The Mountain Cherishes Height, The Sea Embraces Depth

 

To the east lay the oceans and to the west lay the mountains where the greatest gods and immortals made their home in the hallowed peaks and caverns, while the world lay between. The world itself was a vast and wondrous place, filled with forests and lakes and its own mountains, though none as grand nor as worth as Kunlun to the west. For while Kunlun was home to the gods, the world was home to men, and subject to the petty squabbles and lofty dreams that came with those who were as fleeting and mortal as their kind were wont to be. Men built their cities and farmed their land, drew their borders and ruled their countries, and at the end of the day, prayed to the gods both great and small, and asked for their protection and for the spirits to be kind.

 

But this is not a story about men.

 

“And…so…the jing, the spirits gathered around…gods…”

 

This is a lake nestled between mountains and surrounded by trees, thick and strong and near untouched by men. The lake shines brilliantly in the afternoon sun, as smooth and reflective as the finest silver mirror, and by its shores lounges a boy. Draped in robes as ink black as his hair, Zitao’s bare toes dig into the soil as he painstakingly runs his finger down each word of the book he has opened in front of him.

 

“The…gods…each ruled over their…domain…and the seaso—” he continues to read, until interrupted by a sharp noise.

 

The child leaps to his feet at the snap of a branch, his lips pulled back from his teeth. The snarl that bubbles low in his throat is anything but human, and sure enough, where the human child had been moments before, is a black and white ball of fur. If the child had been barely menacing, the panda cub is anything but. It is with laughter that Yifan, the dragon god, strolls out from the edges of the forest, bending down to scoop the panda cub into his arms. The panda cub is large, but not yet half grown.

 

“Did you think I was Lu Han again?” he asks, letting the panda cub hook his arms around his neck.

 

The panda cub lets out a sound that is half chirp and half growl as he buries his face in the dragon god’s shoulder. More frustration than anything, and it’s several long moments of squirming before it is a human child in the dragon god’s arms again.

 

“You scared me!” Zitao protests, as soon as he has control over his human form again. Dark circles surround his eyes, reminiscent of his markings as a panda cub. He doesn’t let go of the dragon god’s neck, however, instead settling himself more comfortably into his arms.

 

The dragon god laughs, nonetheless gently prying the panda cub’s fingers apart and placing him on the ground. In height, the dragon god stands nearly twice as tall as the panda child. His robes are an austere silver grey, and his black hair is pulled back from a face of imposing features. The pair of horns that are a sign of his power are just visible through his hair – he may have been hundreds of years old, but in the age of a god, he was yet young. As soon as Zitao has touched ground, he turns to cling to Yifan, wrapping his arms around his legs, in the universal wordless gesture that meant he wanted to be picked up again.

 

Much to his dismay, the dragon god only ruffles his hair and sits down next to him. Reluctantly, Zitao sits down as well, half in Yifan’s lap as the dragon god picks up the book Zitao had been reading.

 

“A history of the world?” Yifan flips to the cover.

 

Zitao nods. “I borrowed it from the monks,” he says. “Over there.” He gestures to the far mountain, where a cluster of buildings could just be seen among the trees. Yifan sighs, and hands the book back to Zitao.

 

“You know you are not a human, right, my little panda cub?”

 

“Don’t call me little.” Zitao pouts, but nods nonetheless. His hair, while not near as long as Yifan’s, hangs well past his shoulders and is pulled back in the same fashion as Yifan’s. Now, he tugs it over his shoulder and chews at the end.

 

“My little panda spirit,” Yifan says fondly. He pulls Zitao’s hair from his hands, and sits the child firmly on his lap, the book in front of them both. “You grow far slower than a human, and now that you are a jing, a spirit, you’ll grow even slower than a panda.”

 

“Lu Han said I grew slow to start with,” Zitao says. He drums his heels against the ground, just because he can.

 

Yifan makes a wry smile. “Lu Han is a nosy deer,” he says, “but I’m afraid that’s my fault.”

 

“How’s it your fault? What’d you do?”

 

“I’m a god,” Yifan says very seriously. “It’s what happens – look, like in your book here, where the jing gather around the gods, do you know what the humans did not write in their books?” Zitao shakes his head. “Animals, jing, even humans – their lifespans lengthen, not to immortality, but the aura of a god slows down mortal aging just enough to be noticeable. If you were as human as you look, you would be growing much faster than you are.”

 

“But I’m not human,” Zitao says. “I’m a panda.”

 

Yifan tugs Zitao’s hair fondly out of his mouth again. “And a panda spirit at that.”

 

“I’m a jing just like Lu Han,” Zitao says proudly. “I worked hard!”

 

“You did work hard,” Yifan says. He ruffles Zitao’s hair again, picking up the book in his large hands again. “Now the next time you want to borrow a book from the monks, come and ask me first. Why do you need to read about what the gods have control over when you have one here to tell you?”

 

Zitao pouts, twisting around to stare up at the dragon god. “You never tell me everything,” he complains. “Even Lu Han tells me more things than you do. Lu Han told me how to change into a jing but you wouldn’t!”

 

“Because that nearly killed you.” Yifan’s words were tinged with the hint of a snarl, and the panda cub cowered in response. When Yifan was angry, he was scary. Immediately, Yifan tugs the panda cub to his chest, wrapping him in a strong embrace. Safe. But Yifan was also safe. Yifan would always protect him.

 

“I didn’t tell you because it was dangerous,” Yifan says. “To be suffused with the spiritual energy needed…There’s a reason why most jing are old and wise.”

 

“But I have you, so I’m okay,” Zitao says.

 

“You had me, so you were okay,” Yifan agrees.

 

“And Lu Han? He’s not old either.” Zitao asks. “Is that why he was okay too?”

 

Yifan laughs and stands, dislodging the curious panda cub. “You go ask that silly deer jing yourself.”

 

In a flash, Yifan had turned into his true form – a sleek and silver dragon, horns curled and pointed, claws sharp, scales strong and overlapped. Zitao watched in accustomed awe as the dragon shot into the sky like an arrow, gathering clouds around his body as he moved through the heavens. Yifan was a dragon god, and as a dragon god, he had his home in the lake while he brought spring in rains.

 

Nearly twenty cycles of the seasons had passed since Zitao had been brought to this forest as a cub. He didn’t remember it – in fact, he doesn’t remember much beyond the three years he’s spent as a jing, a spirit. All he knows is what he’s been told – that he’d been small and injured, that he’d been found in the forest of a qilin, a magnificent and rare creature that foretold greatness and was gentle to all. The qilin was old friends with both Yifan and Lu Han, he’d been told. It had been Yifan who had nursed him back to health, and Lu Han who had accompanied him. He remembers tumbling through the forest of the dragon god, remembers chasing and being chased by the deer spirit. He remembers that he’d grown big enough he no longer fit comfortably into Lu Han’s arms, and not long after, he’d outgrown Yifan’s embrace as well. He remembers begging Lu Han to tell him how to be like him, how to be like Yifan – how to look human at a whim, how to never age. He remembers Lu Han telling him he was too small, too young. He remembers Yifan laughing and saying it wasn’t so simple. By the time he’d learn to stand on two feet, another year had passed, another cycle of seasons, and Yifan had been angry.

