“You did,” Mu Qingfang allows, looking something horribly close to fond. Yue Qingyuan swallows and tries to hurry on.

“So—not an emergency, but I do want your opinion,” he coughs out. “I’m having… doubts. About the fish.” Mu Qingfang’s eyebrows contract. Yue Qingyuan rushes it out. “Do you think I should keep it?”

“Yue-xiong…” Mu Qingfang looks politely incredulous. “Why does my opinion matter? The fish is already yours, isn’t it? If you don’t think maintaining its upkeep will be feasible, that’s one thing, but… Surely Yue-xiong did the research before getting it?”

He doesn’t sound judgemental, but Yue Qingyuan feels his cheeks warm. “I did, but I wasn’t planning on getting a fish; I was only admiring the tanks. There was a salesperson who was… very insistent.”

Mu Qingfang regards him doubtfully, which is fair. Yue Qingyuan towers over most people he meets, and his bulk only further adds to the impression of immovability. It’s only when he opens his mouth that it becomes clear how spineless he actually is.

Yue Qingyuan falters. “I had thought… I thought it might be nice.” The bettas had seemed so majestic in their tanks, iridescent monarchs of false grass and plastic coves, and Yue Qingyuan had thought, wildly, that one might be rewarding to keep, might breathe a touch of life into his immaculately sleek living room. The whole affair hadn’t even been expensive by his shiny new standards, forget difficult to physically arrange. It was only when installation and set-up for his new aquarium had finished and he was left to watch that jewel-bright being swim disaffectedly through its new home that doubt had seized him, all-consuming and black. He had, admittedly, panicked a little after that.

(Yue Qingyuan’s apartment is very large, and very clean, and very empty. It holds the barest amount of decoration and muss to qualify as lived-in rather than a snapshot from a magazine ad. The fish may, in fact, be the only thing in the entire place which really qualifies as his. No wonder Yue Qingyuan wanted to jettison it from his life as soon as he got it.)

Mu Qingfang’s expression hovers between concern and simple confusion. “I’m sure Yue-xiong will be a more than adequate caretaker,” he says, more gently than Yue Qingyuan and all his neuroses probably deserve. “What’s this really about, Yue-xiong?”

Ah. There it is. Being the mildest person of Yue Qingyuan’s admittedly sharp-tongued social circle doesn’t preclude Mu Qingfang’s wit from being as keen as the scalpels he works with.

“I don’t…” Yue Qingyuan falters. How to express to Mu Qingfang how manifestly unfit Yue Qingyuan is to care for any living creature at all? He changes tack. “I think he hates me,” he admits dolefully.

Mu Qingfang stares at him for a long time, long enough to imply that he’s reevaluating certain opinions about Yue Qingyuan’s intelligence. “Yue-xiong, with all due respect to your new pet—it’s a fish.”

“Fish have emotions!” Yue Qingyuan argues. He flushes at the volume at which it comes out, and at the way Mu Qingfang’s eyes go wide-eyed in startlement. But the salesperson had been very insistent about that, as well. “Bettas are intelligent animals. They dislike certain colors, apparently, and they’re very sensitive—ah, to environmental disruptions, that is. And—”

Mu Qingfang’s eyebrows are still high, but his face has relaxed into a smile. “It sounds to me like you like it quite a bit already. Isn’t that reason enough to keep it?” His tone curls with sudden mischief. “Have heart, Yue-xiong—you’ve hardly known each other for a day! Give it time to adjust to you, and I’m sure you’ll win it over as surely as you do everyone else.” And he grins, sure and easy in his trust that Yue Qingyuan won’t fumble and shatter something so small and monumental as a life that he could cup in his palms.

While Yue Qingyuan is still dazed by that, Mu Qingfang’s eyes alight with interest. “Ah, Yue-xiong—what have you named it?”

“...”

Mu Qingfang’s face falls as devastatingly as it had lit up. “Yue-xiong…”

“Mu-xiong is aware that I was unsure of whether or not I’d keep him!” Yue Qingyuan is terribly aware that his ears are now heating up to match his cheeks. Mu Qingfang’s ensuing laughter does not help with that matter.

