(Psst…I’m writing a 4th chapter of nothing so undoing…teaser below the cut)
The flight itself back to Cang Qiong wasn't anything extraordinary. It's only noteworthy at all due to the fact that Xiu Ya is back in his hand after far too long apart. Shen Qingqiu has always treated his sword as a respected tool, but little else. He expected it to simply slot back into his hand as normal so everyone could mount and fly off on schedule. Yet the moment his palm met the pommel, the whole sword shivered in response to his qi. Worse still, his body shivered in turn. Flying together again had been almost as thrilling as it had been the very first time.
That elation was tempered by the sheer amount of assessing stares prickling against his spine. Shen Qingqiu is no stranger to infamy. The digs, however, come sharper without his usual armour—his guan, his robes, his fan. Yue Qingyuan hadn't thought to bring an extra set for Shen Qingqiu to change into after the fact. Shen Qingqiu doesn't take the slip personally. The entire sect has been rather forgetful as of late, ever since Shang Qinghua went missing.
The Qing Jing Peak Lord doesn't hold any favour in his heart for the snivelling coward. But Shang Qinghua would have at least considered a potential future where Shen Qingqiu was found innocent and released back to Cang Qiong. Again, not that Shen Qingqiu is taking Yue Qingyuan's slip personally.
He flies mostly alone. Yue Qingyuan has to be at the front to lead the entire contingent home and Shen Qingqiu has deliberately chosen to hang towards the back of the procession. Normally his spot is right at his Sect Leader's side. The idea has lost its appeal for the moment. Why stand at the front and make it easy for gossip to stir and stares to dig? If anyone wants to gawk and whisper they'd have to strain their necks for it. Ning Yingying, as his disciple, stays nearby. Close enough to talk, but far enough to discourage it.
He doesn't take that personally either. Both of them have too much to think about to make any sort of conversation. He will speak with her another day. After he has scraped together the remnants of his dignity from this abysmal horse and pony show. Let the world consider him "subdued" for the time being.
When they arrive at Cang Qiong late into the next morning, Shen Qingqiu doesn't wait for any orders or rules to come his way. He continues on towards Qing Jing, even as the rest of his sect siblings are turning to Qiong Ding. Only one of them intercepts him.
"Shixiong, I understand the comfort of home is especially appealing right now, but I must make sure you are in good health." Mu Qingfang says, angling his sword to oh-so-conveniently get in Shen Qingqiu's way.
His lip curls. "Shidi has done well enough in that regard today. He can sleep soundly knowing this master is fine." His burns and scrapes and cuts were already on the mend with his spiritual energy running its course through his body again.
Mu Qingfang doesn't move. "Your spiritual pathways have been sealed for a long time, shixiong. If left unattended-"
"I may fly into a qi deviation and die?" Shen Qingqiu says mildly. "Pretending that the rest of our sect siblings would withhold themselves from celebrating such a thing is dishonest of you, shidi."
The doctor frowns, trying to appear disapproving but the tilt of his shoulders gives him away. Guilty. "This isn't about the opinions of the rest of the sect. This master is speaking to his own shixiong and only his own shixiong. Your health is all that matters right now."
With a sigh, Shen Qingqiu slackens his grip on the situation. Once Mu Qingfang starts harping on ethical duties to health, there's no changing his mind; only diverting it elsewhere. "This master will come to Qian Cao at the hour of the rabbit tomorrow and no sooner. One night alone will not kill me."
Mu Qingfang didn't look happy, but he, too, must be tired because he nods. "This shidi will be waiting for his shixiong." With a shallow bow, the other Peak Lord finally gets out of Shen Qingqiu's way.
Seeing Qing Jing again is a relief. One that prods at all his sore and tender places like a hungry child. The urge to simply fly straight to his door and slam it is so strong he has to fight with every shred of his will to resist it. If it's for his image, it's only natural to stretch aching muscles just that much further. So Shen Qingqiu lands in the entry garden.
In his absence, he notes new weeds have begun sprouting between the tiles of the walkway. He files it away to address with Ming Fan tomorrow. He glides his way across his Peak, ignoring the way his disciples startle and scramble to their feet as he passes them. One of the newest disciples flinches when they make eye contact.
Shen Qingqiu keeps his gaze forward after that.
In his wake, he can hear the rumour mill spinning up to full force. Let the children gossip. If any of them are so thoughtless as to let him hear what words they spewed then-
Shen Qingqiu doesn't stop his march to the Bamboo House but his mind shudders in place. Then...what? The punishment for gossip overheard is a switch to the spine for each lie told. That has been the punishment for years. It is the only logical punishment and served Shen Qingqiu well enough during his own education and-
And it was Qiu Jianluo's punishment.
An old spring of vitriol bubbles sharply in his gut. Threatening to spill up and over at any moment and drag Shen Qingqiu down with it. Hatred, so black and vile it put pitch to shame. He sterns his mouth into an impenetrable line and hastens his steps. He will not lose himself here.
