. And if he did not love you now—aunahora—he wouldn’t have nullified it once you had somewhere else to go.”

Xichen has always had a gift for contracts, but he can’t comprehend what Huaisang is saying. He knows the words, he even knows the meaning of them, but…

“Huaisang, please. Tell me plainly what you mean.”

Huaisang grins. “He is giving you the freedom to choose, Xichen. He won’t say it, but I will. Don’t accept. Don’t go. Choose us. Come with us. Let me throw you an Ikarahu wedding to go along with your boring Yuyan marriage contract.”

“But it is not a marriage contract. Not really.” Xichen fumbles for words, pacing. He needs to move, and he wants to run, ride out to find Mingjue and curse him for leaving without explaining why. “Perhaps that is how it seems to you, but there are words in it that alter...Huaisang, why did no one explain this to me before?”

“I thought you understood...you’ve certainly acted like you understood. You must have read the treaty. You sealed it in the manner of your people, with a signature and physical contact.” Huaisang frowns. “Wait. What do you mean? It’s not a marriage contract? What do you think it is?”

Xichen is spinning and falling away, trying to pull together the pieces of his thoughts into coherence. “I don’t know, Huaisang. But it is something...other than marriage.”

“Other? Other how?” Huaisang sounds confused now, confused and offended. “Did you think we meant to keep you like a pet? Or a slave? Is this...has this only been a duty to you?”

“The treaty said ‘for his pleasure,’” Xichen whispers, his voice faltering and failing. If anything, it is harder to acknowledge the words now than when he scribed them eight months ago. Now they’re a caustic reminder of all the fragile hopes he’d built. “It said I was being given to the warlord for his pleasure. Is that not a duty?”

Huaisang drops heavily onto a bench. “Actually, it says ‘Zewu-Jun, the bearer of this treaty, a gift for the warlord’s pleasure.’ You know, it originally said ‘a gift for the warlord’s use.’ But shouldn’t love be a pleasure, both in nature and in action? Shouldn’t marriage be a pleasure to have and share? We thought it was barbaric that your clan suggested an arranged marriage in the first place, and the original contract was so one-sided. I had to change some of the words. Otherwise, what would be the point? Anakau wasn’t interested in taking a concubine.”

Xichen tries not to cry. Of course it was one-sided. “My father was asking to save our whole city, our entire region. He would have conceded anything. Huaisang, changing the words doesn’t just change the meaning. It changes the entirety of the contract’s function.”

He knows, though, that his father wouldn’t have even questioned the changes, assuming that the warlord was merely seeking a more advantageous bargain.

Huaisang looks at Xichen as though he’s never seen him. “But Xichen, obedience means subordinate. First spouse doesn’t mean primary. Love can’t be brokered. How could we not change it?”

He sounds like he’s reciting, and Xichen wonders if, in fact, he is, if these are discussions they had when negotiating the contract with his father. No wonder the contract was so ambiguous; his father wouldn’t have understood valuing love over possession.

“The contract we gave you, the one you signed, gives you status equal to Etikuntiga’s, as is our custom. You can annul the contract—the marriage—if you want to. You have equal consideration for future partners. And of course, we changed it to a pledge of life only, not love. Yuyan doesn’t have enough words for love, and we couldn’t be sure what was meant. Can you imagine expecting that people who have never met will love each other? Maybe opaira, but not aunahora.” Huaisang squeezes Xichen’s arm. “Xichen, how do you not know this? It was discussed in negotiations.”

Xichen rubs away the tears forming in the corners of his eyes. The common words of marriage contracts the Ikarahu had altered—honor and obey, heart and life, first spouse—had all been changed to grant something more, not less. And he had been too afraid to ask, because he knew he was an imposter.

“I altered the contract, too,” Xichen says quietly, hoping Huaisang won’t hear him. “My father did not allow me to be part of the negotiations, so I rewrote it later without my family’s knowledge to protect my brother and his...his friend’s clan. I am not the person you contracted for, Hanguang-Jun is. I could not tell you before. It would have invalidated the treaty.”

Huaisang’s laughter is as bright as a bell, and he slaps Xichen on the shoulder. “Who cares? We only agreed to negotiate with the Cloud Recesses in the first place to keep the south out of the war. It was worth a try, and if you hadn’t suited, you could have...I don’t know...stayed in your tent and played the guqin until we left. At worst, we would have used further negotiations to stall.”

Xichen looks to the north, toward the Ikarahu army, wondering if Mingjue has already left for Jinlin Tai. As if she’s heard his thoughts, Liebing lifts her head, pulls her tether from the ground with her teeth, and starts to amble to Xichen’s side.

“I thought...I thought he was giving me back,” Xichen whispers, the words sounding foolish out loud. “Are you certain...”

Huaisang gives him the kind of disdainful look only a brother can manage. “Xichen, you are far more than we could have hoped for. You’re family.”

They’re such simple words, and Huaisang says them as though they’re perfectly obvious, but Xichen feels the tears scratching in his throat.

“I don’t know how else to convince you.” Huaisang grabs Xichen’s arm, forcing Xichen to look at him. He looks vulnerable and anxious, and Xichen’s heart breaks again, for an entirely new reason. “Does this mean…do you not care for him? Do you not care for us?”

Xichen can hear the hysteria in his voice. “I love him so much I am tempted to chase him to Jinlin Tai and shake him senseless for thinking I had not already chosen him.”

He pulls Huaisang into a bone-breaking hug, ignoring the grunt of protest. “And you too, anati. You are my family too.”

The words feel as natural as breathing. Family can also be a choice, Xichen realizes, as love can be both a feeling and a choice. He’s never thought of it that way, and the acceptance of this new truth spreads through him slowly, like a river breaking through ice in the spring.

“When will they return?” Xichen asks, finally releasing Huaisang.