Yue Qingyuan is not very good at holding onto things. More often than not, he makes a mess of whatever he’s set his clumsy hands to, lets it fall right through his scarred fingers. But Mu Qingfang’s words ring through his head: Isn’t that reason enough to keep it? And, well, isn’t it? Surely Yue Qingyuan is adult enough to follow through on this. Maybe happiness can be look like his new betta swimming up to the tank to observe the new colorful form moving in front of it, can come as easy as Mu Qingfang quipping that his knowledge about fish is clearly lacking and vowing casually to read up on bettas to be a better fish uncle.

After Shen Qingqiu leaves with Luo Binghe, it’s as if the Mountain’s spirit has left with him. Or so Yue Qingyuan thinks.

It shouldn’t feel that different; it’s been a long time since he actively, repeatedly tried to reconnect with Shen Qingqiu and keep some kind of relationship with him, apologise, try to talk to him. It’s been a long time since his efforts were rebuked time and time again.

A long time since he essentially gave up, darkening Shen Qingqiu’s step less and less often. By the time Shen Qingqiu left the Mountain, it’s been months since Yue Qingyuan visited the bamboo house on his own, with a matter entirely unrelated to peak matters (even if thinly veiled as such). It has been a long time, then, too, since this tense, strange silence has filled his life.

This time, though, Yue Qingyuan swears it's different.

Back then, Shen Qingqiu was still there, on the Mountain, on his Peak, in his house — perhaps not waiting, perhaps not even available, but there, somewhere familiar. A known distance away. If he only wanted to, Yue Qingyuan could go to him and pay a visit, undesired as it was. He’d be met with a cold, stern face in candlelight, a sharp remark, a refusal of entry — and then a door left wide open after a rigid silhouette had disappeared indoors.

He could go there anytime. He wouldn’t, of course. But he could.

Now, though — now the Qing Jing Peak Lord’s dwelling houses nobody, even if it is still full of the lord’s belongings.

Shen Qingqiu has vowed to come back from time to time, to keep up with his duties, to guide his disciples, to keep his peak running — but Yue Qingyuan knows with an alarming clarity that something has changed, irreparably, irrevocably.

Years and years ago, what could very well be several lifetimes, for all it felt like, two slave children vowed to run away someday. They waited for the right time, for the right place, for a safe enough opportunity which never came. They got separated. One ran away. One had to stay back.

One was left behind.

The one who was left behind managed to leave, in the end—just not with Yue Qi, and not from slavery.

With Luo Binghe — a demon lord — and from the chains of the past.

Yue Qingyuan has been a noose around his neck which tightens with each hopeful glance and each hopeful word.

…This way, at least, Shen Qingqiu is truly free, isn't he?

Some of these evenings, he ends up on Qing Jing, wandering mindlessly up the stone path leading to the peak lord’s residence. The late autumn air is crisp in his nostrils. Were he not a cultivator, it would surely hurt.

Evenings are cold and dark, with only the moon illuminating the way, and that’s only when the nights are cloudless. Somehow, whenever Yue Qingyuan visits the peak, now or in the past, the moon is always clouded over, rendering any light gone.

In the past, it didn’t pose much of an issue — he could always find his way to the lone bamboo house. Shen Qingqiu kept a candle burning in a lantern set in his window, conveniently facing Qiong Ding.

Yue Qingyuan makes his way up the stone path in total darkness now and trips over a lone stone in his way.

“Who’s there?”

The peak’s lord might be gone, but his disciples remain.

Left behind, Yue Qingyuan’s brain whispers, even though he knows it’s not the case.

“Stand down and do not fret, disciple Ming Fan,” he says in a tone much calmer than his heart. He hasn’t tripped since his own disciplehood.

Ming Fan recognises him in an instant. “Zhangmen-shibo!!” Robes rustle. He must be bowing. “Can this Ming Fan help in any way? What reason has Zhangmen-shibo to visit the peak?”

