#wenzhou ladyhawk!au | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

rhymesswith · 2 years

Text

Crossroad

It begins with Zhang Chengling on the run.

Well, no. It begins with a meeting of eyes across a courtyard in bloom. One pair peering around the shoulder of a prowling dragon, the other from above the coy tilt of a painted fan. However, our guide through this story is a boy named Zhang Chengling and he arrives much later, and so therefore, do we.

Unfortunately for us, Zhang Chengling is a rather poor excuse for a guide. He is not a worldly fellow, nor is he very astute, quick thinking, or imaginative. He is, to put it as kindly as possible, quite simple.

Which is not to say that he is stupid, for he is not. But his life until this point has not required him to be anything other than simple. In his fourteen years he has been coddled by everyone around him. Born the youngest of three healthy sons to an affluent family, his older brothers had already slotted into the rolls of heroic first heir and studious second son, respectively. As for our Chengling, their mother would often refer to him - lovingly - as her ‘little potted plant.’ Like any good potted plant he spent most of his days sitting quietly in sunny corners of the family manor. Pretty to look at, easy to ignore, wanting for nothing.

Because he is a simple boy, there are parts of this story that Zhang Chengling will be slow to comprehend, misunderstand, or altogether fail to notice. For example; as we have already established, Zhang Chengling is running away. But he does not know why, to where, or even from whom he is running.

If Chengling had a mind for politics, like his second brother had, he would have been able to tell us that the imperial court has recently been spiralling into disarray. That the Emperor's health is failing and his death looms imminent over their heads. That, as he dallies on the threshold of the next life, the hierarchy below him has collapsed with various members fighting to claim the seat he will leave behind. That in this chaos nobody is safe from the waves of violence have been sent across the land, seeing targeted assassinations and culling of whole clans as the struggle for power culminates.

If Chengling had been well versed in martial matters, as his eldest brother was, he might have been able to identify the men who came to their family manor the night before. He might have recognized their plain black uniforms, unburdened by armour, faces obscured by kerchiefs and oiled conical hats. The way they moved through the night, swift and silent, seeming to fall out of the sky already swinging their deadly spears like reapers come to pluck the souls of the damned. The ruthless way they cut through everyone, servant or noble, adult or child, indiscriminate and merciless. The legendary and peerless personal assassins that serve the crown prince himself.

But our Chengling possesses neither political savvy nor military sense. Here is what he does know. He knows that his entire family is dead, his home has been razed to the ground, and there are people chasing him. He knows the empty stare of his eldest brother’s unseeing eyes, and the death rattle of his second brother’s punctured lung. He knows the sticky warmth of his father’s blood. He knows the clammy cold of his mother’s limp hand. He knows the taste of ash on his tongue, and how fire looks reflected on the black water of the lake.

Above all what Chengling knows is pain. Five days after the end of his old life, pain is his constant companion. Pain from the wound in his side, pain in his feet from walking without rest, pain in his back from sleeping on the ground, pain in his heart when he thinks of what he’s left behind.

His only companion now is a local peasant, a ferryman who had occasionally transported the family to and from town when errands needed running. Chengling knows only that his surname is Li and that by some stroke of luck he had arrived at just the right place and just the right time to save his life. They have been avoiding towns, and limiting their route to remote rural tracks instead of the main road. When they do encounter other travellers, Chengling has been instructed to pretend Mister Li is his grandfather and that they are on their way to their family farm in the west to aid the harvest.

Chengling had asked, just the once, if they could please just seek sanctuary with of one of his many sworn uncles. But Mister Li firmly denies this request, for he knows what soft, simple Chengling does not. The reality of living under the imperial sky is that grace is as fleeting and as precious as the light of a late summer sun. That as it wanes and the killing frosts come, those clamouring for the last patches of warmth will not hesitate to push others to winter’s clutches to secure their own position. Chengling’s uncles would not risk their lives for the unremarkable youngest son of their dead brother, no matter how beloved he had once been.

It is on the fifth day of Chengling’s new, pain-filled second life that they come to an intersection where their narrow rural path meets the more populous main road. At this crossroad sits a modest rest-stop where weary travellers might shelter for a while under the awning, enjoy some hot tea or wine, water their horses and restock on provisions. Mister Li would usually be inclined to bypass this stop, but he knows his young charge is reaching a breaking point. Weighing the risk of exposure with the benefit of a warm meal and a cushion to sit on, Mister Li allows them to stop at this establishment.