 

But that was in the past, and Zitao never meant to disobey the dragon god. Yet without thinking, he’d found himself perched halfway up a tree, overlooking the courtyard of the temple. The novices were hard at work with their training – Zitao could see groups clustered at the side, studying, while others still trained their body. In his human form, Zitao’s hearing was greatly diminished, but even so, he could hear the yells of the novices, vocalisations of their focus.

 

As for Zitao, his focus was so drawn, that he does notice the deer spirit until the tree he was in gives a sudden shake.

 

“Wha—!?” Zitao slips from the branch, tumbling the short distance to the ground. Lu Han towers over him, a frown on his face.

 

“I know I heard Yifan tell you not to come anymore,” the deer spirit scolds.  “And yet not even a day and here you are.”

 

Zitao frowns back up at him, picking himself up from the ground. Lu Han might look young and baby faced with a mess of fawn brown hair, and isn’t nearly as tall as Yifan, but the deer spirit was still a few hundred years older than him – something Lu Han never let him forget. Zitao hated having to crane his head up to look at Lu Han. He takes a step or two back, hands on his hips.

 

“I’m just watching,” he says. “There’s nothing wrong with watching!”

 

Lu Han scoffs, cuffing Zitao on the top of his head. “You might fool Yifan but you can’t fool me.”

 

“I’m not—”

 

“C’mon, I’ll show you something good.”

 

Zitao peers up, curious. Lu Han has shifted into his deer form – he bounds several meters forward, pausing to stare back at Zitao, his ears wide. The jing is noticeably larger than an ordinary deer – but while a mature deer not quite his size would have a magnificent rack of antlers, Lu Han doesn’t even sport the barest horns. It’s the one thing Zitao likes to about – the one thing he can about.

 

But a deer is leaps and bounds faster than a human. Zitao drops to all four paws, scrambling after the deer. Incense and human food plays with his sense of smell – they’re nearing the temple. He barks questioningly at Lu Han. The deer only throws his head back, laughing.

 

Zitao thinks they come to a stop at the back of the temple, but he isn’t sure. He’s never been here. Lu Han shifts back into his human form almost immediately, his hair even messier than usual. Zitao squeezes his eyes shut in focus – longer limbs, longer body, upright…

 

“Not bad, brat.”

 

Zitao glares up at Lu Han. “I’m not a brat,” he snaps – but he has been getting better.

 

Lu Han leaves him no time to preen. “We’re not telling Yifan about this,” he says, walking in the direction of the temple.

 

Zitao his head in question as he jogs to catch up with Lu Han’s longer strides. Out of habit, he catches at the edge of Lu Han’s sleeve. “Are we breaking a rule?” he asks.

 

Lu Han grins down at him. “We’re breaking lots of rules, and you’ll get in lots of trouble, so you can’t tell!”

 

“I don’t want to be in trouble.” Zitao pouts. But Lu Han had promised him something good, and he’d taken him to the temple after all… Maybe it was worth it? As long as Yifan didn’t find out?

 

But Lu Han doesn’t take him to the temple. Instead, they end up in front of the sheer cliff the temple is carved into. Zitao frowns – “there’s nothing here?”

 

“Patience, brat.” Lu Han chuckles, and pulls aside the brush. A crevice – just wide enough for two people to pass shoulder to shoulder. Zitao’s fist tightens around the edge of Lu Han’s sleeve, following him into the darkness.

 

It’s scary, but Lu Han seems to know the way. Before long, the passageway opens until it’s four people wide. Lu Han pushes aside a scroll, and--

 

Rows and rows of shelves, rows and rows of scrolls, of tablets, of books and records.

 

“This…”

 

“Is a storage room,” Lu Han supplies. “You’re welcome.”

 

“It’s safe?” Zitao stares at Lu Han.

 

The deer spirit shrugs. “I’ve never been caught,” he says. “Humans are noisy – you can hear them long before they can see you.”

 

The shelves are much taller than he is, but Zitao runs his fingers slowly across one of the shelves he can reach. He pulls one out at random, cloth bound  – it’s full of words he’s never seen before.

 

Suddenly, there’s someone looming over his shoulder – “Comprehensive methods of treatment – hm, this is an older script…”

 

Lu Han can read? Lu Han can read? It’s something that hasn’t occurred to Zitao before, because he’s never seen the deer spirit read… he tilts his head back and pouts in his best pleading expression. Lu Han seems surprised – and then he laughs.

 

“I’ll help you…if you say thank you,” he says.

 

Zitao pouts even harder. He doesn’t want to, but… “thank you…” he says grudgingly.

 

“That wasn’t that hard, was it?” Lu Han ruffles Zitao’s hair. Only Yifan is allowed to do that…but just this once, he’ll let it pass.

 

He sits down on the ground, and waits for Lu Han to do the same before he flips it open to a random page. The characters swim in front of his eyes – he points at one. “What’s this word?”

 

They proceed slowly – the monks had mostly helped him through books of history and scripture. This is the first time he’s seen most of these words, and it makes his head spin.

 

“Do you like reading?”

 

“Huh? No—I mean…” the question takes him by surprise. Zitao blurts out an answer before he can think. “I…want to like reading.”

 

Lu Han chuckles. “I see,” he says.

 

“You do?”

 

“Yifan has a lot of books, doesn’t he?”

 

Zitao can feel his face flush. “I…”

 

“Why don’t you ask him for help? I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

 

“He’s busy!” Zitao retorts quickly. “I don’t want to take up his time…”

 

“Ah, I see.” Lu Han laughs softly. “But you don’t mind taking up mine?”

 

“You’re not busy,” Zitao says. “You just spend all day playing.”

 

“Playing’s more fun,” Lu Han says.

 

“Studying is important too!”

 

“Did you learn that from Yifan too?” Lu Han asks. He’s staring at Zitao very hard, and Zitao squirms. Just a little.

 

“No…” Zitao says. “One of the monks…”

 

“Who you’re not supposed to be meeting, because you’ll barely have aged one year in the time you’re supposed to have aged two.”

 

Zitao nods, slowly. “I need to return the book I borrowed,” he says. “So I can go see them one more time?”

 

Lu Han stands and stretches. “Well, I don’t make the rules,” he says.

 

Zitao takes that as a yes.

 

“Now come on, we have a guest today.” He gestures for Zitao to put the book back. Zitao hesitates, lingers. They’d only read a few pages, how to treat snake bites, what to do in case of fever. But the monks might notice if it was gone. Then they might close the secret door.

 

“A guest?” Zitao asks, when they’re back in the forest. He’s tired, and Lu Han has agreed to carry him. His human form is lighter, so he’s sprawled across the deer spirit’s back, clinging to his neck as the deer picks his way across the forest.