The Bamboo House comes quietly around several strategic bends in the landscaping. Hidden away by design without ever appearing unnatural. The sight of it alone helps to quiet some of his burgeoning emotionality.
He opens and closes the door softly, unwilling to break the peace he'd finally attained. His front steps are clean, as are the floors, walls, and surfaces inside. The lanterns are lit and night pearls refreshed in their holders. His desk has been swept and organized the way he likes, fresh ink ground and waiting for his brush.
His private rooms have been mostly left alone. The kitchen hasn't changed at all since he left, still empty and unused. His bed, though, has been made and the sheets smell clean. A parcel of his robes paired with his favoured guan and a matching fan has been laid out for him on top of the bed. Shen Qingqiu assumes Ning Yingying had a part in this. Even Ming Fan's rigour didn't go this far.
That old well of hatred quiets in the face of unspoken care.
Having a clean home to come back to should not affect him so, he knows. Shen Qingqiu is a peerless immortal master who wants for nothing and is therefore above such gestures. He's spent years carving himself into something even remotely appealing and sturdy. Thick, flawless, a pristine statue of virtue.
He lands heavily on his bed. He reaches out and cradles his favourite guan in hands that shake. It had been a gift from his shizun right before the previous generation ascended. Fine silver, carved by hand, inset with a scene of a crane striking and capturing a fish from a swift autumnal river. The first thing that would belong to Shen Qingqiu and not Shen Jiu.
Yet, tonight, with the familiar sounds of bamboo bending in the wind around him, it's Shen Jiu who's holding it. He'd sincerely thought that side of him dead and had mourned appropriately; which is to say, not at all. Shen Jiu is ugly, made up entirely of knives—most of which are rusted so badly you're more likely to die from poison than blood loss if struck by one. Shen Jiu is held together at the seems by liquid hatred. Frustration, envy. Shen Jiu is not an animal anyone should mourn, even himself.
Shen Jiu is the one who hears his twin's words from the trial ringing in his ears. His twin, who still mourns for him over twenty five years later.
His twin. It doesn't feel real. He forces himself to breathe around the revelation as he has since he had been dragged onto that idiotic stage less than a day ago. Shen Shi—Shen Yuan, rather. Went on stage in front of the world and painted himself in his shame out of some misguided notion that Shen Jiu needed help.
He hadn't. He'd long grown used to being despised by idiots and gossips alike. And he's an expert at taking care of himself. No matter Shen Yuan's assertions, Shen Qingqiu had a plan. He'd accept blame where it was due but he had no intention of simply lying down and rolling over for the masses to stab at his belly. Plus, he'd had Yue Qingyuan in reserve—as reluctant as he was to rely on his own sect leader, the man commanded a room.
He never asked for his twin to magically be alive and come flying to his side spitting piss and vinegar at the entire world for his sake.
...he'd never had to ask before.
It had been pointless to ask back at the manor when neither of them would answer. He never had to announce his discomfort or say where it hurt. Shen Shi would just know, and would take care of it. Just like Shen Jiu would know when Shen Shi was having a flare up and pretending he wasn't. They gave and took freely.
And now that pity has been forced into his hands, Shen Jiu doesn't know what to do with it.
He should curse his brother's name for interfering but more than that, he wants to curse his own. How could he have not known his own twin brother had survived? How had no one else said, "Master Shen, I got the strangest sense of double vision several days ago." Their relation was apparent to everyone who saw them at Huan Hua's trial grounds! It should've been obvious to any cultivator or pompous lord that had done business with either of them. Yet they'd spun far, far outside of each other's orbit, too far for even their ripples in the world to brush—simply from one stray blow. The burning of Qiu Manor.
Miscalculated, driven by anger, by hatred. Oh, Shen Yuan had claimed to have been the one to start that fire, but Shen Jiu hadn't believed it for a second. Not when he still dreamed of the sweet sounds of Qiu Jianluo's thigh meat chunking off from the whole.
Shen Jiu set the fire; he aimed the blow at the splintering bond that kept them together and gnashed it between his teeth. He hated Qiu Jianluo. Still hates him so much that even though Shen Jiu paid for it with the one person he loved, he can't be bothered to regret it.
Shen Jiu is a vile man, scum. He knows this—he'd had to carve away at the wretched muck and rotting sinew to shape Shen Qingqiu. He is familiar with his own ugliness and that is precisely why Shen Qingqiu had buried Shen Jiu and refused to plant a marker for the body. He is the arbiter of his own anguish. He has no right to be upset.
A drop of water plinks down onto the guan, obscuring the edge of the crane's wing. A second crashes down into the metal river. The edge along his brows that slopes into his nose is burning. His fingers have gone numb where they grip metal. He's curved forward over it. He isn't breathing.
Shen Qingqiu jolts upright—posture is a sign of a soul's integrity—and Shen Jiu gasps lowly as air slices its way back into his lungs. Is he-?
There's a gentle tapping at the front door of the Bamboo House. A clear, feminine voice calls out, "Shen-shibo? Are you in? This one heard from her Shizun that you had returned to Qing Jing." It's the voice of Liu Mingyan.
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