Unfortunately on this day the odds are against them, and it is here they are caught.

The assassins have been lying in wait for some time. Taking the highway, they had made better time than the old man and exhausted teen, and then doubled back to set their trap at this establishment, correctly assuming the pair would stop. When Chengling sits down at one of the rickety wooden tables, signing in relief to finally be off his feet, he has no idea that the group of plainly dressed merchants sitting the table over are the same men who’d murdered his family. Preoccupied with rubbing his sore calves, the boy is oblivious to the narrowed eyes and bunching muscles of ambush predators about to strike.

Mister Li is inside speaking to the proprietor to arrange for drinks and food when the shouting begins. At the first raised shout and clatter of thrown furniture, he races outside to find his young charge besieged by five grown men who have shed their modest cloaks, revealing the weapons hidden beneath.

Mister Li, at this point in his life, has nothing to his name. He’d been married twice, both of his wives lost to illness before bearing any children to keep him company in his old age. His prickly disposition, which had only sharpened as the years passed, had not earned him many friendships. In his youth he’d served a handful of years in the imperial army, but had not collected any honours that might have granted him prestige in retirement. Until recently he had his boat, which he used to earn enough coin to keep himself fed, and not much more.

This perhaps, is why he’d jumped at the chance to protect the Zhang orphan. The family had always been kind to him, generously overpaying for his services, and Zhang Yusen in particular always went out of the way to make pleasant conversation. The man spoke to Mr Li as though they were equals, despite the vast distance between their positions. This kindness, although simple and effortless on Lord Zhang’s part, made a permanent mark on the old man. He’d vowed to find a way to serve Zhang Yusen, and for a labourer with nothing to offer but his life itself, his life is what he now intends to give.

This is why he does not hesitate to throw himself between the child and his assailants. His rusty martial arts are no match for trained soldiers, but his willingness to die buys him a momentary advantage. He shoves the boy behind him and faces down the attackers with nothing but the hunting knife from his belt.

The other patrons shuffle aside to make room for the brawl. Most of them are unfazed by the interruption to their lunch, this sort of thing is not too uncommon on the highways. They watch from a safe distance as Mister Li makes his futile stand, some coins are passed as wagers are placed on how long he'll last, if he’ll manage to take down any of his opponents, what sort of blow might finish him off. None of them are naive enough to bet on the old man to win.

Zhang Chengling, for his part, pleads with the onlookers for aid with mounting desperation. They all push him aside with barely a glance. Mister Li shouts for the boy to run, but when he tries two of the men seize him under the arms and toss him back towards his attackers, keeping him penned in hopes for a reward when it’s all over. Meanwhile, two of the five assassins have peeled away from old man Li to pursue their true target. They sneer at the sight of the boy’s pale tear-streaked face and take their time toying with him, chasing him lazily, snagging his clothes with the tips of their spears. Unbalanced and dizzy with fright, Zhang Chengling is sent staggering backward into the only table with a person still seated. The impact of of his clumsy limbs upends an open jug of wine, the contents spilling across the tabletop and into the dirt below.

The lone person who’d been sitting at this table finally stands up. He’s unremarkable at a glance, neither particularly short nor remarkably tall, no longer in the springtime of youth but not yet old, dressed in nondescript robes that give no hint at profession or status. Until this point he’s been ignoring the commotion, continuing with his drinking as if nothing was amiss. He rises slowly now, taking time to arrange his cloak as he does. Zhang Chengling falls at his feet with half an apology, half a prayer on his lips, but the man’s attention skips over the boy like sunlight glancing off a pond. Tilting his head back he regards the attackers from beneath his straw hat and tells them, “That was good wine you just wasted.”

The two assassins exchange disbelieving looks at his nerve. This new fellow, compared to them, is lean to the point of gauntness, and appears to be unarmed. Confronted with fighting men far larger and fiercer than himself he is at the obvious disadvantage, yet the tone of his address resembles a tutor reprimanding unruly students.

“Step aside!” One of the assassins barks, taking a menacing step forward, brandishing his spear in the man’s face. “That boy there is an enemy of the crown prince, if you assist him you will share his fate.”

The man doesn’t so much as blink, laying two fingers along the blade to push it aside, “That wine.” He repeats, as if the other man had never spoken, “I’d only just had one cup. Who’s going to buy me another?”

“Y-you!” The assassin splutters, “You can die with him then!” And then he lunges, spear in a killing arch towards the man’s neck.