Huaisang’s face wars between relief and worry before settling on uncertainty. “I don’t know. Before dawn, I hope. We just have to wait.”

They sit with Wangji and Wei Wuxian through the night. Wei Wuxian is bolder than Xichen had been, and within minutes he is feeding Kitingi and cooing over her soft feathers. He tells them outlandish and dramatic stories about his home in Yunmeng, the lotus flowers, the lakes, the family that adopted him as a child, and a long, hopelessly romantic story of how he wooed and won Wangji. Wangji shifts his eyes up in what is almost an eye roll.

“I pursued you, Wei Ying. I had to, or nothing would have ever been accomplished. You dither,” he says in a long-suffering tone that makes Xichen think this isn’t the first time they’ve had this discussion, and he laughs for the first time since Mingjue rode away.

Huaisang and Wei Wuxian are like parallel souls separated by fate, and whatever animosity lingers between them is deferred for the more important business of discussing magical innovation. When Wei Wuxian explains how he and Wangji learned to blend the Ikarahu ambient magic with their own innate power and warp it through music, Huaisang’s eyes glitter with fascination. They discuss the details over and over, with drawings and demonstrations, until Xichen gets exasperated and tells Wangji how Huaisang got him drunk, just to change the subject. Then, of course, Huaisang shares his own embellished stories of Xichen winning sword fights, saving lives, and delivering babies. He is more circumspect with the stories he tells of Mingjue, stories of their childhood mostly but also, smirking unrepentantly, a story of his patience with Xichen’s attempts at dancing that makes Xichen flush and change the subject again.

As the night wanes, Xichen grows impatient, pacing behind the line of soldiers guarding the northern front. The longer they go without word, the easier it is for him to imagine the worst. Eventually, Huaisang touches his arm.

“They’ll be okay. You just...you have to trust them,” he tells Xichen, and Xichen inhales slowly, exhaling even more slowly.

“What if…” Xichen pauses, not sure he wants to ask Huaisang this question, but who else can he ask? “What if Guangyao lied again? We have only his word that he hates his father.”

Huaisang flushes, scarlet tipping his ears, and he bites his lip. “I believe him. He...has scars. I suppose there’s a chance that he lied about how he got them but…I don’t think he did. You didn’t see his face. When he told me. No one can lie that well.” Huaisang grins, pushing away the grim expression that has crept onto his face. “I should know. But even so, anakau isn’t so easily misled, Xichen. He’ll be careful.”

Xichen wants to trust him, but he can’t brush away the lingering dread.

A whisper before dawn, when the sky is the violet of ripe plums, a shout comes from sentries, angry, and tinged with panicked confusion. Xichen can just barely hear a faint whistle arcing through the air, and his gaze follows the line of the soldiers’ pointed fingers.

Huaisang grabs Xichen’s arm so tightly it hurts. He understands before Xichen does.

“Ota ei anha, Xichen!” he cries, a choking exhalation of relief, and he drops to the ground, arms wrapped around his knees, triumph and grief mingled together in great heaving sobs.^†

A heartbeat later, an arrow, a single black arrow, thuds into the ground at their feet.

It is not possible. It is more than a li, far more. And yet, Xichen knows, even with a magical wind to carry it, there is only one man who could have made that shot. Xichen looks at his brother, wild desperation on his face.

Wangji’s expression is resigned. “I know. Will you wait? Just one more moment?”

Huaisang is already running to get their horses, but Xichen nods. He owes Wangji everything, including any moment he asks for.

Wangji disappears into his tent and returns with—

Xichen breathes out slowly, guarding against the hope that springs in his heart. He unwraps the bundle Wangji hands him and drops the fabric, running his fingers down his beloved Shuoyue’s silver lines, the jade inset, the hilt that dips just slightly where his hand has always gripped it. He loves Sikunadis like a piece of his soul, but Shuoyue is the sword his mother and father gave him when they gave him his formal name. Shuoyue is the sword he spent his happiest childhood moments holding. Shuoyue is the memory of all he loves and misses about the Cloud Recesses. He blinks back tears to no avail. Perhaps he can learn to wield two swords.

“I see you have another sword now, but I thought...I brought Shuoyue for you. I hoped we would find you well, xiongzhang. And so we have.” Wangji says with a sad, tilted smile, and he looks like a boy again, uncertain of what lies ahead.

“And so you have,” Xichen repeats numbly, clutching Shuoyue, an old friend he had never expected to see again, the tears sliding freely. He must go now. He must stay a moment longer. He is torn and breaking.

Wangji makes it easy for him, easier than he should. “Huan-ge, we will always be brothers. Come back when you can. If you can.”

“I will.” Xichen grips his brother’s arm. He will not make the same mistakes again. “Zhan-di, I promise. I will always find you.”

Xichen hugs Wangji tightly, determined that it will not be the last time, before he runs to fight for his future, a future where both of his lives are one.

Chapter Text

As if she can sense Xichen’s need for urgency, Liebing’s feet fly back to the Ikarahu army, her pounding hooves beating in the tempo of Xichen’s heart. He only barely registers that the barrier shield has been dropped, the cavalry and archers moved away from the front line.

Huaisang’s bay galau keeps pace with Xichen, and they gallop together through camp to Mingjue’s tents. Xichen is off Liebing’s back almost before she stops, rushing into Mingjue’s living quarters, a small and nearly empty space. He isn’t there, but to Xichen’s surprise, Qingyang is.

She is rolling maps and drawings to pack into tubes of bamboo, laying them carefully in a wide wooden trunk. When she sees Xichen and Huaisang, her brilliant smile softens the anxious spiral of Xichen’s thoughts as she hurries over to hug them both.

“You’re back! Xichen, does that mean you’re coming north with us?” she asks, but Xichen can’t answer. He doesn’t know. He still doesn’t know. He just needs to find Mingjue.

