Chapter Text
With any luck at all, Qi Rong might have been born a shrike.
With any luck, he might've been born a sparrowhawk, or a black baza — some little bird of prey that could flit here-and-there, gnashing up bugs and rats, exacting all kinds of petty, cyclical cruelties. With any luck, any luck in the world, he’d have been born a red-headed buzzard.
But Qi Rong had no luck at all. So, instead, he was born a prince.
(Well. Kinda.)
♦ ♦ ♦
Qi Rong’s room was all soft all-over. Tapestried walls, a mess of velveteen throws, a tufty carpet to warm his pale, white feet.
At times, it gave him the impression of being a hairpiece in a jeweller’s feltbox: something prized. Something beloved, inexpressibly valuable, implicitly superior.
At the moment, however, he only suffocated.
He braced both hands against the front of his vanity, his back arched like an angry cat’s. The vanity was a gorgeous, lacquered antique. It probably could’ve sold for a small fortune on its own — high-grade red padauk inlaid with mother-of-pearl, hand-painted with the golden silhouettes of poplars and dovetrees. The mirror itself, shell-shaped, was of perfect make. The very best that money could buy.
Everything Qi Rong owned was the very best.
Qi Rong stared at his own reflection with poisonous mutiny, his hair sloping gracelessly over his shoulders. Ink and mud and filth marred the edge of his bluegreen brocade robe. There was a small, semi-healed gash on his right cheek. He’d earned that little token by smashing a window — when was it? Three days ago? Qi Rong could scarcely remember. It hardly mattered, anyhow. The window had already been replaced; the glass swept, the tears dried. Two offending servants sacked without references.
He could see his aunt in the reflection, too, just above his right shoulder. She stood in the doorframe, maybe three paces away from her one and only nephew. She was cool and immaculate in her cross-collared robes — covered from throat to ankle by multilayered silk; pale blue, camellia-patterned. Her hands were folded together decorously, featherlight. Her eyes were brittle with caution.
“No,” Qi Rong said to the mirror, and by extension, his aunt. “No. No! I don’t wanna get fuckin’ married.”
Auntie sighed. It was a slow, long, patronizing sigh. One that Qi Rong was intimately familiar with.
“So you say,” she said, “but you haven’t even heard Yong An’s offer yet. If you only listened, you’d find it to be a very reasonable proposal. Advantageous, even.”
“Advantageous? Gimme a fuckin’ break — advantageous for you, maybe!”
“Qi Rong,” she said. “You’re all grown-up now, aren’t you? Surely we can have this conversation without resorting to needless theatrics.”
Qi Rong scrabbled for the nearest throwable object. His fingers found a gorgeous tortoise-shell hairbrush. He arced around and whipped it blindly in her direction. It wasn’t a particularly purposeful throw, or even a good one — he missed by a clear foot. She doesn’t so much as blink, either, though she did follow the hairbrush with her eyes as it whizzed off into the hallway.
“Ah,” she said, and she sighed again. The sound sent a trawl of complicated emotion through Qi Rong’s gut, anger and hurt and humiliation. “Apparently not.”
“Look, I said it once, and — an’ I’ll fuckin’ say it again: I don’t! Wanna! Get fuckin’ married!” Qi Rong’s voice lifted into a dizzy, hysteric pitch. “Least of all to some piss-off fuckin’ prince I’ve never even met —”
“You’ve met, sweetheart. Five years ago, at the New Year’s gala.”
Qi Rong laughed — a strange, abrupt sound, like music from a broken toy.
“Yeah, right. Of course. As if I’d remember some random kid I last met when I was eleven! Fucking hell, Auntie — you really wanna marry me off to Yong An? Yong fuckin’ An? Are you kidding me?”
His aunt’s eyes went cool and hard, her smile slipping perilously from its perch.
“Relations between Xian Le and Yong An have stagnated for years,” she said. She spoke in an even, modulated tone. The dispassion of it all froze Qi Rong to the bone. “With tensions rising on the Western border, a formal alliance would be of considerable benefit to both nations. Lang Qian Qiu is of good pedigree, and the two of you are close in age. He’s handsome, too, if that helps.”
“I don’t care what he looks like,” Qi Rong snapped. “I don’t care about his — his pedigree. Auntie, I don’t fucking know him, I don’t know him for shit, I...” He glanced down at his hands. They were trembling rather badly, rattling against the vanity. His little seashell-coloured fingernails were crusted with yesterday's grime. Beneath them, the vanity's wooden console was littered with brooches, ribbons, and opalesque hairpins. “Auntie, I can’t. I really — I can’t.”