 

“Mmm,” Lu Han says. “Yixing should be here by now.”

 

“Yixing?” Zitao has his cheek pressed against Lu Han’s neck. The deer is warm and soft.

 

“Ah, that’s right – you wouldn’t remember him.”

 

“The qilin.” That’s the only thing that makes sense.

 

“Ah,” Lu Han sounds surprised. “Yeah, the qilin.”

 

Why was the qilin here? Zitao wonders. He’d read a little about qilin, but it was a human book, and humans didn’t know very much. But they still knew more than him. They’d said qilin rarely travelled…they’d said that qilin were the guardians of all furred creatures…they’d said that qilin knew immediately if someone was worthy…

 

Zitao wakes up in bed, blanket tucked up to his chin. Lu Han must have carried him in after he’d fallen asleep on the way back. Zitao blinks, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. It’s night. Even though the dragon palace is hidden deep at the bottom of the lake, during the day, the palace’s magic still carries the sun’s rays through the windows. Now, the lake glows dimly outside his window, soft and peaceful. As if a calming presence had fallen over the lake—

 

“Ah!” Zitao sits up, suddenly wide awake. The guest…! Zitao had never met him, this qilin that was a friend of Yifan and Lu Han’s, but he’d heard about him. Lu Han especially talked about him a lot, about how even though he was supposed to be all regal he was actually really clumsy…

 

Zitao swung his legs out of bed, pushing soundlessly past the curtains that blocked his door from the hall. There was a light in the main room, and his ears could just pick up the sounds of conversation. Slowly, carefully, he padded down the hall, the stone cold against his bare feet. It took a moment to register, but he was in his human form-- Zitao frowned to himself. Usually, when he fell asleep, he turned right back. Did that mean he was getting better?

 

A small sense of elation bubbled up through him, and Zitao grinned. He almost wanted to yell, but that would defeat the whole purpose of this sneaking thing.

 

Sure enough, in the sitting room, Zitao could just see Lu Han's back from this angle. He couldn't see Yifan, but he knew he was there. Just like he surely knew there was a third presence. The qilin.

 

Zitao blinks, pressing himself against the heavy stone wall.

 

“A new emperor? The affairs of men are fleeting. We’ve seen emperors come and go. Why is this one important?”

 

It's Lu Han's voice. Zitao doesn't dare peek. Emperor? They were talking about the human world. Their world only had the Jade Emperor, and he was everlasting. Why would the qilin be talking about a new emperor.

 

There's a long pause, and then an unfamiliar voice speaks placidly, like a stilled breeze or the flat surface of a pond. “The kingdoms of men…” The qilin stops, sighs. The sounds of someone shifting. “All things that have broken must come together, and all things that have come together must break.”

 

Lu Han is silent for a long moment. “Why?” he finally asks.

 

“That is the way of the world, and so, men must follow,” the qilin says quietly.

 

“Zitao. Come in.” Zitao yelps in surprise as Yifan calls his name. He slinks around the door, ducking past the curtains that've been tied to the side.

 

The dragon god stands at the window, while Lu Han is curled up indecorously on a chair. For the first time, Zitao sees the qilin. In his human form, of course.

 

He's sprawled across the floor, but as Zitao walks in, the qilin gets to his feet. He looks about as tall as Lu Han, and a smile plays about his lips. His hair is long and tied back, and his robes are a deep purple, decorated magnificently with the image of a beast with the head of a dragon but the body of a great deer. He seems to be encompassed by flames, in the same way Yifan surrounds himself with mist. Without a doubt, he is kind.

 

Yifan is looking at him expectantly. “Zitao, introduce yourself to Yixing,” he says.

 

Zitao brings his hands together and bows deeply. “This one is Zitao,” he says as properly as he can.

 

To his surprise, there's a hand on his head - ruffling his hair. When he looks up, it's not that annoying deer, or Yifan. Instead, it's Yixing, the qilin, with a smile on his face.

 

“Shouldn't you be in bed?” Lu Han pipes up.

 

“'m not sleepy,” Zitao says. He straightens, and looks at Yifan pleadingly.

 

“Why don't you let him stay?” It's Yixing, who speaks for him. “After all, he's growing up well.”

 

Zitao mumbles his thanks. Yifan always scolds him for mumbling, but he doesn't always remember. He feels himself flush in embarrassment at his mistake.

 

“When I'm as old as Yifan, I'm going to be just like him!” he blurts out.

 

Yifan looks surprised while Yixing's expression remains unchanged. Lu Han bursts out in laughter, and Zitao glares.

 

“That's a hard goal,” Yixing says.

 

Zitao settles himself into his usual chair. But if he'd hoped to hear more about what the qilin had to say, he was wrong. The talk turns to the mundane, to the weather and the winds, to the trees and the foxes, to festivals and offerings. Slowly, Zitao begins to drift off again.

 

Perhaps it is the sixth sense that every animal is born with, but faintly, as if through a dream, he hears when the conversation shifts. As if through a dream, his eyes open just enough to see, faintly. The dragon god still stands at the window, but now, he turns to face his friends. The qilin sees, and inclines his head towards him as he again stands.

 

“An emperor will be born,” the qilin says, “as well as another, and another.”

 

“Three emperors.” The deer spirit too frowns, arms crossed across his chest. “But you must know—”

 

“Three emperors and many kings,” the qilin interrupts. A smile plays about his lips, yet any humour that may have shown in his eyes are hidden as they again close, as he gathers his hands in his sleeves, tucking them into each other.

 

“All things broken must come together.” It has been long since the dragon god had spoken, and the first strands he weaves into this conversation. As is the way of gods, though his words are quiet, they reverberate in the silence they create around them.

 

The qilin smiles. “The gods like to play their games,” he says. He bows towards the dragon god, his back ramrod straight as he bends deeply at the waist, his sleeves brushing against the floor before he straightens. “The rest of us, well, we serve.”

 

 

The lake shines brilliantly under the afternoon sun, each facet of its waves glowing like a dragon’s silver scales. The trees by the shore seem to bow in deference, its branches casting their bent shade as the sun filters weakly through their boughs. It is under one such tree that a young man sits, his shoes long discarded and his trousers pushed up to his knees. His feet are submerged in the waters of the lake to his ankles, as he leans against a tree, book resting against his knees. As the years have grown long, so too has Zitao lengthened into a lanky young man. The rambunctious boy in the black robes has discarded them for ones of pale blue, not unlike those of the dragon god, and his face has grown angled and sharp, his eyes cunning and serious, his hair long and bound.

 

While a war rages beyond the mountains, the temples have remained at peace. Towns have been burned to the ground, but the mountain and the forests are where Yifan’s influence is strongest, and while the rain that falls over the towns that pray may ward the fires away, it is only here, at home, where the trees have remained untouched, shrouded in a mist with clouds that deter those who may harm. And here, under a peach tree with a book in his lap, the war and the games of gods seems as far removed to the young panda as the Jade Emperor himself.