He doesn’t know himself. He doesn’t even remember leaving his own dwelling.

“No need for concern,” he answers instead. “This evening was simply… A good time for a stroll. No official matter. Disciple Ming Fan may rest and return to his duties.”

The boy used to be ignorant. Now, even in the darkness, Yue Qingyuan feels his inquisitive gaze. He knows his respects, however, and soon Ming Fan bows again and takes his leave.

He stops after a couple of steps and turns his way again.

“Zhangmen-shibo surely knows this,” he says in a hesitant tone, “but Shizun is not currently on the mountain… He’s—”

“I know.”

Ming Fan shuts his mouth. His clothes rustle in a bow again and he leaves without another word.

Yue Qingyuan feels for the rock with his foot and pushes it away. His next steps are more careful.

The candle lantern is gone from the window, even unlit, cold and flameless.

When did it disappear? When was it hidden away, the light leading his way stolen, taken away, kept from him?

When has Shen Qingqiu given up on him for the final, permanent time?

The lantern was there when the Qing generation ascended. It was there when Shen Qingqiu suffered his first qi deviation as a peak lord. It was there when he took Luo Binghe in as a disciple, when Yue Qingyuan first found out about the boy’s punishments, and whenever he came over for visits under the guise of sect-related matters.

It was there the morning he sat at Shen Qingqiu’s bedside, waiting for him to rouse from his fever, only for the man to wake up different.

He doesn’t remember seeing it during any of the other peak lords’ attempts at testing Shen Qingqiu for possession. He distinctly recalls seeing it gone after the Qiong Ding demon invasion, when he waited at Shen Qingqiu’s bedside — again — after returning to the sect to find him struck with poison and thinking him at death’s door.

His eyes didn’t focus on many things that day. He brushed the lack of the lantern in the window simply as it being daytime.

…has he seen it since?

He doesn’t remember. It’s not like he visited that often. Shen Qingqiu has since seemed to have lost his sharpness; for some reason, it brought him no relief.

The bamboo house is dark, cold, and empty. Yue Qingyuan’s heart clenches in sympathy.

With no light to follow, he turns back and leaves.

Sometimes he wonders what the point of it all is.

The world. The sect. Cultivation. Him.

What is the point of Yue Qingyuan? In the past, he had a clear answer. In the past, the point of Yue Qingyuan was to protect, to keep safe. Even if it meant he had to withdraw into the background, the point of him was to make sure others could live as peacefully as possible.

That was his Shizun’s — the past Sect Leader’s — reasoning for choosing him as the next in line, at least.

He had magnificent spiritual aptitude, they said, and he was capable of leading and protecting those in his care.

He remembers feeling as if he were observing himself hearing those words, standing just to the side, disconnected.

Impostor, his own voice whispered in his mind, at himself. You’ve fooled them all. Who are they speaking about? You couldn’t protect the one person that really mattered; how could you protect the whole sect?

He remembers watching himself open his mouth, face blank and eyes unseeing, and saying — and saying…

“Shizun… This one is not worthy…”

“Humble, too,” the Sect Leader remarked, all the while shooting him a warning look, displeased that he was undermining her decision. “A quality a sect leader should have.”

His face looked green, but none of his seniors seemed to notice.

He doesn’t think anybody has noticed, ever.

He sits on his own bed, one hand on the sheath of his sword and the other on the hilt.

If a demon has made Shen Qingqiu feel safer, more secure than Yue Qingyuan… If getting away from him was what finally brought him freedom…

…maybe he should relinquish the sect, too.

The candlelight is gone. Yue Qi draws the sword.

Life energy drains.

He sits like this with eyes closed.

One minute passes. Two.

Five.

Ten.

He feels — lighter, with each second that passes.

Relief.

This way, everything will finally be right in the world again.

Coward, hisses a sharp voice in his head, his memory, his soul, so loud and clear, it knocks all sense back into him.

