#of course that is until fang duobing crashed into it

[zishuge]

I'm supposed to be working but instead I'm thinking about Li Lianhua growing vegetables and how, once upon a time, he was so happy that he almost cried when he finally managed to grow some turnips.

Thinking about how he must've been at rock bottom then - sick, injured, heartbroken, having just lost in one fell swoop everyone and everything he's ever cared about. His shixiong, dead. He believes it's his fault. His shifu, dead. He believes it's his fault. His sect, in ruins. He believes it's his fault. His people no longer believe in him. A-Mian doesn't love him anymore. It's all his fault, it's all his fault.

He doesn't have Hulijing yet. He's alone. He's heartsick. He'll be dead in ten years, or much sooner than that if he can't find some food and shelter. His Sigu Sect leader token is only worth 50 taels of silver. It turns out everything he has built his life around is worth only 50 taels of silver. I can hear his self-deprecating laugh. How foolish he must've felt, having his life's ambition put so violently and abruptly into perspective.

Have you ever been so despondent that you cling desperately to just one thing, anything, that you can focus on in order to not think about everything else? So: turnips.

Tending, weeding, watering, counting, day by day by slowly passing day. The vegetables grow and he survives. And finally, one day, he discovers that against all odds, he has turnips. These hands which he believes have caused the destruction of all that he once held dear, somehow managed to nurture creation and support life. Everything and everyone is gone, but here in his hands is this one small glimmer of hope that perhaps he is not only capable of ruin. How happy he must've been. Was it the first time he felt joy since before the East Sea battle? How he must've wanted to tell someone, but there was no one there.

You know who he must've most wanted to tell? His shifu. His shifu, who once told him that he didn't care about Xiangyi becoming any great martial artist. Just eat well, drink well, and live well. Maybe kneeling there in the dirt, gently cradling his small misshapen turnips in his hands — maybe that's when Li Lianhua finally understands what Shifu meant.

[bbcphile]

WIP Wednesday

I've finally worked up the courage to post the opening of one of the Mysterious Lotus Casebook fics I'm writing (Li Lianhua/Di Feisheng/Fang Duobing), specifically, from my post-canon fic where LLH's shiniang tried to sacrifice herself to cure him.

Tw/cw: suicide attempt, mention of off-page non-consensual medical procedure, internalized ableism

***

Li Lianhua crashed to his hands and knees on the ground as the last trickle of his borrowed qi abandoned him, the densely-packed sand doing nothing to cushion the blow. The impact rattled through his spine and ribs, shaking loose a bout of coughing that forced him to swallow down the burning flare of copper trying to escape from his mouth. He couldn’t cough up blood now, not here, too many steps away from the water’s reach. It would leave evidence of his route, a trail that his shiniang would undoubtedly follow once she had broken free from the immobilization. He couldn’t let her find him until the job was done. 

He pushed himself to standing, his arms and legs shaking hard enough to nearly drop him back to his knees, and he blinked to will the dancing black spots from his eyes. The waves awaited him, and he refused to crawl to meet them. He took a staggering step toward the sound of crashing water ahead of him, far fainter now than it had any right to be, and squinted against the sunlight to get his bearings. 

A large gray lump on his left snagged his attention, disrupting the blur of gold and blue that filled up the rest of his view. Why did that look familiar? He took an unsteady step closer, pressing his palm against his chest to convince his lungs to hold back a cough one more time, and the gray lump resolved into a rock. 

A rock that had once served as a pillow that was soft only in comparison to how hard the rest of the day had been.

Of course. He’d landed at Donghai beach. He swallowed back tears with a bitter laugh. Never let it be said that the universe didn’t have a sense of humor.  

He’d returned after all: three months late for the duel and over a decade late for bringing his decrepit body back to the waves that had so decisively spat him out. But surely this time, with all the mysteries solved and no business left unfinished, the sea would accept the offering of his broken frame. Li Xiangyi was long dead and it was past time for Li Lianhua to follow his example. He was already a ghost in every way that mattered. And this was the only way to guarantee his shiniang would live.

She would be furious, of course, but wasn’t furious better than dead? How could it be unfilial to make sure she lived on? Too many people had died for him; he refused to let her join those ranks. Dying to save her was already a far better death than he deserved. 

As for the others, Xiaobao would have his teachings and would be too busy climbing the heights of the jianghu to miss the weak physician he once protected. 

And a-Fei—

—well, how could he still fixate on defeating a ghost with Xiaobao shining more brightly than Li Xiangyi ever had?

No, this end was far better for everyone, and best of all, no one would sacrifice their life or be forced to play caretaker to an empty husk of a man.

A familiar chill seared through his veins and meridians, despite the warmth of the fur of his outer layer, stealing away his breath and the amorphous blue blur before him. He took another stumbling step toward where it had been, his heart stuttering painfully in his chest. 

Not much longer now. It seemed his frenzied dash here and self-shattered heart meridian were more efficient for what he had in mind than the weight his waterlogged fur coat would have offered.