The speed and grace that the man dodges with is unlike anything Zhang Chengling has ever seen. He’d grown up around martial arts, watching his father and brothers and clan disciples training in the yard every day. But he’d never seen any of them move like this man does now. Dipping neatly around the incoming weapon he glides around the attacker and brings his elbow down between his neck and shoulder, making him drop the spear. He then swings his leg to kick his opponent’s unguarded rear, sending him sprawling forward flat on his face.

The whole sequence is over in the space of a heartbeat, so quickly that Zhang Chengling’s unrefined eye couldn’t properly follow. Picking up the fallen spear, the graceful stranger twirls it expertly above his head before plunging it down between the prone assassin’s spread legs. The blade skewers his robes and sinks firmly into the mud below, effectively pinning him in place. To add insult upon injury the stranger snaps his fingers at the fallen man and barks, “Stay!” In much the same way a master would command a dog.

Meanwhile, Mister Li has been faring admirably against his own opponents considering his dramatic disadvantage. But by now he is flagging, exhausted and bleeding from several bad wounds. Seeing their comrades’ predicament, two more of the soldiers peel away to join the forth, fanning put in a semicircle around the dark clothed stranger while the other finishes the old man off with a final brutal slash to the gut. Zhang Chengling scoots back to shelter behind the stranger, confused but sensing that the odds have somehow miraculously tipped for him.

One of the attackers pulls a name seal from his belt, stamped with the eight-pointed star that identifies him as a member of the crown prince’s personal army. “You are interfering with imperial business! If you continue to resist you will be persecuted as a traitor!”

Rolling his shoulders, the stranger doesn’t even spare him a glance. “Are you coming at me one at a time or all at once? Personally I would suggest a strategic retreat but you all look too stupid to know what’s good for you.”

The leader gapes, “Who the hell do you think you are?”

From his place on the ground Chengling can only see a sliver of his saviour’s profile, but he catches a flash of a humourless smile. “I am your grandfather. Now come bend over for your thrashing!”

Outraged, the four soldiers charge forward as one, but their spears find empty air as the man leaps straight upward, lighting briefly on their interlocked blades using them as a springboard to flip into a series of flying kicks that send all of them reeling backward.

Their next approach, once they’re back on their feet, is more cautious. Recognizing the man is more skilled than initially assumed, the soldiers’ next advance is tighter. Yet once again their lone adversary manages to not only fend them off, but land blow after blow, keeping them on the retreat. And he’s doing it with bare hands, weaving and ducking around their weapons, staying close enough to render the spears harmless as twigs.

It’s obvious the moment it dawns on the squad leader. He freezes where he stands a few paces back, eyes widening as he watches four of his men fail to land even a single hit on their opponent. From his vantage it plays as almost comical; the man’s superior speed and agility makes his soldiers look like clumsy children. There is only one person in the kingdom who is known to possess such advanced footwork. “You! You are-!” The officer stutters, a sudden wave of dread sweeping through him, “Commander Zhou!”

At the sound of the name, all of the fighters’ heads jerk upright. Like their leader, the very name sends a pulse of fear through their hearts. They immediately scramble back to a distance, the confidence they’d possessed coming into the fight evaporating in an instant.

To Zhang Chengling, still huddled in the dirt, the name ‘Commander Zhou’ means nothing. In fact to most of the population it would be unfamiliar, but to those within the imperial circle, the figure is one of near mythological status. Even after his disgraceful departure from court and subsequent designation as outlaw, his is a name most only dare to whisper. He is a boogeyman and a demigod wrapped into one, the notorious half-dragon assassin that stalked the court of the crown prince for the past decade. These soldiers are of too low a rank to have ever met their founder in person, but they’d each been shaped in the fiery kiln of his construction. His declaration of himself as their grandfather was not brazen arrogance but a fact! He had written the very doctrine upon which they had sworn their lives, and composed every strategy they’d been taught. No wonder they could not touch him.

Upon the revelation of his identity, Commander Zhou smiles another hollow smile. With no more reason to hold back, he reaches into the folds of his cloak to finally draw his concealed sword from it’s hiding place. At the sight, the five soldiers fall over themselves to put more distance between themselves and the man. That gleaming white sword, deceptively pretty and delicate, is as much a legend as the man that wields it. It is said that the Baiyi sword has absorbed so much blood that it seeks it like a compass seeks true north, like meltwater to the sea, like a flower turning to face the sun. That it thirsts for blood and once drawn, it will not rest until it wets its blade.