He wakes up from the trance with a violent gasp and slams the sword back into the sheath.

Xiao Jiu is right, as always. Qi-ge’s a foolish coward; he will listen to him instead.

A Sect Leader who is ready to throw away his life surely doesn’t deserve to keep the title.

He should keep his life as punishment.

Qian Cao is believed to be quite similar to Qing Jing — just as peaceful, just as quiet — but it feels different. Despite the late hour, or maybe exactly because of it, each path is well-lit by glowing plants growing on either side. Even in his weakened state, Yue Qingyuan has no chance to trip. The paths are even and void of any stubborn rocks and pebbles, too.

Mu Qingfang’s healer quarters are still glowing with warm light despite the halls currently housing no patients. It makes sense for the beds to be empty; after all, the only people who were hurt in any way in the past events are not around, or have been healed already — or are standing at the very steps.

It takes him several moments to make himself knock on the healer’s door, and in the end he doesn't even manage to do that before Mu Qingfang opens the door himself. Clearly, Yue Qingyuan isn’t somebody he’s expected to see.

“Zhangmen-shixiong,” he greets in surprise. His eyes quickly turn assessing. “Is everything alright?”

Yue Qingyuan smiles on instinct, and just as habitually opens his mouth to reassure—

Coward.

“No,” he says instead. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Mu Qingfang blinks. Yue Qingyuan swallows, surprised just as much, if not more.

Then, the healer steps back. “Allow this shidi to try to help.”

He walks in.

Mu Qingfang does not look happy after checking his spiritual veins.

“Zhangmen-shixiong should be more careful with his health,” he chides. “He knows his circumstances are fragile. How will he ascend to godhood along with his sect siblings if he has no life force left when the time comes?”

Ah. Ascension. He’s forgotten about it.

In some ways, having Xuan Su consume his life force truly is a blessing. It could keep him in the mortal realm where he belongs.

At least then Shen Qingqiu will truly be rid of him.

…Will he even choose to ascend, without Luo Binghe? Perhaps the demon will break another taboo and follow right after?

“Zhangmen-shixiong? You’re shaking.”

He hasn’t even noticed.

“Yue Qingyuan,” he whispers. “Yue Qi.”

Mu Qingfang frowns. “What—”

“No titles. Please.”

The pause that follows is so long, he believes Mu Qingfang won’t abide by his request. But then—

“Yue Qi,” the healer says, softly and with such sympathy that it reaches deep, deep inside of him and squeezes.

Mu Qingfang is the closest thing he has to a haven. Even if he doesn’t know exactly what his past consists of, or where he came from, or what exactly his motivations were when he entered the sect — it all concerned Shen Jiu, and Shen Jiu was deeply, deeply ashamed of his past. Protecting his pride was worth never being truly known — he knows more than anybody else still on the mountain.

“Yue Qi.”

Ah, he’s talking.

“Clear your mind.”

“I can’t.”

“Your qi is getting disturbed. Clear your mind.”

“He left.”

“Shen-shixiong will come back, safe and sound. He said so himself,” Mu Qingfang says without any doubt. He presses his fingers to Yue Qingyuan’s wrist and starts a qi transfer. “Clear your mind.”

The qi feels cool and calming. Familiar. His own spiritual veins accept it immediately.

Mu Qingfang’s eyes bore into him with curiosity, calculation, which eventually settles on understanding. Yue Qingyuan can’t bear to see the emotion that’s born out of it.

“Shen-shixiong seemed unburdened when he left the mountain,” Mu Qingfang says, as if it’s a throwaway observation, meant to share the same weight as mentioning the weather.

It’s meant to soothe, but to him it has the opposite effect; it claws his chest apart. Yue Qi feels as if he’s all figured out.

“Mm.”

“Yue Qi seems to be convinced that he won’t return.” Why would he? “But hasn’t Shen-shixiong always returned, no matter the circumstances?”

That he has. No matter his age, or the level of displeasure with Yue Qi, or the sorrow the mountain reminded him of, Shen Qingqiu always came back in the past. Maybe because, before, he had no other place to call home.

