The Ghost Of You

Chapter 12

Outside, there was nothing but an endless flurry of snow, and the piercing screech of the wind, stirred up as if it was the end of the world. Night had come, or perhaps Mount Tonglu's smoke had only blotted out the sky. Inside the tent, there was only Mu Qing, holding Feng Xin in his arms.

He had gone limp, laying completely still against Mu Qing's chest, no longer trembling or tearing at his skin. It was not a comfort, and he was no less terrified than he'd been before.

Mu Qing put his hands on Feng Xin's shoulders, pushing him away. There was no joy to be taken in how he had fallen into his arms. Not when he was half-crazed and too far from his own mine to know what was good for him.

He forced him to lay back. Feng Xin fell still against the pile of furs, bedrolls, and fine blankets. Mu Qing compelled himself to breathe, to not succumb to the humiliation of fright. He leaned over Feng Xin, and stared at him, as if studying his face might somehow pull him back over the edge.

It didn't. He muttered a quiet, near unintelligible apology, felt his cheeks grow hot, and pressed the palm of his hand against Feng Xin's forehead. He was, perhaps, no warmer than he had been in life. To Mu Qing, who had grown a certain fondness for the frost chill of his skin, it was disturbing. Feng Xin shuddered out a forced breath.

With another mumbled apology, Mu Qing pressed two fingers underneath his jaw, cursing the chains on his throat for making everything more difficult. His lack of pulse made for a strange relief.

He pulled his hand away quickly, as soon as Feng Xin whimpered, and the pathetic little sound broke his heart.

Sprawled out on the tent floor, he did not look like a ghost king. He was still beautiful, of course, there was no world in which he wasn't. But he was pitiful in equal measure, all loose hair and bloody scratches.

The memory of the Emperor's hands on his throat, and his own back against the wall snuck up on him then. It was the soft spoken threats that had ruined him most, and which had made him afraid.

Mu Qing had been given his prey, spread out before him on a silver platter. He had a saber at his side, and a dagger clutched in his hands. Sinking the perfect, crystalline blade into Feng Xin's throat was all he had to do to keep a godhood he had worked his whole life for. How foolish it would be to throw it all away.

The sight of Feng Xin's face was what broke his spirit. He was still, with closed eyes, and the ghost of a frown on his lips, the perfect image of his own corpse. Mu Qing was alone again, still clutching his body to his chest, still crying until his tears froze to his cheeks.

His hands shook, as he pulled the blade away, and, like a failure, slipped the dagger back into its hidden pocket. He buried his face in his hands, and screamed, in frustration, for a long time.

Mu Qing was only brought back when he heard Feng Xin cry out.

"Mu Qing!"

He snapped to attention at the sound of his own name, said with such pure fright. Mu Qing came to Feng Xin's side in a hurry.

"What! What? I'm right here!" His voice came out too harsh.

Feng Xin's eyes had opened, wide, unblinking, and glassy.. He looked at him as if he was looking through him. His breath came too quickly, harsh pants out of place in dead lungs. He was shaking badly, and his whole body trembled. He did not hear Mu Qing when he called out to him.

"Feng Xin!" The storm raging outside drowned out his voice.

He managed to catch the sound of Feng Xin's voice, beneath the thrum of noise, and thick with fear, as he repeated: "no," until it no longer made sense. Blood and tears stained his cheeks, and Mu Qing tried hopelessly to wipe it away. It was the only piece of pathetic comfort he knew how to provide.