“Hopefully,” Huaisang answers for Xichen. “Qingyang, where is Etikuntiga?”

“Planning our withdrawal, Aurakat.” She raises her eyebrows. “Where else would he be?”

It has only been days since Xichen saw Mingjue last, but he had somehow forgotten the details, the crucial details that are all part of what he loves. The scar above his eyebrow. The pattern of lines around his eyes when he speaks. The reddish cast of his hair in the light. The exact tilt of his cheekbones. And his smile—gods, his smile—that sculpts dimples into his cheeks and sketches happiness onto every line of his face when he sees Xichen.

“What else do you require to hold Bujing Shi?”

Mingjue is still looking at Xichen, but the Yuyan words are directed at Guangyao, standing in the circle of Ikarahu generals.

Guangyao is transformed into a man Xichen hardly recognizes. No, he thinks, looking closer, he is the same, but Xichen is only now realizing how pinched and cautious his every expression had been before. Xichen had never truly known him, because he had never been truly free to be known. Now, Guangyao isn’t smiling, but his face is open and relaxed, the smile there behind his eyes, waiting around his mouth, ready to be given free reign.

He turns to look at them too, looking past Xichen, and his expression changes to one Xichen is all too familiar with. Hope. And fear.

“I…” Guangyao wavers, starting words and stopping them, closing his eyes only to open them. Finally, he sighs, and his mouth flicks sideways in a reluctant smile. “Huaisang. I require Huaisang.”

Xichen registers the gasp behind him at the same time Mingjue bites his lip, his eyes dancing, before he rearranges his expression into grave deliberation.

“Huaisang is his own man,” Mingjue says, sounding regretful. “He has said he wishes to return home.”

“And yet, I cannot hold Bujing Shi without him, Ipira’orhew Ikira,” Guangyao persists. His voice softens, and his expression begins to change, shaping a smile Xichen has never seen before, a curve of honest entreaty. “He is necessary. I cannot do without him.”

“It won’t work,” Huaisang cuts in, a bit too harsh. “You will only disagree with everything I say. You’ll drive me crazy with all your insistence on details, and I’ll irritate you with...everything. It won’t work.”

“Nevertheless, I wish to try. Huaisang...Aurakat, ateipa auha eko. Da arati eko? Em auha?”^†

Despite the question, Guangyao sounds victorious, and Xichen turns to look at Huaisang. A smile splits his face, radiating light, such joyous light, and he laughs, a tear slipping from the corner of his eye.

“Fine, yes, you horrible, aggravating, lying spy of a man, I will try. Em eko,” he answers and Guangyao covers the distance between them, catching Huaisang in a heated kiss that makes Xichen blush and look away. ^†

They will make Bujing Shi strong, and then, Xichen thinks with a laugh, they will reshape the world. He’s not sure the world is ready for their partnership.

“Di gauta sikoma amau oringa. Da ekosau pia Aurakat om hitai eno,” Mingjue tells his generals, and they all laugh, “Ereda eko omas. Iko kei dikas ei doro eta aur ores.”^†

Everyone leaves, grinning curiously as they pass Huaisang and Guangyao, nodding respectfully to Xichen.

“Anati, do I throw you out as well?” Mingjue asks.

“No, anakau, I think I can find somewhere else to be.”

Huaisang answers the question, but he looks and sounds dumbstruck. He doesn’t actually move until Guangyao takes his hand and pulls him out of the tent, still smiling, wider than Xichen has ever seen.

When it is just the two of them, Mingjue looks to Xichen, a cautious, tentative tilt to his head. He looks different too, somehow, a new tranquility around his eyes. He reaches behind his head and starts to undo the pins that hold back his braids, shaking them loose when he’s done.

“You were...successful?” Xichen asks, promptly forgetting all the other words he’d intended to say.

Mingjue smiles, a slowly curling smile, and Xichen closes his hands into fists. He needs to know so many things first, before he gets distracted, but oh, how he wants to touch Mingjue’s face, his beloved face.

“We were,” he nods, unbuckling his leather brigandine and thigh skirt, letting them drop to the floor. He rolls his neck and shoulders, glad to be free of the weight, and takes a step toward Xichen.

“Will you leave immediately?” Xichen curses his mouth for letting the words he doesn’t care about crowd out the ones he does.

Mingjue takes another watchful step as though gentling a skittish colt. “No, we will stay until we will not be suspected. A month?”

“Huaisang told me,” Xichen blurts out, and Mingjue raises his eyebrows. “He told me…”

Xichen is at a loss for words. What had Huaisang told him? That he is married? Not exactly. That he is free to leave? No, Xichen decides, the thought turning into a smile. That’s not quite right, either. He’s not sure he’ll ever be truly free, but this time, being bound is a choice he wants to make.

“He told me you annulled the treaty because...aunahora eko auha?”^†

“Ani. Em opaira auha eko,” Mingjue agrees solemnly, a smile starting the play in the corners of his eyes. He takes the swords from Xichen, the swords he didn’t realize he was still carrying, and sets them on a nearby table. Carefully, he tugs Xichen’s heavy coat off and smooths his thumb over Xichen’s temple, his hand over Xichen’s hair.^†

Xichen opens his mouth to ask another question, but Mingjue stops him with one hand on the nape of his neck, the other around his waist, gathering him up in a languid and contented kiss. Xichen leans into him, matching his shoulder to Mingjue’s, pressing his stomach against Mingjue’s, resting his legs against Mingjue’s. The shape of his body fits Xichen’s so perfectly, it is as though they were made by one master, from one metal, and it is a strange and powerful magic that has brought them together.