Now, though, he has left to accompany the demonic emperor, that Luo Binghe, who no doubt has a dwelling of his own. A lord’s palace, most probably.

The candle is not the only thing that’s disappeared without an explanation, he realises with a start. One day, Shen Qingqiu hissed at him to stop haunting his doorstep, to keep the sect matter talks to the peak lord meetings, all the while keeping the teapot warm.

The next, the contempt was nowhere to be found in his face. It was as if the fever burned away any feelings he had towards Yue Qingyuan — towards Yue Qi — and left only a blank slate. Perhaps to anybody else it would have been a relief, but to Yue Qi it was a life sentence. There was no fixing his mistakes any longer; and if his chance was gone, there was no healing, either. An infinite penance.

“Isn’t it all right now?”

Yue Qingyuan looks up blankly. Mu Qingfang’s eyes are focused and gentle.

“Shen-shixiong is happy and others welcome and seek out his company. There are fewer and fewer people able and willing to harm him, and he himself strays from unnecessary violence. Zhangmen-shixiong...” Mu Qingfang lays a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Yue Qi. This one has long suspected that you and Shen-shixiong have a shared past, and with Madam Qiu’s confession and everything that followed, this one has started putting some long-collected pieces together.”

Yue Qingyuan’s breath freezes in his throat.

It's not even about his secret. If anything, as the sect's primary healer, Mu Qingfang had to have been informed of any health related dangers potentially befalling the sect leader. He knows, just like Yue Qi’s own shizun knew, how Yue Qingyuan’s sword hungers and feasts on his own life once out of its sheath.

It's not about the secret. It's not even about Yue Qingyuan's failure.

It's about Shen Jiu—Shen Qingqiu’s past, the past Shen Qingqiu’s always been so ashamed of, the same past Yue Qi has long sworn in his soul to protect.

If Mu Qingfang’s realisation is in any way guided by Yue Qingyuan’s indiscretion…

Cold weight settles in the pit of his stomach. Failure—his life’s constant companion—turns even more bitter.

Isn’t it alright now? Mu Qingfang has asked, and Yue Qingyuan—Yue Qi—knows it should be. Shen Qingqiu’s happiness should make all the difference.

…but with the lack of sharp looks and the pull at his guilt, and the poking at his conscience, nothing feels right anymore. It’s as if he’s a parched man after years wandering the desert, and his only thirst-quenching flask has just run out of liquid poison. Now, Mu-shidi is offering him chilled water, and it will keep him alive, but the drink will forever lack the familiar relief.

No.

Yue Qingyuan mentally slaps his own face for daring to even think of Shen Jiu as poisonous. Yes, he can be sharp-tongued. Yes, he keeps to himself and rejects any form of help, and lashes out at anybody who crosses an invisible boundary. Shen Jiu who, despite his years and life experience, is a child at heart: distrustful, and suspicious, and ready to leave everything and everyone but Qi-ge — and run far away if only it proved more beneficial.

(...is the Shen Qingqiu who left the mountain with Luo Binghe still the same person? His words are softer now and only their meaning feels sharp. He asks for help, sometimes, and doesn't lash out anymore.)

(He still ran away.)

(Without Qi-ge.)

(More beneficial this way.)

In the moment of silence that follows, with Yue Qingyuan’s eyes dim and Mu Qingfang’s speculating, something shifts. Mu Qingfang briefly tightens his hand on his shoulder, then strokes it soothingly.

“Yue Qi must have gone through a lot in his life,” he says in a gentle tone, more a friend than a healer now. He pulls his hand away and sits right next to him on the patient’s bed. Yue Qingyuan follows his movements half-heartedly in the peripherals of his vision.

Mu Qingfang puts a comforting hand over his wrist and sends forward a soothing stream of qi — not examining, not healing — just comforting. A connection.

“It’s only natural that he’s afraid to let go of what he knows.”

Part of him wants to bristle at being laid so bare. He can’t be afraid. He shouldn’t be afraid. He can’t afford to be afraid.