 

“Though the tortoise imbued with powers lives long,

those days have their time.

Though winged serpents ride on the mist,

they too shall fall as ashes.”

 

He mouths the words aloud as he traced the characters with his finger. Though he now had the appearance of a young man of fifteen years in age, the monks who he had once trained with while young were now old men – “you remind me of someone I once knew,” they would say, and lend him the books and poems they had collected over the years.

 

This poem had been unusual. “Carried here from the battlefields with mere common words, yet I am loathe to let it pass, despite the touch of war,” the old monk had said.

 

Zitao had knelt before his feet. The old monk had once taught him that a fist was only as strong as the heart, and that the heart was only as strong as his will. Now, the old monk’s hands shook, and no longer could he pen the words he taught.

 

“Master, I will cherish the words, if you’d let me,” he’d said.

 

Now, the book was his. The power in the words was faint, yet familiar, as if from a time so long ago that Zitao himself had forgotten. “You’re still a child,” Lu Han would say, and Zitao would not strike out at him, for he had promised  himself that he would grow up to be like Yifan, calm and collected, austere and wise.

 

Yet, these words haunted him.

 

Whether long or abrupt, it is not only for heaven to decide.

 

“Whether long or abrupt,” he says quietly.

 

“Whether a life is as long as the aeons or cut short by games.” Zitao laughs. “If only they knew.”

 

“If only they knew what?”

 

Zitao starts, book falling to the ground as he leaps to his feet, a snarl already on his lips even before the deer spirit appears through the trees. The panda cub wrinkles his nose at Lu Han, as he huffs and drops back to the ground.

 

“Go away,” he whines. “I don’t want you here.”

 

Lu Han laughs, and plants himself firmly beside the panda cub. “Still a baby,” he teases.

 

Zitao presses his lips together, and most certainly does not tackle Lu Han to the ground and dare him to call him a baby again because he is not a baby.

 

“Oh? Are you mad?” Lu Han’s finger veers dangerously close to Zitao’s cheek, and the panda cub snarls and snaps his teeth at him, but the deer spirit pulls his hand back and laughs.

 

“I’m not mad! I’m calm! You’re the annoying one, sneaking up on me like that!” Zitao complains. He s his feet back into the water, the splash catching Lu Han beside him unawares. The deer balks, surprised, and shakes his head to dislodge the droplets in his bangs and Zitao laughs, his shoulders rising as he folds in on himself.

 

“Annoying,” Lu Han huffs.

 

The years have been kind to the deer spirit in the way they are kind to all spirits, all jing. His face has aged little if at all, and he appears barely older than the panda cub despite having lived for centuries longer than the child. Unlike the panda cub who has changed in both dress and manner, Lu Han has remained unchanging over the decades, still with the same childish face and the same mischievous grin.

 

“Are you studying again?” Lu Han asks. He peers at the book, and out of habit, Zitao pulls away.

 

“The master has said, that those who are born with knowledge are the highest, but those who learn come next.” He huffs, tucking the book beside him where Lu Han couldn’t get at it. “As for someone like you, born dumb and never learning, the lowest.”

 

Lu Han blinks, and then laughs. “The master also said that there were three types of friends who you should avoid – and I’m pretty sure you were one of them!”

 

Zitao narrows his eyes. “You should’ve been born a fox,” he decides imperiously.

 

Lu Han laughs. “I don’t have as many tricks as a fox,” he says. He dips his fingers into the waters of the lake, the waters of their home.

 

“You can be born as a fox in your next life,” Zitao says. “Or maybe you were a fox in your last life.”

 

Lu Han wrinkles his nose. “Better than a human,” he says. “Speaking of which, I haven’t seen you in our original form for a while.”

 

It was true – Zitao had grown as accustomed to the limbs and fingers of a man as he had once been to the thumb and jaw of a panda. But his words worry at a question Zitao has had buried in his mind for years, but he has never dared voice. Yet since his visit to the temple this morning, it has again worked its way to the surface, and without thinking, he blurts out:

 

“If we’re better than humans, then why do we take their form? Why do they age, when we do not?”

 

The deer spirit freezes, his eyes wide as he listens to Zitao’s words. Slowly, he stands and steps into the shallow waters of the lake. His robes catch in the water, the edges surely becoming damp and heavy, yet the deer simply turns, allowing them to ripple with the waves. When he faces Zitao again, his smile is gone, and Zitao is reminded that Lu Han, even though young, is still centuries old.

 

 “It is strange, isn’t it?”

 

“Is…it?”

 

“Mmm. It is strange.” Lu Han turns yet again, and walks deeper into the lake. They both know this lake well – a false step to either side where Lu Han stands, knee deep, and the waters drop to bottomless depths.

 

“Foxes have always been cunning. It’s no surprise that the fox was one of the first to attain immortality. It was a young fox who had fallen in love with a young general, but as a fox, what could she do but watch him go to war? One day, she learned that he would soon fight a battle where his life would end. It would be a glorious end and he would lead his army to victory, but the fox was selfish, and she loved him. And so for fourteen days and fourteen nights she searched for a way, and on the morning of the fifteenth morning, she found a flower, white and glowing on the sides of the cliff, as if possessed by the moon. As if urged on by something greater, she plucked the flower, and became a beautiful human maiden. In this way, she went to her love and entreated him not to go, but to stay with her – in this way, she saved his life but his country lost the war. And foxes became known as tricksters and seducers.”

 

“But—”

 

“I’m not finished, Tao’er. Because that young fox had one who loved her too, a fox who was wise and learned, even though he was young in years. He was the one who had told her the young general would soon die, because he knew that his death would bring her much sadness, and although he was a great scholar and he knew that her actions would bring about tragedy, he could not bear to see her sad. And so he went to the Jade Emperor, despite the perilous journey, and he begged him to allow him to keep her safe, even if he could not love her like she loved her general. The Jade Emperor is a god not easily moved, yet just this once, he granted the fox scholar a human form. He rose through the ranks with his learnedness, becoming an advisor to the human emperor of the time. In the end, his contributions were great – perhaps even undoing the harm that the one he loved had done.”

 

Lu Han pauses, his words falling against the wavelets of the lake. “Well, that’s just a fairy tale.”

 

While Lu Han had spoke, Zitao was silent. Now, with Lu Han’s silence, Zitao’s own silence seemed strange and out of place, and he prods the lake with a finger.

 

“It’s not true?” Zitao asks. Even though he has grown, his words carry the plaintive notes of a child who wishes to carry the moon in a cup and catch the sun from the mountain.

 

Lu Han’s laughter is soft as he sinks into the lake, until he sits so his chin is just barely above the surface. “Who knows,” he says. “But that’s what Yifan told me, years ago. You should ask him, if you’re curious.”

 

Zitao pouts, pulling his feet out of the water and his knees to his chest. “He’s too busy,” he says. “Too busy with the rain.”

 

“That’s the job of a god,” Lu Han says, steady and plodding. “Too much for us mere jing to understand.”