“Ahora’ipa, I could not ask you this before, because you had no choices,” Mingjue murmurs, kissing the space behind Xichen’s ear, and the shiver of love and longing it rouses inside him feels wonderfully new and achingly familiar. “Beloved Huan, Xichen, aitapaho, will you forgive me for my mistakes, mau poa pahio? Will you come home with me? Will you stand barefoot with me in the forest of my ancestors and pledge your heart to mine? Will you share my life as my equal, my partner, my love?”^†

Xichen wraps his arms around Mingjue’s waist and rests his head against Mingjue’s throat, feeling the rapid, nervous beat of his heart and asks, “My brother is waiting for me. Will you accept my decision? Whatever decision I make?”

Mingjue stills, and even his breathing seems to stop. Slowly, he releases Xichen and steps away. “Yes. You can leave if you do not desire me. Your choice matters as much as mine, and I will not stop you.”

The agonized love in his voice fixes Xichen in place, but for no more than a single breath. He unties the silk band from around his head, the ribbon he has not removed in all the months he has been here. Taking Mingjue’s hand, he wraps the ribbon around his wrist.

“I have always wished to see the northern mountains, Etikuntiga, edas ahora,” he tells Mingjue, whose body is tense and focused, curving toward Xichen with barely restrained longing. “I have always yearned to watch the sunrise with my partner. I have always wanted to share my life with someone I trust. And respect. And love.”^†

Xichen laughs and releases Mingjue’s hand, the ribbon securely fastened, binding them together. “Kiss me and take me home, beloved Mingjue, for there is nothing in the world I desire so much as you.”

He doesn’t have to ask twice. Mingjue lifts him, the tears on his cheeks mingling with Xichen’s, and kisses him as though he will never set him down. Far above them, Xichen can hear Kitingi’s cry, and it sounds, he thinks, like his soul, awakened and flying free at last.

Chapter Text

And then there is a wedding.

Of course, there must be a wedding. There is no better way to end a war than with a wedding, Xichen thinks and laughs. He’s becoming a romantic after all.

But the brides are so radiant, so gloriously in love, any cynic would be swayed.

It had taken the Ikarahu two months to be ready for travel: one month to negotiate their withdrawal and wait for the storm to die out; one month to break down the camp and pack up thousands of people and their infrastructure.

By then, it was spring. Tiny wildflowers blanketed the plains, the cherry trees had erupted with blossoms, and it was growing harder and harder to remember the snapping jaws of winter.

By then, news that Wen Ruohan and Jin Guangshan had been found dead, suffocated in rooms safely locked with magic and metal, had reached every corner of the country. The new Jin chief had vowed to find their murderers, although it was whispered that their enemies were too numerous to count, even if you could find them all. And while the Beifeng were suspected, their warlord had ridden to the city steps with a company of archers in a cloud of black magic, demanding to see the bodies before he would agree to end the siege. Why would he do that if he was responsible?

In the end, it was decided that it must have been an inside job, but too many people had died, too many servants had fled, too much chaos had ensued to notice or care that the elder son of the Jin chief had disappeared quietly, as though he had never existed.

By then Guangyao had apologized. He had so many apologies, he said, for the letter his father burned, for the lies he told, for the pain he caused, for the things he had intended to do, for the actions of a frightened and desperate man, and Xichen had stopped him halfway through his, frankly, exhausting list of wrongs.

“No apology is necessary. Whatever you did, whoever you were, it is enough that you have chosen something else,” Xichen had said, and Guangyao had stared at him in disbelief until Xichen had laughed and hugged him. “Yao-ti, you will just have to accept that I am much too happy for anything but forgiveness.”

By then, Xichen had been given Ikarahu braids, a pair of healer’s braids. Titakau had suggested it, and Xichen had demurred at first. But Mingjue had looked so eager, so hopeful, Xichen agreed without fully understanding the significance of the ceremony. The healers were all gathered, and three were required to give their blessing. Xichen had, at first, been afraid no one would step forward, but to his surprise, there was no shortage of healers willing to formally recognize his skill and value. The first had complimented his patience, one had spoken of his dedication, even during battle, and by the time the third one had thanked Xichen for his kindness, he was crying. It was, apparently, not an uncommon reaction, and someone handed him a soft cloth to wipe away his tears. With gentle hands, the three healers had each separated a section of hair and braided it together, hand over hand, once on either side of his head. When it was over, Mingjue had touched the long plaits reverently, and Xichen had finally understood how he felt about Xichen unbraiding and rebraiding his hair, the act both reminder and acceptance of who he was.

By then, Qingyang and Titakau had decided they would join Huaisang and Guangyao in Bujing Shi. It was bittersweet for Titakau, who had parents in Ikara to miss, but as a doctor, she thought it was only right that she help rebuild what her people had destroyed, and many of her countrymen agreed. Hundreds of them, from soldiers to cooks to healers to coopers to hostlers had decided to follow Huaisang. It had come as something of a revelation to Huaisang.

“But I’m not a leader,” he had protested, shocked by their confidence in him, and even the corners of Guangyao’s mouth had twitched at this ridiculously myopic argument.

“No, you are not,” he’d agreed, and with Huaisang’s outraged snort, the smile he had tried to hide, full of dimpled laughter and affection, found its way into his mouth after all. “But you are all we have, so I suppose we will have to make do.”

They had chosen a new name for this new clan, Nie, a joke about secrets. Guangyao planned to change his name to Yaodi, ostensibly to hide his origin, but more, Xichen thought, to rid himself of the baggage of his father’s memory and embrace a future where he needed only to be himself.

It is a hope for the future they all share.

Huaisang proves to be as adept with planning a wedding as a war. On a day that starts with rain—a sign of luck, according to Mingjue—and turns to crystal blue perfection, the wedding party, the wedding guests, and a shocking number of carpenters and kitchen staff, ride west through a copse of pine trees to a field by a small reedy lake. The crimson peonies that fill the little glade with fragrance are a wonderful surprise and another sign of luck.