Beneath Mu Qingfang’s familiar touch, though, maybe it’s not — maybe it’s not so shameful to admit that — that sometimes, when he’s alone after another nightmare of charred remains of the sect, the bodies of his martial brothers and sisters and their disciples, youths never even blossomed, piled on top of one another among the ruins of ash-laden mountain peaks, spiritual caves long depleted and destroyed, the rainbow bridge shattered to pieces — that he’s afraid, so afraid that he’ll fail, that’s it’s just a matter of time…

Life moves in cycles, and the cycle of Yue Qingyuan’s is a constant of failures and too lates and almosts and not enoughs.

“However, what Yue Qi knows is not all that there is.”

Not all…?

His blank look must tell Mu Qingfang everything he needs to know: he smiles and curls his fingers around Yue Qingyuan’s wrist, a stable presence. The qi he sends forward feels warmer.

“Yue Qi’s past was full of difficulties. To aid him through them, to protect him from them, his mind developed… shields.” Mu Qingfang tilts his head in consideration. “Many of them. Shields are perfectly reasonable to carry when there’s danger around. Holding one in battle is exactly what one should do.”

Yue Qingyuan’s heart aches at the onslaught of past memories: small phantom nails digging into the skin of his arm, desperate promises urged and given freely, eyes full of terror and blood and fiery smoke, and cold winter-morning-like clarity… The need to protect, to rescue, to keep safe. If he fails—if it’s gone—what purpose does he have?

Mu Qingfang’s voice drifts around him like a fog, wraps him in a cocoon of cover nearly tangible on all his senses. He continues, as if there was never any break (Was there? How long has he been here?):

“What if the battle is long over?” The words, combined with the stream of qi receding, shatter something deep within Yue Qingyuan. He startles and clutches to Mu Qingfang’s hand with his free one, keeping it in place before it can move away.

Begging again, does he ever do anything but beg?

Mu Qingfang covers that hand of his with his own. Comforting. Grounding. Not leaving. “Does carrying the many shields offer protection or does it hinder one’s every move?”

When Yue Qingyuan turns his head, Mu Qingfang is already looking at him with a warmth both alien and familiar at the same time.

“Yue Qi,” he says, so gently Yue Qingyuan’s soul aches. “The battle is over. You have survived. Put down your shields.”

He would. He really would, if it were that easy.

“I told him,” Yue Qingyuan whispers instead. And, shockingly, Mu Qingfang doesn’t look reproachful, but—proud? Glad? Encouraging? Why? “I told him everything.”

“Mm?”

There’s a moment of surprise. He’s frozen in his seat, overwhelmed, his tongue heavy with all the words flooding his mouth all at once now that there’s somebody willing to listen.

Mu Qingfang seems to understand. He takes the lead and asks, “How did he react?”

“He listened. To everything. Didn’t want to talk. Cut ties to our past.”

“What did you want him to say?”

What did you expect him to do, after everything you’ve done? Yue Qingyuan hears in that question, and has to chase the thought away. That’s not what Mu Qingfang’s asking.

What did he want Shen Qingqiu to say back then?

He wanted him to know that he’d never forgotten about him. That Qi-ge had always been searching for a way back. That Qi-ge had failed to listen to him even after they’d parted, and recklessly rushed into cultivating as fast as possible. That he’d suffered a set-back and had been imprisoned against his will, with nobody listening to his cries and reasonings and pleas.

That he’d gone back for him, but all he’d found was rubble.

That he was sorry.

And he wanted—he wanted Shen Qingqiu, knowing all of this, to look at him again, really look at him, and cling tight to his arm, and shake him, and say, Stuipid Qi-ge! How many times do I have to tell you not to be reckless? Look what you’ve done, look where it all got us!

And he wanted him to say, I’ll just have to stay here and keep an eye on you so you don’t do it again.

And the words, no matter how harsh and sharp, would mean—

“‘You’re forgiven.’”