In this moment Zhang Chengling is all but forgotten. The price on the child’s head is less than pittance compared to the one on this man. The soldiers exchange frantic looks, torn between the instinct to flee guaranteed death upon Commander Zhou’s sword, and the knowledge that they’d be signing their own execution warrant if the crown prince hears that they’d let him get away.

Realistically they are fated to die no matter which choice they make, this was sealed the moment the wine jug overturned. They cannot hope to defeat Commander Zhou alone, their only chance is to alert reinforcements to their position and hope that the crown prince is grateful enough to grant their families a generous settlement for their service.

The squad leader grabs one of his soldiers, the youngest and smallest of their company and shoves him towards where their horses are tethered. “Go!” He barks at the terrified soldier, “Ride for the fort as hard as you can. Tell them we’ve found the traitor Zhou, tell them to send a battalion. Now!”

As the soldier scrambles to comply, the remaining four round on their former leader, their new objective to distract him long enough for their comrade to get away. They almost succeed; the rider has nearly reached the bend in the road where the forest would shield him when the crossbow bolt strikes. The arrow pierces him through the neck, killing him instantly, his mount carrying his body out of sight just a moment too late.

From across the clearing Commander Zhou lowers his bow, knowing without needing to check that his aim had been true. Stepping over the four sprawled bodies, he meanders back to his table and retrieves the fallen wine jug, lifting it above his head to catch the last trickle of liquid. Satisfied that not a drop of liquor is being left behind, he proceeds to gather his pack and makes for his own horse, clearly set on departure.

The feeble croak barely reaches his ears, a man with less keen hearing than his would not have picked it up. But the former commander has spent his whole life honing his five senses and so he does hear the whispered words. “Wait! Please…! For the love of Lord Qin…”

Commander Zhou turns back, his features as rigid and cold as an ivory carving, “What did you just say?”

It’s the old peasant man, still alive for the time being though his life is waning fast. He fixes Commander Zhou with eyes that are growing dim, but still manages a piercing glare. “Others may have forgotten, but I am old enough to remember. Zhou Zishu. Your master…Qin Huaizhang…was an honourable man.”

“....He was.” Commander Zhou agrees stiffly, reluctantly, one hand fisted in his horse’s reins.

The dying man raises one skinny hand and beckons Zhang Chengling to his side. “This boy is the son of Zhang Yusen.” He rasps, “A sworn brother of your master at the time of his death. This makes him your kin by oath. If you truly loved your master, take this boy and protect him from those who mean him harm.”

Commander Zhou’s stony face folds at this, revealing a cold fury at the nerve of this old man to invoke such a shameless manipulation. “How dare you!”

“Peh! Why wouldn’t I dare when I stand with a foot on Naihe bridge? They say that you are a cold hearted monster, Lord Zhou, but I think you are not so cold hearted as to leave this helpless child to die. Not with your master watching from heaven.”

Zhou Zishu rolls his head back as if to look up into the aforementioned heavens. At that moment a shadow flicks briefly across his upturned face. Far above their heads a bird cuts an arc across the sun, the leisurely spiral of a hunting hawk. Something shifts on his face as he follows the bird’s path, something deep and heavy and weary turning over in his dark eyes. He heaves a long sigh. “Fine. Come here boy.”

The boy does not come. Trembling, Zhang Chengling clutches at Mister Li’s hand, unwilling to leave his side. “Go!” The old man wheezes, his breath rapidly failing him, “Are you deaf, scram! You aren’t my problem anymore, just leave me to die in peace! Ungrateful brat!” With the last of his strength, he manages a hard shove that knocks the boy away from him.

Once Zhang Chengling is close enough Zhou Zishu catches him by the belt and uses it to heave him off his feet and up onto his waiting horse. Changeling only just barely manages to keep himself from tipping off the other side. Hopping into the saddle in front of him the man says over his shoulder, “Hold on tight, if you fall off I’m not going to stop.”

#word of honor #word of honor fanfic #wenzhou #zhou zishu #wen kexing #zhang chengling #ladyhawke au #ladyhawke fic #this would be the first chapter in the long fic that may or may not ever see the light of day #it would follow ZCL for the most part #his perspective of the story #the prequel stuff with wenzhou being separate bonus ficlets #anyway artblock is a helluva thing #but heres this at least

117 notes · View notes