Two guests are already waiting in the glen who know neither of the brides and have come for a different purpose, one that has Xichen’s heart fluttering like a trapped butterfly.

Xichen does not embarrass his brother by folding him into a hug as he wants, not while he and Mingjue are sizing each other up. They’ve already met, of course, several times, but that was as commanders negotiating peace. Today, they are meeting as brothers.

“Wangji, as you know, this is Ipira’orhew Ikira, kipakau of the Ikarahu, but he is known as Mingjue or Etikuntiga. The Ikarahu do not bother with family names.” Xichen takes a breath, trying to hide how much this introduction means to him. He feels so stiff and awkward, not what he wanted. He wants to jump to the part where they like each other and can laugh over drinks and dinner together.

“Ahoraho, my brother, Hanguang-Jun, was born Lan Zhan, as I am Lan Huan, and named Wangji, as I am Xichen.” He can feel Mingjue holding back laughter next to him, but he forges on, determined to get through the myriad names. Huaisang is right. It is unnecessarily pretentious for family.

“He is…” Xichen stumbles and stops on the words. No, Wangji is not heir any longer.

Xichen had gone to see his brother a few days after Wen Ruohan died, and they had talked, really talked, for maybe the first time in their lives about their father, their mother, and the choices they were making for love. Xichen had told Wangji he was going north with the Ikarahu, and Wangji had told Xichen he’d already sent a letter to their father, relinquishing his inheritance. It had never been what he wanted. All he wanted had come with him here today.

“This is my brother,” Xichen says, the simple words that matter. “You can call him Wangji if you wish.”

He doesn’t say, it is what I wish.

Wangji and Mingjue nod at each other.

It is not as promising as Xichen had hoped.

This leaves Wei Wuxian, who Xichen is unsure how to introduce. Wei Wuxian lets him agonize for just long enough that Xichen is sure he’s doing it on purpose before he grins and introduces himself.

“I belong to Lan Zhan,” he says, and Wangji takes Wei Wuxian’s hand, lacing their fingers together casually as though he’s done it a hundred times, but tightly enough that Xichen knows that the public acknowledgement is still a new pleasure. “He calls me Wei Ying, but you can call me Wei Wuxian or Wuxian or Xian-di—I’m not that picky about names either.”

Mingjue laughs, draping an arm over Xichen’s shoulder and kissing his temple. “I also belong to a Lan. I think we will have much to discuss.”

He is still wearing Xichen’s forehead ribbon wrapped around his wrist, and Xichen knows the moment Wangji sees it. Something softens around his eyes, and his face almost, very nearly, hints at a smile.

Better. Much better.

The ceremony is an unconventional blend of both brides’ customs and countries. They stand barefoot in the trees, their hair unbound under flower crowns Xichen made. There are tears glistening in Mingjue’s eyes when joins the brides’ hands, blesses their union, and kisses their cheeks, and Xichen swipes a hand across his own cheeks, relieved to know he’s not the only one so moved. They sign a contract Xichen and Guangyao wrote, but Qingyang made beautiful, in elegantly scribed Yuyan words, decorated with pairs of birds and peonies in the margins, witnessed by Huaisang and Guangyao.

And then they have a feast: long thin noodles for luck, heaps of fire-roasted greens, juicy pheasant, grilled fish, fresh spring berries, jugs and jugs of ale, and many things Xichen doesn’t even recognize, although he tries all of it. He is full long before the food is gone. With a sigh, a contented sigh, a sigh that is full of more joy than he thinks he has any right to, he sits back to watch his family—his family—talk and laugh and eat.

Next to him, Xichen hears Mingjue laugh at something Wangji says, and a light, pleased smile flutters over his brother’s face. Mingjue glances at Xichen and leans toward Wangji, whispering something Xichen can’t hear that makes Wangji nod, exhaling a soft laugh. Even though Xichen desperately wants to know, he only rests his hand on Mingjue’s leg, squeezing his thigh, and isn’t surprised when a warm hand closes around his fingers.

Wei Wuxian is arguing with Huaisang about something Xichen assumes is related to magic, because Huaisang suddenly pulls an unusually dark glob of Ikarahu magic out of the air to sit on his hand. Wei Wuxian’s eyes light up, and he holds out his hand. Huaisang sets the magic on Wei Wuxian’s palm, and he touches it gingerly before digging a bit of charcoal out of his pocket. Pushing plates and food aside, he proceeds to scribble on the table, drawing circles and lines Xichen has never seen before, but which remind him of the way the Ikarahu weave talismans.

Huaisang looks rapt, but he suddenly stops, turns to Guangyao, takes his hand and kisses the knuckles with a smile before leaning over Wei Wuxian’s now-complicated drawing. Guangyao looks startled, but his expression melts into one Xichen hadn’t realized he was capable of, a blend of wonder and love that seems to cast a beam of sunlight across his face. He catches Xichen’s gaze and blushes, a hesitant smile on his lips, and Xichen can’t help laughing. No soothsayer, no diviner could have predicted that this would be where they would all end up. Happiness, he thinks, is its own incomprehensible magic.

Unsurprisingly, the dinner turns into dancing, music and laughter filling the glen. Xichen still refuses to dance, but this time, he has the excuse of wanting to speak with his brother. Their words are still few, but not as brief as they had once been. Their voices are still serene, but not as guarded as they had once been. Wangji tells Xichen, with a faint flush, that a part of him has enjoyed being a general, and how he thinks he might even be good at it.

“So much was expected of you, xiongzhang, and you always rose to the challenge. You were our commander and future leader. I did not think...I have never thought I could be like you.”

Xichen laughs, because of course his brother is good at it, and of course he never saw the churning anxiety of Xichen’s every day, his constant fear that his father wouldn’t love him, wouldn’t even notice him unless he did everything right. It is the most altered part of his life, to learn that actually, love does not expect him to be anything but himself.