All of him shakes under the thundering typhoon of shame crashing within him—his body, his thoughts, his voice, his vision, all swimming—and sinking—and caving in—

“Yue Qi,” Mu Qingfang says softly, yet somehow his voice rings loud and clear over the chaos in Yue Qingyuan’s mind. “You’re forgiven.”

He shakes his head. “It’s not that simple.”

It shouldn’t be.

The comforting qi is back.

“It is that simple. You’re forgiven.”

“You don’t know what I’ve done.”

“Then tell me.”

“...I can’t.”

“That’s okay. You’re forgiven.”

“Why?” he asks, finally.

Mu Qingfang’s hands tighten on his in a reassuring hold. “Because you’ve long since repented, no matter what you’ve done, and there’s no more repenting for you to do.”

“Then why—” he chokes on the words, like they’re trying to suffocate him not to let them out. He shuts his eyes and forces them out anyway. “Why—does it—feel like—it’s not—enough—?”

“Perhaps it’s not Shen Qingqiu whose forgiveness you need.”

Not Shen Qingqiu’s—?

“Yue Qi,” Mu Qingfang says, then repeats his old name again and again until Yue Qingyuan opens his eyes and looks at him. “Put down that load. It’s time for you to forgive yourself.”

Himself…?

It’s such an absurd idea—that he could ever dare to allow himself to simply let go, with no consequences—that something in his mind is knocked into place, and the overwhelming fog disperses, and his vision clears. He stares at Mu Qingfang in utter confusion, eyes clear and his qi stabilising.

Shen Jiu will never forgive me, he thinks for the hundredth, thousandth, millionth time, but this time—this time it tastes different. This time, it’s a realisation with no hope woven between the words, teasing at the possibility and stringing him along. This time, it feels final.

The candle has burnt out. The lantern has been hidden. No one's lighting it again.

The battle is over.

The survivors have moved on.

There is no closure. Without the other half of his past, there really is nothing he can do—nothing that would ever be enough—to right this wrong.

It will all remain with him.

It should be destroying him. It should be crushing his mind into a pulp and breaking his soul into countless shards for him to step on for eternity.

What he feels instead is relief; empty, lonely, peaceful.

When he speaks next, his voice no longer trembles.

“I don’t think I deserve to.”

It sounds right, like a fact he’s always hoped to disprove, but now that he’s found solid proof, he can only accept it and move on.

Mu Qingfang watches him with all the care a healer—a sect sibling, a friend, a confidant—could possess.

“Yue Qi.”

He smiles, and it’s as sad as it’s relieved. “Yue Qingyuan.”

“Yue Qingyuan,” Mu-shidi echoes, and squeezes his hands again before moving his touch up his arms. “You deserve forgiveness.”

He waits for the familiar turmoil to come back, to rage against the mere notion, to slam within his ribcage with all the pained conviction.

It never comes. The strange peace remains.

“If Mu-shidi says so.”

It’s not meant to sound dismissive, and Mu Qingfang seems to sense it, because he steels his face into pure certainty and nods, confidence and dedication brimming in his eyes.

“I know so,” he says. His hands feel secure where they hold his arms.

Only when his eyelids grow heavy does Yue Qingyuan realise these very hands have supported his weight all the while.

“I’m very tired,” he admits through the sudden weakness taking over his limbs. As if together with the heaviness and chaos and the load he’s carried within, for two lifetimes, his soul has decided to leave, too.

Weightless.

He tightens his fingers on Mu Qingfang’s robes not to fly away, nor sink underground.

Mu Qingfang firms up his grip in response. “I know. I’ll help,” he assures. “Lean on me, Yue-shixiong. Rest.”

He goes willingly—lets go of any remaining control and sinks where Mu Qingfang’s hands guide him.

Mu-shidi smells like healing.

“I’ll be here,” Mu Qingfang whispers near his ear.

The flame dancing within the candle lantern in the room dims down to a comfortable shade.

The pressure on his head releases with the removal of his hair guan.

Gentle, secure arms hold him close.