“You can,” she said. Unbowed, she took a step closer. Her steps were silent, weightless; she was a feather on her feet. “And I think you should. It’s about as good a marriage as any prince can anticipate, after all.”
Qi Rong bristled.
“Excuse me?”
Another step. She laid a hand on Qi Rong’s shoulder, right between the intersection of his robe and his bare collarbone. Her fingers were cooler than marble, cooler than ice. Too cold. Scaldingly, scorchingly, winterfire cold.
“I don’t say this to be cruel, Qi Rong,” she said, smooth as silk, “but — you do little to endear yourself to matchmakers. There’s no saying if another offer will ever come around, let alone a better one.”
No one else will ever want you, she meant. Qi Rong could read between the fuckin’ lines. He jerked himself out of her grasp, stumbling across the room with one hand braced against the wall.
The shuttle-woven tapestry was a little coarse beneath his fingers, but it was warm.
“I —” Qi Rong bit himself off angrily, throwing his glare down to the carpeted floor. His pearly little feet winked back up at him, impossibly white against velveteen-red. The detail struck him as somewhat absurd, and all of a sudden, he badly regretted having not put on socks. “I don’t care, Auntie, I don’t care, I seriously don’t fuckin’ care! I mean, why should I have to get married at all?”
Qi Rong smothered his face with one hand, burying a spastic and truly unpleasant laugh into the cradle of his palm.
“Hahaha, can’t I just be married to myself? Or married to the heavens, like my darling cousin? Or, or — fuck, I don’t know! Just let me die a fuckin’ spinster, seriously, I don’t need a fuckin’ spouse tellin’ me what to do. I don’t... ”
His nails rasped against the tapestry with a muted, catlike scritch. He was dry-mouthed, dizzied. Overwhelmed by the mere implication.
Married! Him! The little kept-thing of some goddamn Yong An ponce, cloistered in a foreign nation’s capital. The thought was nothing short of vertiginous. Would they drown his skinny figure in bridal reds, yank the tangles from his hair? Anoint his poor, virgin body with jasmine neroli? Would they secure the peak of his hairpiece with a jaded phoenix crown? Would the bridal wine be sweet? Would it be sour? Would he kiss his husband’s feet? His hand? His waiting lips?
Would his husband be gentle, or — or —
Qi Rong’s fingers curled into fists. His bent at the waist, nearly heaving at the thought of strange and unfamiliar hands exploring the length of his body, the shape of him, scars and all. Hands on his narrow waist. Hands travelling down, down to the slight swell of his hips. Hands — lecherous, sweat-slicked, transparently motivated — trailing the slender line of his calves, meeting the curve of his thighs. Hands forcing his legs apart. Qi Rong pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, struck silent with rapt horror. Alien, alien, alien. Alien and abhorrent.
“A-Rong,” his aunt said. “You are a prince of Xian Le. Your bloodline precipitates certain responsibilities. You do understand that, don’t you?”
Qi Rong drew his knuckles over the hanging textiles. He thumbed over the embroidered image of a qilin — gold-bodied, gape-mouthed, mad-eyed. There was a silver-thread sword jutting from the qilin’s side. The qilin was either screaming or laughing. Qi Rong could imagine its laugh; shrill and birdlike, gahahahaha , its teeth clattering like marbles between the proud jut of its lips.
Qi Rong thunked his head against the wall, against the qilin. The blow was softened ever so slightly by the drapery.
“I…”
I don’t wanna get fuckin’ married, I don’t wanna get fuckin’ married, I don’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t. I’m so young, Auntie, I’m only seventeen. Seventeen! And you wanna sell me like the family cow? Already?
That eager to be rid of me?
“No?” Auntie hummed. Qi Rong couldn’t see her, but he could feel the steely lift of her brows. “Perhaps I’ve been too permissive.”
“Get out,” Qi Rong ground out. He slapped his bare palms against the wall, bap-bap-bap; the gesture itself petty and pointless, but vaguely satisfying in a kinda spastic, mechanical sense. “Get out of my fucking room!”
He badly wanted to throw something else, but there was nothing on hand. So he slapped his hands against the wall again, the sound reverberating dully through the room. Hunched at the waist, he turned to face his aunt, wild-eyed.
Unmoved, she sighed.
“Qi Rong, please. Be sensible, just this once.”
He would not be sensible; he would not even listen. He had closed himself off to her. He had gone to a place where no one could follow. He shook his head rapidly, the fall of his black, featherlike hair swaying back and forth.