“If you want to continue being a general, Wangji, there is no reason you should not.” Xichen says the words he has always thought and hasn’t said enough. “Whatever you do, I am proud of you.”

“Lan Zhan, come try this!” Wei Wuxian calls from where he is spinning around the circle, first with Mingjue, then with Qingyang.

Wangji’s lips curl into a smile, and he squeezes Xichen’s hand before he joins Wei Wuxian. Xichen watches them for a while, laughing at how similar he and his brother are in this regard, as well. Wangji looks puzzled, tries the steps, and then simply refuses, standing in place until the line forces him to shift to the side. But he’s smiling, even laughing sometimes, and that’s all Xichen could ever have wanted for him.

“Aitapaho, eredan koni kei auha.” Mingjue is suddenly in front of Xichen, his hand outstretched, a smile on his face, and even though it is the last thing he wants to do, Xichen takes his hand with a resigned sigh. But instead of leading him back to the circle, Mingjue settles Xichen’s hands around his neck and rests his own hands on Xichen’s waist.^†

This is not dancing, Xichen thinks, as Mingjue walks backward slowly with a teasing grin, pulling Xichen in a tight circle with him, matching their steps together with gentle pressure on his sides. There is a rhythm to it, though, like the shuffle of a sword fight, and once Xichen understands it, once some of the awkward embarrassment fades, Mingjue pulls him closer and kisses Xichen’s forehead.

“Happy, Xichen?” he asks, and Xichen nods, happy enough that words are an unnecessary extravagance.

The blue of day fades into a golden haze that sets the peonies on fire. Dusk is coming, and almost in unison, everyone seems to realize that it’s time to end this perfect day. The music slows and stills, people stretch tired muscles, and finish drinks they don’t refill. But by the time they reluctantly begin to depart, the first orange and purple bands of sunset are already striping the sky.

The brides are the first to leave their wedding party, and although Titakau pretends she doesn’t hear them, Qingyang bows extravagantly to the whooping cheers and ribald jokes that follow them to their horses.

“Good night all! It is a harsh and dangerous world, and I must escort my lady wife home safely to soothe all her anxieties and fears, all night if I must,” she jokes in Orera first, then Yuyan, and Titakau covers her face, but she’s laughing behind her hands.

A squad of guards discreetly follow when Mingjue nods to them. He is never not the commander, Xichen thinks. Not even here.

Wangji and Wei Wuxian prepare to leave next, and this time, Xichen does hug his brother, holding him longer than he normally would, knowing that this may be the last time for a very long time.

“Will you come to Ikara and see me someday?” Xichen asks, hating the whine in his voice. When he first left the Cloud Recesses, he’d thought he was prepared for a life alone. But now, now that he’s seen Wangji, now that fate has brought his brother into his life again, he can’t imagine a future where they never see each other.

“Yes,” Wangji says, more unequivocally than Xichen expected. “We have been invited to your wedding, and I would not miss the chance to see my brother happily married.”

Xichen’s eyes widen, and he whips around to stare at Mingjue, who nods.

“Your brother is always welcome to visit, and I have given him eta galero...hm...the horse for safe passage. Aitapaho, he is your family. We could not be properly wed without him.”

“I may not be family, but I’m coming too,” Wei Wuxian interjects before Xichen can dissolve into tears, and with a quick glance at his all-too perceptive eyes, Xichen knows he’s done this on purpose as well. He holds up a chain with a metal statue of a running horse dangling from the end. “See? We have a little horse.”

Mingjue slaps Wei Wuxian on the back enthusiastically, knocking him forward two steps.

“You are family as well, Wei Wuxian.” Mingjue enunciates the syllables of his name very slowly, grinning. “But we can make you both tega of the Ikarahu. I will invite Huaisang and Yao-ti.” He nods as if a decision has already been made. “There is a...hm...ceremony. We will braid your hair, share your blood, and drink until we are drunk. If...ah, no, no, when you wake in the morning, you are family forever.”^†

Wei Wuxian looks intrigued, Wangji looks horrified, and Xichen bursts into laughter, laughter that still rings in the air as the two men ride to the south, off to return the army to the emperor. Xichen hopes they have a long life together, one of their own choosing, and a future of their own making.

Once Wangji is gone, Xichen wants nothing more than to leave too, to go back to his tent—which is not yet fully packed—to take his love to bed, and celebrate again, again and again, the promising future risen from a past shadowed by loneliness and heartache.

Mingjue, however, seems stubbornly determined to say goodbye to every single guest. Xichen hadn’t realized how many people that is until he accepts handshakes, back slaps, cheek kisses, and bows from all of them as the light slips away into twilight.

“Were there this many people here all day?” he whispers to Guangyao, who is watching Huaisang command the breakdown of dinner.

“More came for dinner,” Guangyao whispers back. “Evidently, Aurakat’s gatherings are famous.”

There is no mistaking the pride in his voice, and Xichen decides to brave the question he has not yet dared to ask. Not of Guangyao, at least.

“Yao-ti, are you happy? You seem happy, but I know…” Xichen falters, not sure how to finish.

When he had asked Huaisang, he had only kissed Xichen’s cheek and declared, “deliriously,” before practically skipping away, but Xichen doesn’t think Guangyao will be so open with his feelings.

“Like me, you have not always had choices. Is this the choice you would make again? It is only that...Huaisang is my brother too.”

Guangyao looks at him solemnly, a speculative look on his face that doesn’t last, replaced by an easy and, Xichen believes, true smile. Guangyao is rarely so serious anymore. Baffled and occasionally exasperated, but rarely serious.

“He is a choice I would make every day, with or without Bujing Shi. No one else...” Guangyao laughs lightly. “We see each other clearly, Xichen, as no one else does. Bujing Shi is just the way I could be sure he would be happy choosing me.”

