The Ghost Of You

Chapter 15

Feng Xin stepped out into the blizzard almost unwillingly, pushed forward only out of sheer desperation. He wanted nothing less than to leave Mu Qing behind, not when he already looked like he was dying.

But staying would have only sealed his fate. At least out here he might be able to find a cure, even if it meant digging down beneath the deepest snow drifts. Selfishly, he did not want Mu Qing to die.

He did not know when he had realized it. Only that, when he'd seen him fall, and when he had pulled back his robes and seen how the poison had blackened his veins, and how they stood rigid against his too pale skin, he had been terrified. It had been a different fear, than the kind which had crept up on him from the shadows of the ruined palace. It was angry, and protective, and wanting, the kind he had only ever felt as His Highness's loyal bodyguard.

Mu Qing had fallen, and he had looked so pale, and been so still, that Feng Xin had nearly cried. Instead, he had picked him up, and slung him limp over his shoulder. Then, he had run, as fast as he could, until he was breathless, and panting, but far away from the ruined kingdom.

He had pitched their tent beneath the shade of an overhang, at the side of a few isolated hot springs, and past a cliff edge so steep and precarious, that he'd nearly sent them both tumbling down sheer rock when he crossed. It seemed enough of a deterrent to keep Mu Qing from dragging himself up, and, out of sheer force of will, attempting to follow him.

Trekking through the flurry of snow and hail was miserable. A fool's errand for a medicinal root he could barely recognize did not improve his mood. Misery, exhaustion, and the last traces of panic were not enough to make him turn back. To fail both Mu Qing and His Highness would be an end that he could not return from.

After too long, he came to a place where the mountain stretched out into a long plateau, and the endless sheer cliffs vanished into the storm. Snow blanketed the world in white. He stepped through it cautiously, praying that one misstep would not send him falling through a snow drift. He found that it reached his thighs, as he waded through.

The whole world might have all blended together, if not for the shine of bright red crystals, outstretched from the mountain side. Evening light glinted off them. It might have been beautiful, if he was not still so afraid.

Feng Xin broke one off as he passed by, slipping the little crimson shards into his pockets. They seemed like the fine, pretty sort of thing Mu Qing had a clear fondness for. He made a silent vow to bring a few back for him.

Then, he committed himself to kneeling in the snow, and digging through it as best he could. He pawed at the ground, like a dog trying to unearth a bone. At times, he made himself focus, calling upon the last few bits of his spiritual energy, and forced the snow to part. That gave him little reward, and nothing but hard, frozen earth.

Tearing into the ground left his nails tattered, and his hands cut up. He shivered, from a cold that could not harm him. The mountain did not take pity on him. Its dark shadow loomed over him, an ever constant reminder that he had not yet regained himself.

Time passed. It might've been hours, or days, or far worse. The image of Mu Qing, slipping away, dying all alone in the cold, was his constant companion. Feng Xin had nothing to bring back to him. Returning empty handed seemed worse than not returning at all.

The storm brewed all around him. Ice whipped past him, burning his skin. Wind shrieked, in the distance. Thick, dark clouds burst forth from the mountain, until he could no longer see the sky.

Feng Xin did not remember leaving. A part of him knew that he hadn't, that, even if it meant searching the whole mountain side, he would not have abandoned Mu Qing. Not after everything. And more so, he knew he would not have dared return to the ruined palace.