 

Without another word, Lu Han disappears under the surface entirely. Not a wave marks his presence, and Zitao knows he must have returned to the underwater palace.

 

Zitao watches the lake still, unperturbed by even the winds. His brush and ink lie by his side, and after a moment, he picks up his brush, as well as the book lying forgotten.

 

A question may be answered with a question, but an answer cannot be questioned with an answer. The dragon and the phoenix are great and immortal, but they too live under heaven.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

“Yifan was looking for you.”

 

Zitao plants the staff he'd been training in firmly into the ground. Lu Han had been standing there for quite some time, but he'd waited for Zitao to complete his routine before speaking up.

 

“Yifan?” Zitao blinks. These days, Yifan is busy. Zitao is old enough to fend for himself now, and the dragon god rarely has time for the panda cub. Lu Han is company, of a sort, but sometimes Zitao would rather not have company than have Lu Han's.

 

The deer spirit shrugs. “He's waiting for you on the mountain,” he says, before loping off through the woods, slipping smoothly into his quadruped form.

 

Part of him wonders if Lu Han is playing a prank on him, but ever since the war had begun inching closer and closer to their forests, Lu Han had grown more and more solemn. But sure enough, as the deer had said, the dragon god is waiting for him on the mountain behind the lake. When he sees Zitao he nods in greeting.

 

Zitao beams, dashing towards the stairs before he remembers decorum. He pulls himself back to a walk as he climbs the stairs, joining Yifan on the side of the mountain.

 

The lake itself is nestled between the two mountains, at the center of the forest. Yet even that is not quite accurate. Rather, it's situated halfway up one mountain, it's waters flowing down to the other. From here, Zitao can not only see the lake where the palace is submerged, but also the forest that extends down to the base of the mountains, and the towns which are mere pin pricks of human activity from this distance.

 

“Lu Han said you wanted to see me.” Zitao breaks the silence tentatively.

 

“I did,” Yifan says. “Lu Han said you'd been lonely.”

 

Zitao flushes, blurting out a protest immediately. “I'm not! I was not!”

 

Yifan laughs, ruffling Zitao's hair like he used to when Zitao was still a child. Nearly two decades have passed since then, since the war began. Zitao is no longer a child, but when it comes to Yifan, he doesn't mind.

 

“Maybe a little,” he admits. He'd only ever admit this to Yifan. Besides, Yifan probably could've guessed. Yifan could see things like that.

 

“He also said you were curious...about humans.”

 

Zitao blinks, watching Yifan out of the side of his eye. Yifan hasn't moved - he stands with his back straight, hands clasped behind him, staring off into the distance. He looks...regal, and Zitao wonders what is the right answer here.

 

“Yes,” he says. The truth.

 

“Humans are fragile.” Yifan speaks slowly, distinct and measured. His words should have been disdainful, yet Zitao only hears respect.

 

“What do you mean?” he says.

 

Yifan turns to look at him, fixes him with a gaze that could quell fires. Zitao meets it unflinchingly.

 

“Come with me,” he says. “And we can talk on the way.”

 

Before Zitao has a chance to ask what Yifan means, or where he's supposed to go with him to, the panda cub is swept into a small whirlwind. He lands on Yifan's back, clutching to the dragon god's horns as they soar up into the sky.

 

It has been a long time since Zitao has flown like this - not since he was a child. The world falls away below them, and if he thought the towns had seemed small from the mountain, from here, they seem barely noticeable. The lake is behind them, dwarfed by the mountains, swallowed by the forests he roams in every day. Wind rushes through his hair as Yifan curves through the sky, riding on clouds. He opens his mouth to speak, but the words are ripped away, faster than he can form them.

 

A memory: flight without wings, floating, and warmth. Safety, comfort. A flash of silver, a flash of home.

 

“Ah…” A sense of nostalgia, sadness at what has passed, yet at this very moment, he was happy. Zitao blinks the tears from his eyes, letting go of one of Yifan’s horns to wipe them ruthlessly away with the back of his hand. Somehow, while he was distracted, they have risen above the clouds.

 

How many years ago was that? Time has so little meaning to Yifan, to Lu Han – to Zitao. He grows, slowly. His body grows stronger, his mind grows keener, his limbs grow longer. The years pass as the seasons cycle, as the summer sun fades and gives way to rain and snow, as the flowers bloom and the fruits ripen, as the trees grow another ring about their trunks.

 

Almost forty cycles had passed in the blink of an eye, and so little had changed. Yifan was still the same; regal, impassive, and kind. Perhaps his horns had grown somewhat, but so too had his power, with such frequent use. Lu Han was still childish and annoying, flighty and useless. The monks had aged; some novices had become monks, others had left and returned to the towns. Some, Zitao knows, had passed away. But to be born, to live, to die – the monks had taught him it was he natural cycle of things, and Yifan had held him close the first time Zitao had brought back a rabbit, still and stiff and cold.

 

And Yifan, Lu Han, they had lived for hundreds of cycles – to them, humans and mortals must seem  like the smoke from incense, a moment’s flame, before they dissipate into the evening air, leaving behind only memories in those who once knew them.

 

Humans were indeed fragile.

 

The dragon god dips his head in warning – Zitao grips Yifan tightly, leaning down and pressing his cheek against Yifan’s cool scales. The scent of spring rain envelops him as they pass through the mist of the clouds, and over the chaos that reigns below.

 

Zitao remembers visiting this town once – he recognises the towering pagoda, the small lake, the distinctive city walls. He does not recognise the flames, the smoke – the red stained fields nearby, as two great hosts clash again and again, leaving behind death each time.

 

So this is war?

 

As if in response, Yifan circles ever lower, and now, a heavy rain begins to fall. They descend until the dragon god’s great body barely clears the roofs of the houses. A few townspeople look up, towards the rain, towards the sky. Something akin to relief passes across their faces, something that cannot quite be called joy. How could it be, when their houses lie in ashes? Flames rise from the pagoda, and Yifan flies around it, his body so great that he encompasses it entirely as he spirals upwards. The rain follows, and the flames slowly dwindle until all that is left is smoke.

 

Why was this battle being fought so close to a town? Zitao had read of war, had read of the battles by the cliffs, by the rivers. He had read of devastation as well, but he hadn’t understood what it had meant.

 

Two banners were raised, but Zitao couldn’t tell who was good, who was bad. The dragon god suddenly swerved, changing direction until he hovered over the battlefield itself, until he could pluck soldiers up with his claws, sweep them aside with his tail. The strangest thing, however, was that no one seemed to remark on the dragon that had suddenly appeared, yet it was clear that Yifan's presence had turned the tides. It was clear that whereas before, it was as if there were two tigers, evenly matched for tooth and claw, one of the tigers was now a dog, its teeth blunted, its claws shortened. Then, this was the good side?

 

Softly, faintly, Zitao could hear the thanks, the prayers. The dragon god has answered us! they roared. Charge!