Xichen is certain that’s not true. He is actually relatively sure Huaisang, like his brother, chose at first sight, or near enough. But Guangyao is shaking his head, reading the skepticism on Xichen’s face.

“I mean only that he needs something to do, something to manage, and the city was a gift I could give him that would ensure he would not be bored for, well, five years, at least.” Guangyao shrugs carelessly. “And what else could I give a prince of Ikara?”

This, Xichen suspects, is closer to the truth, and while he sympathizes with the feeling, he has seen how Huaisang looks at Guangyao. There will be a day, Xichen thinks, when Guangyao discovers that he alone is enough.

“After that…” Guangyao grins, a boyish flash of dimples that Xichen can’t resist returning. “After that, we’ll see. There are so many projects in the world.”

With a loud smacking kiss on the cheek, Huaisang appears at Guangyao’s side and tugs on his sleeve. “Come along ditegas, who, I must say, did absolutely nothing to help with this wedding. Time to ride back. We still have much to do before we leave this week.”^†

Guangyao bats his arm away from where it had snaked around his waist. Huaisang laughs, undeterred, capturing his hand instead and kissing the palm, making Guangyao flush.

“Nothing except ensure you did not entirely botch our customs, food, and ceremony,” Guangyao grumbles, letting Huaisang lead him away and shooting Xichen an apologetic smile over his shoulder. “You can clean up after yourself, Oringa’anhu Ikira.”

“Mmm,” Huaisang purrs, tucking his arm through Guangyao’s as they disappear into the darkness. “I do love it when you call me master.”

And then there is only Mingjue standing in the clearing, the silver shimmer of the stars and the moon limning a halo around him.

Xichen thinks that if there is one constant in his life, in the world, it is that his heart will always tighten, his breathing will always falter, he will always smile when he sees Mingjue walk toward him. He means to ask if they can finally go now, because there are wicked things Xichen wishes to accomplish tonight, but Mingjue touches his finger to Xichen’s chin and lifts it, kissing him as gently as that first time, as lovingly as every time since then.

“I have a surprise for you,” he says. “Come.”

He takes Xichen’s hand and leads him through the field, past the peonies and around the lake. With a flourish, perhaps more flourish than is strictly necessary, he flicks his fingers ahead of him, turning a burst of Ikarahu magic into a roaring fire and illuminating a small clearing next to a draping pine tree.

Xichen gapes. There is a bed. His bed. His blankets and pillows. And his bathtub, already filled with water. Out here. In the middle of nowhere.

“I want one night under the stars together where I am not kipakau, where I am not Ipira’orhew Ikira. I am only the man who loves you. Is that...yes?” Mingjue asks, looking a little abashed.

Xichen throws himself into Mingjue’s embrace and kisses him, on his mouth, on his eyelids, on his nose, on the deeply carved dimple of the smile that crosses Mingjue’s face. “Yes, of course ahoraho, more than I have words to express. Anywhere, anything with you.”

Mingjue chuckles at his enthusiasm, and the corner of Xichen’s mouth turns up.

“But am I still Ahora’ipa, even outside?” Xichen asks, gripping the collar of Mingjue’s long linen coat and tugging it off.

“You are Ahora’ipa everywhere,” Mingjue promises, pulling on the end of Xichen’s silk belt until it comes untied. “You are always my Sikunadis.”

With the change in the weather, Xichen rarely wears more than two robes and pants or the Ikarahu tunic, coat, and wide-legged pants anymore, but this was a wedding, and he felt it would be unseemly not to show his respect for Qingyang and Titakau. It is a decision he now regrets, as Mingjue is taking too long—and seems to be enjoying taking too long—undressing him.

Holding Xichen’s gaze, Mingjue unbuttons the metal clasps of the ornate top layer and slides it to the ground, undoes the thin strings of the second sheer layer, the third patterned layer, the fourth gauze layer, peeling them off one by one before reaching to Xichen’s side to tug the crossed ties of his silk undershirt loose. Last, agonizingly last, he unties the loose, wide pants and slips them down, leaving Xichen naked in the moonlight.

Xichen smiles. “Is the gift of the Cloud Recesses everything you hoped it would be?” he asks, knowing the answer but loving it every time anyway.

“Yes,” Mingjue answers simply, and even in that one word, there is so much raw longing and desire in his voice, Xichen trembles with the want.

Still, Mingjue only looks at him, and the fire catches a sparkle in his eye that Xichen knows is pure mischief. Mingjue tucks a loose strand of Xichen’s hair behind his ear, brushes lightly down his neck with his thumbs, dances fingers across his shoulders and arms until Xichen has had enough and doesn’t care to indulge Mingjue’s patience anymore. With a snort of exasperation, he picks up Mingjue and heaves him onto the bed, smiling entirely against his will at Mingjue’s pleased laughter.

“You are too impulsive, Xichen. Et sika di auha,” Mingjue says, belying his own words by stripping off the rest of his formal wedding clothes swiftly before grabbing Xichen around the waist and pulling him onto the bed.^†

Xichen lands on top of him, laughing too, Mingjue’s joy as quick to spread as the white and yellow flowers that pepper the plains. Of all the aspects of Mingjue Xichen has come to know—the commander, the protector, the warrior, the brother—he loves the glimpses of this Mingjue most of all, the playful, laughing, lighthearted man he must have always been before his sister died and the war consumed him.

“Et auhata eko eneti os, aitapaho,” Mingjue tells him, settling Xichen on his lap and kissing his forehead and nose. His hands burn heated pathways over the curve of his buttocks and across Xichen’s back to the thick braids looped together at the nape of Xichen’s neck. Mingjue pulls out the two pins that hold the hair in place and sighs contentedly when they tumble free, unbinding the plaits until Xichen’s hair is loose around his shoulders.^†

“Is it only my face that you love? What will happen to your love when I am old?” Xichen teases, his pulse racing as he smooths his fingers over Mingjue’s brow and presses his knees tightly against his side.