“Get out! Get out! Get the fuck out!”
His hands were shaking. His voice was shaking, too, wavering like a forsythia leaf on the breeze. He squeezed his eyes shut, his lips curling back into an unhappy little sneer. He shook his head, again, again, again — and if his aunt spoke another word, it did not reach him.
When he opened his eyes again, he was alone. The bedroom door had been pulled shut. And he could hear the soft sound of his aunt’s slippered feet padding away down the hall, the train of her magnificent robes shifting with a slick sound against the tesselated flooring.
With a furious howl, Qi Rong pushed off the wall and threw himself into bed. He sank deep into the mattress, surrounded on all sides by plush things — a nest of fur throws, blankets, chaff-stuffed pillows, and soft toys he could never bear to part with.
At the top of the heap, the cloth tiger his mother had sewn him winked at him lovingly. The tiger was worn all-over, some patches unreasonable stiff, others remarkably smooth. One of his shiny button eyes dangled helplessly from a loose thread, perilously close to snapping free.
Qi Rong scooted forwards on his knees, gathering the tiger up against his face. He hugged it and snivelled, feeling more like a child than ever.
“You wouldn’t try to marry me off, would you?” Qi Rong asked, speaking directly against the tiger’s threadbare fur. “You wouldn’t try to make a groom outta me, huh, Hǔmāo?”
Hǔmāo remained incriminatingly silent.
Qi Rong sighed, let go of the tiger, and rolled over onto his back. He kicked his feet out against the bed. They smacked against the pillows with a sound that was almost comically hushed.
Married. Him.
The thought was unfathomable. Unfathomable, too, was the rush everyone seemed to be in. The rush to grow up, to meet change headlong. What was the use in changing? He didn’t think there was anything wrong with the way he was currently living. As far as he was concerned, he could live like this forever.
A-Rong was a good child, wasn't he?
There was a knock on the door. A prim little sound, really. Still, at the first beat, every muscle in Qi Rong’s body went completely rigid. Had his aunt come back with some new entreatment? Had she sent his uncle? Bristling with indignation, Qi Rong half-lifted himself from his bed on one hand, his teeth bared.
“EAT SHIT AND DIE!"
An awkward silence.
Then, from behind the door: “It’s Xie Lian. Can I come in?”
Qi Rong’s eyes went wide — first with shock, then with horror.
“Wh—” he pushed himself back up to rest on his haunches, stumbling to rearrange the side-slumped collar of his robes. "Of course, Dianxia! This — this one begs your forgiveness, I truly didn't mean to —"
The door slid open. Xie Lian came through, as pale and resplendent as the dawn itself.
"No, it’s fine. I understand,” he said, and his voice was as clear as starlight.
"Dianxia, I swear, if I'd only known..."
“Settle down, now. I haven't come to berate you”
Xie Lian slid the door shut very gently. His modest robes were light and perfectly trimmed to his elegant features; the fine, slender waist, the ramrod spine, the lyrical line of his legs. He wore an easy, sloe-eyed look, his features set with an understanding and an indulgence so complete that Qi Rong could’ve wept with gratitude or awe or both.
“Mother asked me to talk to you,” he said, just this side of sheepish. There was an embarrassed pause. He sat down at the edge of the bed, stiff as a board. He chanced a smile that was half-kind, half-apprehensive. “About… well. I suppose you already know. Yong An’s proposal.”
Qi Rong sank down onto his stomach, his expression turning doleful.
“You’ve heard?”
“I...” Xie Lian’s smile faltered. he glanced down at his hands, his expression shifting to something resembling unease. “Yes. Yes, I’ve heard. The thing is... the Yong An monarchy initially asked for my hand. But, I — I declined. I had to. You see, my —”
“Your cultivation path!” Qi Rong burst out, aghast. “No, no, no — they musn’t have you, Dianxia!”
He must have seem well and truly inconsolable, because Xie Lian sighed in sympathy, reaching out to smooth his hand over the small of Qi Rong’s back. Qi Rong relished his touch eagerly, preening like a cat beneath Xie Lian’s attentions.
“I’d certainly rather they didn’t,” Xie Lian admitted. He stroked his thumb up along the line of Qi Rong spine, his eyes hazing over with some complicated emotion that Qi Rong could not name. “I’ve made such progress with my cultivation. Such incredible,, incredible progress. The thought of having all that stripped away…” Xie Lian's voice trailed off into silence. He closed his eyes, lifting his chin towards the ceiling. "Qi Rong," he sais. I want you to know — when I declined their proposal, it wasn’t with the intention of forcing the matter on you. I had no idea they would return with a request for your hand.”
