The Ghost Of You

Chapter 18

It should have felt better. There should have been something satisfying in the truth coming out. Mu Qing had been so sure of Xie Lian's guilt for so long. It should have felt good to have those suspicions confirmed.

It didn't.

He had doubted himself, near the end. He had seen the statues, in all their twisted glory, and the shadow of Crimson Rain Sought Flower that had stalked His Highness for centuries, and had wondered, maybe, if he was innocent. Just another poor thing that had wandered too far into a trap.

It had been foolish to think that way. Remnants of old wanting had snuck up on him, and caused him to lower his guard. Xie Lian didn't deserve that. Not after what he had done.

With a flick of his wrist, Mu Qing finished drawing the protective circle. It sparked to life, flickering like a flame. A faint, golden glow settled around the temple. He stood, wandering back inside.

Night had long since fallen, leaving shadows to seep through the temple's walls. He lit a palm torch, and shivered. Already he was running low, and he longed for his old, nearly unlimited well of spiritual power.

Feng Xin had not moved from the spot Mu Qing had left him. He lay still, quiet and curled up on the altar, his back turned to him. He did not stir, when Mu Qing entered. He wondered if Feng Xin was even aware of his presence at all.

There had been something terrifying about the quick, and brutal way that Xie Lian's confession had destroyed him. Mu Qing had seen him sink to the ground, all the colour drained from his face. He had looked waxen, and pallid, and far more like a ghost than ever before. Mu Qing had ended up on the ground as well, before he had thought better of it, trying to peel the clinging butterfly silk off of him. In the end, Feng Xin had sunk back against him, and he was sure that he could not have been aware he had. When they had fled, he had held him in his arms, and carried him to some distant idea of safety. And Feng Xin had not reacted to the brush of skin against skin.

Even that had not felt good. He had barely been able to focus, blood and anger coursing through him, burning him up. He had looked up into Xie Lian's eyes, and saw the face of a man wracked with guilt. He had looked up, and seen Crimson Rain Sought Flower standing by his side, as if he could excuse every awful thing he had done. As if he could excuse what had been done to Feng Xin. Mu Qing had wanted more than anything to rip the damned ghost open with his bare hands.

And for reasons he would never hope to understand, Xie Lian had debased himself again and again to defend him. The loyalty was sickening to see.

Mu Qing sighed. Exhaustion nipped at his heels, as he stalked across the room, coming to sit by the altar's side. Silence hung over the temple. He shifted uncomfortably, and found that he was unable to stay still. He felt more than useless. It was too much to endure.

He turned, and knelt by the altar, crossing his arms over the platform. In the half-lit darkness, all Mu Qing could do was stare at Feng Xin.

"Feng Xin." His throat felt like it was full of clay. "I— I'm s-s-sorry." He felt like an idiot, a bad actor failing to read the lines he had been given. He had never been good at apologies, he'd never known how, and he did not know what to say. It seemed like the right thing to say.

But Feng Xin sat up then, rising like a ghost up from its grave, and stared at him, with those black out eyes. He looked hollowed out, and as if he had not slept in days, the lines beneath his eyes far more prominent than they should have been.

And Feng Xin said: "No. You're not," as if it was a simple thing.

"What?" Mu Qing leapt up to stand. "Of course I am! What are you even talking about?"