“You will always be you.” Mingjue rests a hand against Xichen’s skin, over his heart. “Kind, generous,” he punctuates the words with kisses that leave Xichen breathless, “fierce, protective, and your soul…”

Mingjue tips his head thoughtfully, that hawk-sharp expression Xichen loves so much on his face, and takes Xichen’s hand, laying it on his chest. “Your soul is the shape of mine.”

The words are more than Xichen can bear. He kisses Mingjue, rocking against him helplessly, wanting to feel them joined together, feel Mingjue inside of him, filling his body the way his love has filled Xichen’s life.

Without dislodging Xichen from his lap, without even moving his lips away from Xichen’s mouth, Mingjue hunts under the pillows for the jar of oil, and hands it to Xichen.

“Eina anha epitma eko, Ahora’ipa? Anything I can give you, da auha.”^†

The sweet smell of almonds fills the air as Xichen dips Mingjue’s hand in the oil and coats his own hand with the slick liquid.

“Just you, edas ahora. Ek eko em eko kana,” he says, reaching down to stroke Mingjue, delighting in the way he looks with his eyes closed, head flung back.^†

This is a never ending joy, Xichen thinks, and he adjusts his grip to hold himself as well, the oil sliding his cock effortlessly against Mingjue’s. Mingjue groans at the new sensation, thrusting against Xichen’s hand, his breath coming in short, hitching gasps. He reaches between them, angling and moving his fingers inside of Xichen until he is panting and writhing and again, too impatient to wait anymore.

“Love me. Ako. Ora,” Xichen demands, and Mingjue laughs.^†

“Anha auha,” he says, deliberately misunderstanding, lifting Xichen’s hips so he can fit them together, a deep, shuddering sigh escaping him when Xichen settles down on top of him. “Epa auha pato. Always.”^†

They move together in the dark, in the starlight, in the firelight, radiating heat filling Xichen at Mingjue’s every touch, his every kiss. It is not like the first time where each sensation was sharp as an arrowhead, or even the second time, when Xichen was prepared for the pleasure. This rhythm of love and understanding, of trust and choice, is its own endless stampede of horses thundering through them both, carrying them away into the night.

After they are both spent, and after they have put the bathtub to good use, Xichen curls against Mingjue’s side under warm blankets, draping a leg over him. He skims his fingertips over scars he knows and ones he doesn’t yet, the pattern of freckles across his ribs, until Mingjue catches his hand with a lazy smile, nibbling the tip of each finger.

“Do your people have...hm...watiga ai eta rakios? A legend of the stars?” he asks, pulling Xichen tighter against him, and Xichen follows his gaze to the night’s twinkling scatter of stars, mesmerizing in their sparkling multitudes.

“My mother said they were a gift from the gods. For every righteous man, the gods created a star,” Xichen says. “The greatest heroes form patterns, like the warrior there, with his belt and sword.” He points out the stars, and asks, “Do yours?”

“When I was a boy, my father told me the story of Paringan, the god of snow cats, who tricked Datikan, the archer, into making stars with him,” Mingjue’s voice is low and smooth and nudges Xichen slowly toward sleep.

“I thought you didn’t believe in gods,” he murmurs, wanting to hear the story, but fading pleasantly into darkness.

“Once there were the first people and the first animals, but their time has passed. Gods do not control our lives, aitapaho,” Mingjue tells him, kissing his forehead. “The first paringa was much like snow cats are now, sneaky, curious, troublesome. But clever.”

“Oringa’anhu Ikira?” Xichen asks, too worn to form the whole sentence, but Mingjue knows what he means anyway, laughing in a soft puff of air.

“Yes. Like Aurakat. Paringa stole Datikan’s meal, and ran away to hide behind the moon. But his claws left holes in the fabric of the sky, and Datikan pursued him, shooting arrow after arrow. It was more fun than dinner, Paringa decided, and he ran from the top of the world to the bottom. Where his claws landed, tiny stars appeared. Where Datikan missed, he left larger holes, larger stars. Eventually, though, Datikan fell to earth, exhausted. His body became the mountain range that separates our land from yours.”

“Ahoraho, that is a wonderful story, and you tell it beautifully,” Xichen says, sleepy awe in his voice. “You will have to tell me a story every night for the rest of our lives.” He smiles. He likes saying that.

Mingjue chuckles. “I do not know as many stories as I hope we have nights together, but…”

He turns on his side and looks at Xichen, looks at him in a way that makes Xichen blush and cup his hands against the beloved lines of Mingjue’s face, his thumbs resting where he knows the dimples are hiding.

“But what?” he asks, when he’s finally not sure Mingjue will finish his sentence.

Mingjue still hesitates, but eventually the corner of his mouth crooks in a hopeful smile. “It is a story my father told me. It is a story I would like to tell my children—our children—someday. If you…are you willing to raise children with me?”

Xichen is speechless. He thought he knew all the ways there were to love, to be in love with Mingjue, and yet he had been wrong. There is at least one more welling in his heart, bursting and overflowing into tears he can’t stop and doesn’t even try.

“Yes, ani, yes, I am. As many as you want.” He pauses, remembering how many siblings Mingjue has. “Within reason.”

Mingjue laughs like a sob and ducks his head, searing kisses against Xichen’s neck and ear and jaw, and Xichen is no longer falling asleep.

Perhaps there are no gods controlling his every decision, Xichen thinks, but some force in the heavens or earth must be responsible for his destiny, for the fortune of knowing such happiness. He says a silent thanks to whatever star or deity gave him life and set him on the path to finding this home and this family, this extraordinary gift of love.

A gift they gave each other.

With both of their hearts.

For the rest of their lives.