A Blade and an Arrow

We Loved And That's What's Wrong

Watching the dark brown leaves fall from the trees. The dense forest a beautiful peace for a thunderstorm of a mind and a tired, racing worry laced with aching pain he couldn't squash down along with his misplaced emotions.

It was not a time to cry.

So, he crouched down. Hands never stopping to picking the never ending falling leaves and yet he made no sign to stop despite knowing it was pointless.

Exhaustion was welcome. It was one of the only things he was familiar with. The soring of his muscles and the screaming of his body to lay down and take a break was all familiar. He never had the choice ever since he was young, brought in this place by his mother. Never had the choice to play like the children of their masters. Always having to look away before any of them could notice the longing in his eyes.

The children picked up a toy, he picked up a broom.

It was the only thing he was allowed to do when he first arrived. Five years old, scared, clutching at his mother's apron and won't let go until his mother eventually gave him a small broom that he had no trouble holding and using. He sweeped the floor, the porch, the garden. Until he reached the age of thirteen and was acquainted as his mother's master's child's servant.

He had no choice but to oblige, lest their master suddenly sees him as incompetent and would kick both of them out of their only home. Even if that home was practically a nightmare.

Gradually, he took it upon himself to learn how to read and how to match the colour palettes of the robes. What shoes befits the outer layer and what colour of the inner layer would compliment well with everything. He learned how to sew holes and patches without nicking himself every puncture of the needle into the fabric, he learned how to tie belts around another person without having to round his arms around their waste, learned how to decipher their measurements without actually having to measure them.

And also learned how to bite his tongue so hard it bled whenever his respective master was being dumb again.

Every servant in the Nan Yang household each has their own masters to attend to. His mother served the head mistress of the Nan family and he somehow got lucky enough to be appointed to serve their direct descendant.

Though it felt more like a terrible luck rather than a good one.

━━

"Yao'er, be a good boy, okay? We're entering the master's private office." His mother pats his clothes one more time, fixing his scholar and smoothing his brown hair that she tied in a loose yet neat ponytail.

"Ma, why do we have to go here? We're not allowed here right?"

"We were summoned. Now, come." She held her hand and a smaller, paler one covered her palm. She gave a light squeeze of comfort before pushing the doors open.

Fu Yao inconspicuously stepped behind her mother. Quickly intimidated with the earnest atmosphere that greeted them along with the serious features of the head masters of Nan family. The couple seemed to lighten up, however, when they entered which made him a little bit at ease.

"Lord Nan Zhao, Lady Nan Niang." She inclined her head in respect and Fu Yao, copied her. Tried anyway, with his inexperience of it, he lowers his head instead.

"You've worked for us ever since we were children. We're friends aren't we, Fu Shin?" Nan Niang smiled warmly. Welcoming as Fu Shin chortles nervously. "Now, now, let me see."

Although confused, once Fu Yao felt a tug on his hand, he lifts his head and immediately meets her gaze. He sucked in a breath as his mother pushed her, squeezing his hand one last time before letting go.