Crimson and Clover

Clothes Redder Than Maple

Ah, Xie Lian thinks as ghosts and demons gather around him, drawn to the smell of blood. It seeps from between his fingers no matter how hard he tries to stop the wound in his stomach from bleeding. So this is how it ends.

What a pity.

He's... not entirely sure how it happened. He's long stopped caring about where the roads take him – after all, he has nowhere specific to be and no place to return to. What little he has, he carries with him. A bamboo hat and a sack with garbage are his only possessions; cursed shackles around his neck and ankle replaced the jewellery he once wore. Sometimes, he speaks to RuoYe about it all.

Sometimes, he pretends RuoYe speaks back.

So when the road takes him to the outskirts of an abandoned village, he doesn't think twice about it. Places like that are treasure coves for him, full of old, forgotten things he can unearth.

(He's an old, forgotten thing himself.)

Whispers float around him and too late does he realise why the air itself seems to be shaking with excitement. After all, why would he care about what day it is when decades pass unacknowledged? He's as displaced as the garbage he collects, chewed and thrown aside by the current of history.

He's made peace with it a long time ago.

Now, as the ghosts descend upon him, teeth bared and claws outstretched, the night of the Hungry Ghost Festival rings with their laughter. RuoYe does what it can, but there's so many of them; too many, and he's too weak, and if only he had Fang Xin with him—

They stop, eventually, and he slumps against a dead tree. RuoYe coils around his wrist, a comforting pressure in the world where nothing brings him comfort anymore. He wishes he could stroke it one more time, but the wound is deep and if he lets go, he'll—he'll—

Something small and glittering skitters between the ghosts. Their whispers die as they part. Xie Lian raises his head to look; forever curious, never destined to learn. What he sees is a butterfly; a tiny speck of silver light that leaves a shimmering trail behind itself.

He extends his free hand. The butterfly lands on his finger without any care for RuoYe.

"Hello," Xie Lian says. He can taste blood in his mouth. "Aren't you a lovely little thing."

Wings shaped out of starlight and wishes are the last thing he sees before the world goes out like a candle flame.

Consciousness comes back to him in waves. For the first time in what feels like decades, he's warm and comfortable. There's no wind on his face and no rain soaking him from head to toe. There's only the overwhelming sense of contentment—and that's how he knows he must be dreaming.

(He's an old, forgotten thing and as such, contentment is not for him.)

Xie Lian opens his eyes to the sea of red. It's all around him – from the canopy above to the bed sheets beneath, and culminating in the robes of a person sitting right next to the bed. They're redder than Xie Lian's blood was when it flowed and flowed and flowed.

He looks into the only visible eye of the man keeping vigil at his bedside and knows not what to say to him. "I... Hello?"

The man smiles at him. His canines are sharper and longer than they should be. "Hello," he says. His voice sounds like embers and a raging inferno. It stirs something in Xie Lian's heart. "I see gege has finally woken up."

"Yes, I..." He sits up and looks around. A few silver butterflies flutter nearby and he can't help but stare at them. They're fragile and precious like nothing he's ever seen before. "Where am I? Why aren't I—" Dead, mauled, torn apart by the ghosts – any of those would work. He can decide on neither.

"Please accept this humble servant's apologies," the man in red tells him with all the sincerity in the world. "Ghosts get... restless during the festival. Had I known gege was nearby, I would've kept them on a tighter leash."

There's nothing but sincerity in his eye. Xie Lian almost wants to believe him. "What is this place?" he asks instead.

"Paradise Manor in Ghost City. I brought gege here so that he can recuperate from his wounds."

"Thank you, ah—"

"San Lang," he says and makes it sound like a joke Xie Lian isn't privy to. It doesn't bother him; he's had centuries to get used to being left out.

"Thank you, San Lang." He gets up, ignoring San Lang's proffered hand. The injuries inflicted by the hungry ghosts almost don't hurt anymore.

'Almost' is also a thing he's got used to a long time ago. His life is full of them.

His tattered, bloodied robes are nowhere in sight. There's a new set of clothes laid out at the feet of the bed, just as simple as his old was. He touches them – the fabric is just as soft as the bedding. Softer than anything he's worn in centuries.

He bows to his host because old habits die hard. They're all he has left. "This one is grateful for San Lang's hospitality and wishes he could do something to repay him for it. Alas, this one has nothing to his name and all he can offer are his services, so..."

San Lang rises to his feet and comes closer. "Gege would be wise to remember that one should never make offers like that lightly."

Xie Lian knows that; oh, he knows it all too well. What else can he do, though, in a world where he has nothing?

(He's old and forgotten, and no one cares about old and forgotten things—no one but him.)

"Has gege ever seen how the ghosts celebrate the festival?" San Lang asks out of the blue. Xie Lian can't help but perk up at that. In all of his travels, he's never been to the ghost realm. Heaven would have laughed if he'd gone—but then again, when was the last time he cared what Heaven had to say about him?

"No, I don't believe that I have."

San Lang's entire face brighten. Moments ago, he looked like a dying flame, but now he resembles a roaring pyre, uncontrolled. Uncontrollable. Whatever it was that came to life in Xie Lian's heart before, now thrashes against his ribcage like a bird demanding freedom.

It's more than he's felt in ages.

"Does gege want to?"

Xie Lian looks around again. One of the butterflies is hovering right next to him, so he offers it his finger. It perches down immediately, this tiny creature woven from starlight and wishes and bright promises.

"You know, San Lang," he says and smiles; the old, forgotten, cast-away god that he is. "I think I do."