 

It was many hours before the battle ebbed, before the sound of retreat was called, before Yifan wordlessly turned towards the mountains, Zitao still on his back.

 

They landed not by the mountain plateau which they had left from, but by the shores of the lake itself. Whereas it had been daylight when they had left, the sun was now beginning to set. For the brief moment between Yifan setting Zitao down, and shifting into his human form, it was as if his scales had turned gold.

 

As soon as his legs touched grown, Zitao found that they had no strength, were boneless. He swayed, unsteady - a hand on his shoulder, an arm around his back. Zitao leaned against Yifan, against the dragon god to which people prayed to for protection and safety, for wellness and prosperity.

 

The sun sets, illuminating Yifan's face in profile, and casting it in shadow in turn. How strong, how dependable...

 

“Humans are fragile.” Yifan repeats the words from before, from what seems like a lifetime ago. Yifan must've lived many lifetimes by now, many human lifetimes. How much he must've seen, how much he must know... How much Zitao must learn, before he could become strong and dependable like Yifan.

 

“They're brave,” Zitao says suddenly. “Aren't they?”

 

Yifan laughs softly, and steps away. By now, Zitao has regained his balance and his strength, and he straightens away from the dragon god.

 

“You're a smart child,” Yifan says. “You always have been.”

 

Zitao feels himself flush, ducks his head, stares at the ground. “I'm not as smart as you,” he says.

 

This is met with a chuckle. “The orchid which blooms from an orchid's seed is even brighter than before,” Yifan says. “Perhaps the reason why we emulate men is because they age and die, and bloom again.”

 

“But this...dying like this, that's not natural.”

 

“So you can tell,” Yifan says softly. “I thought you might.”

 

Zitao frowns, his brows furrowed as he stares into the lake. “I don't understand,” he says. “I don't understand what you mean.”

 

“You remember Yixing's visit?” Yifan asks. “The qilin.”

 

Before the war. When Zitao was still a child. Before Yifan was gone more than ever, sometimes for days at a time. He remembers. He nods.

 

“Men say that the appearance of a qilin foretells the appearance of a great man, a great sage, a great king. Yet what happens when there are many great men? What happens when they are all great men who all want the same thing?” Yifan pauses and sighs. “A qilin does not foretell greatness, a qilin is merely attracted to what is great, and perhaps, helps greatness become something more.”

 

“The gods like to play their games.” Zitao said the words that seemed more from a dream than a memory, and he himself is unsure of which it is.

 

But Yifan starts, and then he smiles. “Perhaps it is gods who are the unnatural ones,” he says. “Or perhaps it is gods who guide nature itself.”

 

“Aren't you a god?” Zitao asks.

 

“A god who answers to prayer,” Yifan says. A smile plays about his lips, but his eyes remain unfocused on the present, and focused on something else entirely.

 

“There's a difference?” Zitao stares now, openly. Yifan has always been tall, but he no longer seems so tall. Zitao no longer has to crane his head to look up at him. His shoulders are not yet at a height, and his back is not near so broad, yet when Zitao stares at Yifan, he merely looks straight ahead. He merely looks forward.

 

Since when had he been nearly as tall as Yifan? Zitao knows that it must have happened gradually, slowly, but now that he’s noticed, it’s as if it’s a change that happened overnight. Zitao had changed, but Yifan hadn’t. Yifan never changed.

 

“Zitao.”

 

The panda cub startles, even though Yifan’s voice is soft and round (/supple/curved – think of word). Yifan is staring at him now, and in the dusk, his eyes seem to glow like the moonlit lake. His hands are tucked together, hidden under his sleeves.

 

“Yes?” Zitao answers.

 

“What I’m about to tell you, you must never tell a soul.”

 

“Never…tell a soul?”

 

Yifan has turned away from Zitao, his gaze directed at the lake. Lu Han is probably home, waiting for them.

 

“Not even Lu Han?” Zitao asks, when Yifan remains silent.

 

“Not even Lu Han,” Yifan says. “Do you promise?”

 

Zitao bites at his lip. There is no moon tonight, and the world seems especially dark. The last traces of the sun still linger over the world, and the stars are still too weak to cast their shine. The lake lies in front of them, as dark as ink.

 

“I promise,” Zitao says. Even though he doesn’t know what he’s promising, what Yifan means.

 

“How do you think gods come to be?”

 

Zitao is surprised by the question. “I don’t know,” he says honestly. “Are they born…from other gods?”

 

Yifan chuckles, and pats Zitao’s hair, as if he were still a tiny cub, a tiny child.

 

“No,” he says. “Gods exist because of humans. Mortal humans.”

 

Zitao frowns. “I don’t understand.”

 

“It’s why we assume human form, mimic them in appearance. Because humans are our very root.”

 

 “You have horns,” Zitao is quick to point out. “No human has horns.”

 

Yifan runs a fingers consciously over his budding antlers. “No human can see these.”

 

“But you’re not a human.”

 

“Of course not,” Yifan says. “I’m a god.”

 

“And, earlier…is that why no one saw you?” On the battlefield, when Yifan had turned the tide, shifted the rhythm. Changed the fate of a man in a small way, had let one die and another live.

 

“Perhaps they felt a great gust of wind. Later, they might say that the horses had suddenly begun to buck their riders. Those who truly believe in gods, who called me there in prayer, will know the truth, even if they saw nothing.”

 

Zitao knows that Yifan has more to say, that the silence that has fallen over the forest is unnatural. The usual dusk symphony of bird song is suppressed, as if they too are listening. In a step, Yifan is by Zitao. He drapes an arm around Zitao’s shoulders, and pulls him closer, and suddenly he is but a panda cub again, one that can be carried on Yifan’s shoulder, a child that barely comes up to Yifan’s waist. The world is yet silent, as if waiting for Yifan’s words, as if holding its breath in anticipation.

 

“Gods are born from the wishes of humans.” When Yifan does speak, it is quiet, blunt. “That’s all we are. Human wishes.”

 

“Human wishes?”

 

Yifan’s arm seems to tighten around Zitao’s shoulder. “Men have desires, prayers, things they wish for. Love, wealth, power – but most of all, protection.”

 

“You are their protection.”

 

Even in the darkness, Zitao knows when Yifan smiles. It’s the smile that Yifan has when he says you’ve done well, and then musses up Zitao’s hair.

 

But Yifan does not say you’ve done well.

 

“You were born, you have a soul. You are so much more,” he says. Then, in a single bound, the dragon god takes to the sky, robes himself in mist and clouds, and disappears where Zitao will never be able to follow.

 

“You are different.”

 

“I don’t understand,” he says, softly, quietly. But no one is there to hear him.

 

There is only the lake.

 

 

 

-

 

 

One morning, Zitao will learn that Yifan had left.

 

“What do you mean, left?” Zitao will ask. Lu Han will shrug, and glance towards the west.

 

By then, after nearly a half century of war, many of the smaller kingdoms and warlords had either been defeated or sworn fealty to one of three emperors. There was an unsteady peace, except at where the three kingdoms touched, but it was far from where the dragon god reigned.