Xie Lian took a fortifying breath.
“That being said,” he said, a tensile quality to his tone, “I think you should consider this offer seriously.”
He locked eyes with Qi Rong. Qi Rong gaped.
“What are you saying?”
“This marriage would secure your future,” Xie Lian said steadily. “I know you have no head for politics, and no real interest in governing Xian Le. In Yong An, you’d be taken care of. Prized and pampered for the rest of your days.”
His words struck Qi Rong like an arrow to the heart. Qi Rong reared back on his elbows, struck somewhere between terror and bewilderment.
"Dianxia, you can't — you can't possibly be in favour!"
"Just let me speak," Xie Lian said, his voice so nectared, so placating. The flat of his palm travelled up the valley of Qi Rong’s back, landing squarely at the nape of neck. "You would like it there, Qi Rong. You’d be happy. The Yong An palace is a little more remote, sure, but that just gives you all the more room to play. And you’d have so much more time to play. All the time in the world. Life at the Yong An palace would offer you unforeseen levels of freedom. In fact, I doubt they'd ask much more of you than to appear at formal addresses with your — with Lang Qianqiu.” Xie Lian smiled again, honey-slow. “No more lessons, Qi Rong."
Qi Rong’s head spun.
"... No lessons?"
"No history, no calligraphy, no swordplay. No arithmetic," Xie Lian said. Against his better judgment, Qi Rong found himself nodding along. He’d always hated arithmetic. “Instead, you could spend your days riding your carriage through the Yong An bushlands, free as a bird. And you’d be the master of your very own palace wing! I’d be sure to visit you there, of course. Wouldn't that be nice? Taking me to tea in a parlour of your very own?"
It did sound nice. Qi Rong dropped his chin against the mattress, his mind slowing to consider it. No more lectures, no more tedious note-taking, no more fuckin’ math! And a palace wing of his own! Servants under his thumb, proud knights at his command — a whole staff at his disposal. And teatime with Xie Lian! In his very own parlour! A chance to show off a little to his untouchable, all-shining cousin!
Come to think of it, wasn’t this also his chance to protect Xie Lian? Yong An had sought his hand first, after all! They sought so sully him, to despoil the temple of his efforts — and now, it was up to Qi Rong to rescue him! To save his honour as a cultivator! To defend the borders of the nation that housed him! Qi Rong nearly gasped at the thought aloud. It was, by anyone’s estimation, the perfect opportunity to secure Xie Lian’s gratitude.
Qi Rong held his head in his hands.
What was he willing to pay? What exchange would he make for Xie Lian's love?
Would he pay with his life? Would he pay with his body? The thought of a faceless, eyeless prince leering over his bed struck him cold with fear. He twisted a glance up at Xie Lian from the corner of his eye, his faculties struggling to process the complex pro-con calculation at hand.
"But…" Qi Rong faltered, the fear in him speaking. “The prince…”
Xie Lian hummed. His wonderful, wonderful hands feathered up the column of Qi Rong’s neck, stroking ever-gently through the curtained dreck of his hair.
"We've met. Lang Qianqiu is a very good man. He's strong, he's honest, and very fair. A little blunt, but very good-natured."
"Good-natured?" Qi Rong repeated, helpless.
Xie Lian nodded sagely.
"Yes. He's a very kind man. I think he'd be a very good husband."
Qi Rong turned his cheek against the sheets, absorbing this information. Strong, honest, fair. Handsome, by his aunt's estimation. Or had that been a falsehood? It was impossible to say. He could hardly trust her word.
“They won’t force you, you know," Xie Lian said. His fingers came around to frame the smooth, upturned slant of Qi Rong's cheek. His touch, it was everything. The sweetness of childhood, of crackling, candied syrup, of dessicated fruit. It was like a summons to the foolishness in Qi Rong, that touch. Xie Lian touched him and smiled, so fraternal, so blindingly kind. "It isn't slavery."
Qi Rong remembered, then, that he trusted Xie Lian. He trusted him blindly, ardently, as only stupid little boys can trust.
Surely, Xie Lian would never do anything to hurt him. He’d never lead Qi Rong astray, never leave him to suffer alone. Because Qi Rong was a good child. A loyal, devoted child.
The very best.
Qi Rong tucked his knees up against his chest, curling himself up small. He took in a slow, steady breath. He took in the scent of napthalene, spilled perfume, mothballs, and mud. The perfume was atrocious. The mud was very nearly dry.
“The wedding,” Qi Rong whispered. “When is the wedding?”