Perhaps he didn’t need the coat for this at all. His body would certainly float further without it. And not even his shiniang could save him now, so what harm could it do to leave some evidence behind? Xiaobao might not believe the beggar’s words, but surely this fur cloak at the water’s edge would put to rest any lingering futile hopes. And then Xiaobao would tell a-Fei.

And if it brought them peace, if it let them say goodbye, then how could he not leave it behind?

It was decided, then. 

He lifted his hands to the coat’s laces, then paused. Were those voices? For a moment, he could have sworn he heard—

—Ah, no, the hallucinations must have started again. 

He smiled. At least he had heard a-Fei and Xiabao one last time, if only in his mind.

He untied his laces with fumbling, stiff fingers, and let the coat fall behind him. 

His heart and lungs clenched with another spasm, and a wave of dizziness broke over him, threatening to drop him to his knees once more. 

He fought against it, muscles shaking as they never had during battles. He couldn’t surrender now; not until he reached the water. He could manage three more steps. He had to.

He tried to lift his foot again.

The world swam before him, and darkness dragged him under.

[bbcphile]

WIP Wednesday (Part 4)

Here's something lighter than the earlier excerpts: the opening of chapter 2 of the Li Lianhua/Di Feisheng/Fang Duobing Mysterious Lotus Casebook AU where LLH's shiniang tried and failed to sacrifice herself to cure him.

(To catch up--although it's not necessary to follow this-- read part 1 (LLH) and part 2 (FDB) and part 3 (DFS) here)

***

Finding Lotus Tower was simple once they’d cleared the treetops. The brat hadn’t chosen a bad spot for it: reasonable enough cover, secluded, and no evidence of recent foot traffic beyond the scattered prints from the whelp, the mutt, and the horse. But it wasn’t nearly fortified enough; there were at least ten spots where the heir to Tianji Manor could have set up nets, or hidden arrow arrays in the nearby trees. How the hell had he planned to protect Xiangyi once he’d found him? The brat couldn’t exactly sit vigil at the man’s bedside and fight intruders simultaneously.

“Your disciple is a disgrace and an embarrassment to your legacy,” he told Xiangyi. 

Xiangyi said nothing, too unconscious for a stab at even his precious Xiaobao’s honor to force him to fight his way to consciousness. 

Di Feisheng swallowed his disappointment. Xiangyi hadn’t stirred once since they’d taken to the skies–not even a twitch of his eyelid or a shiver at the wind–so of course words wouldn’t change what qi hadn’t.

But a familiar bed and walls might.

He pushed off from the tree branch that he’d appointed their temporary perch and with a final burst of qi, raced toward the rickety old building. He landed in front of the painted double doors and glared at the offending sight before him.

Xiangyi’s precious Xiaobao had placed four ostentatiously ornamented golden boxes around the perimeter of the doors–one for each corner–each sprouting nearly invisible razor-sharp strings that stretched across the entire surface like a spider web. 

Of course. Of course the brat had sealed the door in a way that prevented them from getting in and had neglected to give him a fucking key.

And of course he did it in a way that flaunted his wealth, contrasted so much with the rest of the decor that the “trap” was mind-numbingly obvious to anyone with eyes, and that wouldn’t offer any actual protection to Xiangyi if he were inside, because any truly committed enemy could just break down the flimsy window flap and attack him.

Waiting outside for Fang Duobing to come with the key was out of the question: Xiangyi needed the relative warmth of the indoors to prevent a Bicha flare. The guest bed on the second floor was out for the same reason. Calling for Wuyan to intercept the brat and get the key wouldn’t work–Wuyan’s qinggong wasn’t faster than a horse. So he had to act now, and on his own. He could break down the window–or wall, or even the first floor ceiling, if he approached from above–but those would all require more lengthy repairs that would leave Xiangyi far too exposed, both to the elements and to anyone who took advance of the clear sight lines to the bed Xiangyi would lie on. If he had both hands free, he could blast the golden monstrosities off the door with enough speed and precision to avoid triggering the “trap,” but that would require setting Xiangyi down somewhere, which he refused to do. 

That left one option. 

He’d have to be fast, and it’d take more qi than he’d normally risk, given his current levels.

And Xiangyi would hate it. 

His lips curled up into a faint smirk as he maneuvered Xiangyi onto one arm and gathered qi into his newly freed palm. Plan made.

He blasted Beifang Baiyang at the door’s hinges, then slammed his palm toward the ground, another qi blast flinging them up to the roof before the strings could catch them.

He landed on the roof’s wooden slats, waited until the crash and whirring stopped, then jumped back down to the steps, free palm outstretched with qi at the ready.

It had worked. He’d blown the doors off their hinges and inside Lotus Tower, and they’d fallen painted side down onto the floor, pinning the infernal mechanisms and their web-like tendrils to the wood below. 

Trap defeated, Di Feisheng released his qi, slid his free arm back under Xiangyi’s knees, and marched across the door into Lotus Tower, leaving a sandy boot imprint behind him. 

“Don’t like it, Li Xiangyi? Next time, don’t die,” he snapped. Or tried to. His voice betrayed him on the last word. Perhaps it was for the best that Xiangyi hadn’t been awake to hear it.