 

Zitao will not understand, because Yifan leaves all the time, and he is more often than not away from the lake. Zitao will not come to terms that this is a different sort of left, not until days have passed, then months, and then a year.

 

By this time, there is no one at the temple who remembers him. There is no one at the temple he knows. Yet as he finds himself unwittingly in front of its gates, the temple itself seems unchanged and everlasting.

 

“Please,” he says, “let me stay for a while.”

 

Days pass, then weeks, and then months. Zitao is put with the novices, although he neither takes their robe nor shaves his head. He does not join in prayer, but he sits with them as they learn the scriptures, trains with them as they hone their bodies, and cleans with them as is needed. He is acutely aware that even though he appears to be not much older than them, he has lived far longer, and seen far more. He holds himself at a distance, even as he longs to draw close.

 

“Do you mind if I join you?”

 

The night is deep, and Zitao does not expect anyone to be up at this time. It’s a habit he’s picked up, when he finds he can’t sleep. The moon is comforting.

 

But here is an old monk, who bows slightly in greeting, before he sits down next to Zitao regardless.

 

“A perfect night for drinking,” the monk says. “Alas, I have none with me.”

 

“I’ve never drank,” Zitao says.

 

The monk chuckles. “Yes, you do look rather young.”

 

“I’m…” Zitao doesn’t finish his sentence. After all these years, he has finally learned to temper his tongue.

 

“My master once told me about someone like you. A tall youth with striking eyes, who brought away with him a book of poems. Except my master says that when he was young, a child who that youth most resembled used to train here at the temple.” The old monk laughs again, quietly. “I remember that youth, and those eyes. As if they could pierce through walls and hearts alike.”

 

“I’m sorry, master,” Zitao says. “I don’t understand. I still need to study more.”

 

“Oh? Hm? No, these are simply the ramblings of an old man. An old man who has seen many things…”

 

Silence seems to fall naturally between them. After all, silence is treasured, because in silence, many things can be learned. Such as how the mountains are calm, and how the peace means that the birds are flourishing. That although the moon is high in the sky, it will soon set, just like the sun rises and sets.

 

“You are not so angry now,” the old monk says, breaking the silence.

 

Zitao frowns. “Was I angry before?”

 

The old monk’s laugh is coarse and rough, yet comforting, like the moon and the lake. “You came to us with anger, little one,” he says. “So much anger.”

 

“I don’t remember,” Zitao says truthfully.

 

“Just like this, you’d often gaze towards where the sun sets. As if you were searching for something. Or perhaps, someone.”

 

In silence, Zitao has learned many things. He has also learned that silence itself can be as adequate a response as words. Silence can convey what words cannot.

 

“We learn from loss,” the monk says. He too, watches the moon. “When one has lost everything, all that is left is the person themselves.”

 

“Master…have you lost everything?” Zitao asks.

 

“Once,” the old monk says. There is no hesitation. “But life is boring when there is only yourself.”

 

“Master,” Zitao says, and then  hesitates. “I don’t know if I’ve lost anything. I don’t know if I had anything in the first place.”

 

“Oh?” The monk glances at Zitao, and the young panda feels like he has been seen through in a moment. “That doesn’t seem like it’s true.”

 

“I… Someone very important to me left.” Zitao speaks slowly – but something in the old monk’s manner encourages him to continue, to voice these feelings he has never put to words. “They’d always been there, and without them, it feels…strange.” Scared.

 

“Often, we are angry because we don’t understand our own feelings. But your feelings are painted across your face, as if you don’t hide them. You’ve learned a lot, little one, but you’ve never learned about yourself.” From within his robes, the old monk retrieves a string of prayer beads and places it in Zitao’s lap. “But while you are here, perhaps it will be worthwhile to learn about yourself.”

 

“I don’t understand,” Zitao says. His fingers curl around the prayer beads, and he immediately notes how worn each one is. How many times must they have been used? “Why do I need to learn about myself?”

 

The old monk chuckles, tilting his head up towards the sky. “We always look at others. It is a difficult thing, to look at yourself. But you are young. You have the time.”

 

Time… He had plenty of time.

 

Slowly, the old monk stands, and Zitao hurries to his feet as well.

 

“Master, these—” he holds out the beads, but the old monk stops him with his hand.

 

“These are for you,” he says, pushing them back towards Zitao. “I am old, and will not use them much longer. But you…you will use them well.”

 

He smiles at Zitao, as if he has just let him in on a secret. Zitao stammers his thanks and bows.

 

“You have the same eyes,” the monk says. “And don’t linger too long – do you not have someone waiting for you as well?”

 

Lu Han… Zitao bites his lip, and he knows that again, his silence had been answer enough. The master smiles again, and bows, his hands held together in prayer.

 

“May the dragon god watch over you.”

 

Zitao watches, wordless as the old monk disappears through the door. The dragon god, and not Buddha…

 

The dragon god…

 

 

 

As the old monk had told Zitao, he could not have used the prayer beads for much longer. Not a month had passed since that midnight conversation, when the master passed away. Zitao did not take part in the rites, for he was an outsider. Instead, he sits where they had sat that night, rolling the beads between his fingers. He could not have lived many more years than Zitao had, yet he had seemed infinitely more wise. Zitao still studied, reading as many books as he could. Perhaps he had read even more than the old monk.

 

Humans are fragile. The words come back to him suddenly, and he remembers how thin his hands had been, how slight his body, how old he had become. Zitao was not old, had not aged. Just as Yifan and Lu Han were never changing, soon, Zitao would be as well, frozen in the prime of a human life.

 

Perhaps it would be worthwhile for him to learn about himself, the master had said. If only Zitao knew how.

 

He leaves the next summer, with nothing more than he had brought with him. He thinks about the lake, where perhaps Lu Han was waiting for him. He thinks about the old monk, who was now nothing more than a memory.

 

What was time to them but the passing of seasons?

 

His steps direct him far from the lake.

 

Years become decades and the decades bleed into each other like a river tumbling over stones. Distance grows long like shadows, and the universal truth that all things broken must become whole, while all things whole must become broken cycles through those years. Zitao returns with the news that Sun Hao had surrendered and the Wu had fallen, and that only one emperor remained.

 

He has grown these years, travelling to cities and forests besides their own, watching battles from afar, and returning to relate the happenings to the deer spirit. Lu Han had taken the forest under his protection, what meagre protection he could provide in the absence of the god of the lake. The barest stub of antlers had appeared, yet the deer spirit had shown only the faintest elation, to Zitao’s surprise. “Sometimes we want things we should not have,” Lu Han says, and Zitao finds that in his absence, the deer has gotten quiet.

 

“That’s wrong!” Zitao declares. “If you want something, then you should want it, it’s not wrong to want it,” he says. “The humans speak of ren, of endurance, but their lives are too short not to live it to the fullest. Since we’ve been granted with something more, we should want as much as we want, just like they should.”

 

Yifan had said he was different, and the old master had said to learn about himself. Words are merely words, yet they haunt him in the nights when the moon casts slivers through the window, when the floor by his bed is cast in an unearthly frost. Now, half a century later, Zitao has begun to understand.

 

Half a century is enough time for men to live and die, for a child to grow old, for emperors to rise, for kingdoms to fall. Half a century is enough time for a panda spirit to cover the walls of the palace with scrolls and replace the stone chairs with colour. Half a century is also enough for Zitao to shed the austere robes that had mimicked Yifan’s, and amass a collection that ranged from the black of his childhood to those embroidered and decorated in silver and colour.

 

Lu Han watches with amusement, laughing along as Zitao debates the merits of adding yet another vase to the sitting room. Lu Han is still annoying, of course, but Zitao doesn’t really mind anymore.

 

Lu Han had other thoughts.

 

“I can’t tell if you’re more or less annoying now that you don’t try to act all stuck up like Yifan,” he complains over breakfast one day.

 

Zitao is scraping the last grains of rice from his bowl – he stops to look up and glare at the dumb deer. “I wasn’t being stuck up,” he says. “And Yifan’s not stuck up!”

 

“Uh huh.” Lu Han rolls his eyes, grabbing an apple from the basket. “Now you’re just loud.”

 

“You’re loud,” Zitao retorts. “I’m just stating my opinion.”

 

“Your opinions ,” Lu Han says. But his eyes are laughing, so Zitao merely huffs and sweeps gloriously away.

 

Zitao still devotes a few hours a day to studying, but the rest of the time is for tumbling through the forest as a panda, for browsing the markets, and maybe, every now and then, him and Lu Han will stay a little late at a wine house. He doesn’t know if he has learned anything about himself, but he wears the old master’s prayer beads around his wrist.

 

He hopes he has.

 

 

-

 

 

The spring rains come early and the clouds hover envelop the peaks of the mountains. The willow trees bow with the weight of buds, the birdsong swells as if in welcome. A light drizzle falls for days, and Zitao returns from his daily walks by the shore with both clothes and hair damp.

 

There is no clap of thunder, no sudden storm. The clouds do not part and the sky does not clear, only, as Zitao looks up, a tall figure stands by the shore, his robes flowing behind him. From this distance, he is only a silhouette, a shadow, but it is one that Zitao would know anywhere.

 

He breaks into a sprint without thinking, his bare toes digging into the dirt, propelling him forward. The silhouette turns to face him, and it is the first time Zitao has seen Yifan’s face in years. Without a word, he all but slams into the dragon god, wrapping his arms around him, burying his face in his shoulder.

 

“Zitao…”

 

“You…You…I missed you!” For some reason, his eyes are wet, and his throat feels funny. Yifan is warm, and solid, and everything that Zitao can’t think of and everything he can.

 

Slowly, Yifan’s arms come up around Zitao. “I’m sorry,” he says. Zitao takes that as a ‘I missed you too’.

 

For all the disruption his disappearance caused, Yifan’s reappearance is treated with little fanfare. Lu Han just smiles, and claps him on the shoulder.

 

“Good, I was almost getting worried,” he says. “Doing your job is exhausting.”

 

Yifan clasps his hand, and Zitao knows it will probably be many more years before he understands the look the two older beings share.

 

“Your horns have grown,” the dragon god says, and the deer simply laughs.

 

Yifan is mildly perturbed by the change of décor in his home, but Zitao staunchly defends his choices, saying that it was too boring anyway. To his surprise, Yifan smiles at this, and does not bring it up again.

 

The dragon god has not changed  - is what Zitao would like to say, yet in some small ways, he has. He still carries himself with composure, yet now he laughs at Lu Han’s jokes, loud and open. Lu Han still complains of Yifan being stiff, but somehow, he seems more relaxed. Zitao does not bring it up, he merely follows and watches. When Yifan sits to study, Zitao curls up nearby with a book as well. When the dragon god takes to the skies, Zitao takes to waiting by the lake, practicing his calligraphy until Yifan returns.

 

“And here I thought you’d grown up.” Lu Han tosses a grape at him.

 

Zitao snatches it, glowering at the deer spirit. “I am grown up,” he says calmly. “I’m not the one throwing food.”

 

Lu Han rolls his eyes, tossing another grape into his own mouth. “I’m not the one trailing Yifan like a lost puppy,” he says. “Baby.”

 

“I am bigger than you!” Zitao declares, and it’s true. He’s nearer Yifan’s height than Lu Han’s.

 

“Still a child,” Lu Han says, before infuriatingly, he simply walks away.

 

He finds Yifan in the study, brush in hand. Zitao hovers by the door, before he knocks. “Yifan, can I talk to you?”

 

Yifan looks up and waves Zitao in, resting the brush on the stand. Zitao comes to stand near the desk.

 

“What is it?” Yifan asks. He had evidently been writing couplets, and Zitao only wishes he had the eloquence to do the same.

 

Zitao swallows. “Have I grown up?”

 

There is a long silence where Zitao stares resolutely at the ground. And then there is a bark of laughter, and Zitao’s head snaps up to stare incredulously at Yifan.

 

“You’ve grown taller,” Yifan says, when he smothers his laugh into a grin. “Do you think Lu Han is grown up?”

 

Zitao wasn’t expecting a question in response. He blinks. “Yes?” he says first, without really thinking, and then as he realises what exactly he said yes to, his mouth drops open in horror. “Of course not! He’s still annoying!”

 

“So that’s a yes,” Yifan says, smile still playing around his lips.

 

“…” Zitao looks away.

 

“You know, the first thing Lu Han told me was about how much you’d changed while I was gone.”

 

Zitao slowly looks back up at Yifan – the dragon god is watching Zitao contemplatively.

 

“He did?” Zitao says.

 

“He did. And he didn’t seem to think that was a bad thing.”

 

Zitao frowns, pushing a hand through his hair. “I’ve changed?” he echoes. He doesn’t remember changing, at least, not on purpose.

 

Yifan picks up his brush again, this time to dip it into the inkwell, holding aside his sleeve with his other hand. “I don’t know,” he says. “You know yourself best.”

 

Zitao leaves the study with a troubled heart and a confused mind.

 

We always look at others. It is a difficult thing, to look at yourself. Zitao had repeated those words to himself so many times, he’d wondered what meaning they had left in them. Yet once again, they resurface. Idly, he picks at the bark from a fallen branch, tossing the pieces into the lake. The sun had all but set, and the shadows were longer than the trees and mountains themselves, but the lake was a splendid mix of colours.

 

When he was young, he’d once declared that he wanted to be like Yifan when he’d grown up – but now that he was grown up…

 

“Yifan…Yifan!” Zitao runs for the palace, slipping easily into the lake and down the stairs that only led to the palace for those who knew of its existence. The dragon god is near the entryway, hanging the freshly written couplets by a door. He looks surprised as Zitao bursts in, coming to a skidding halt in front of him.

 

“Zitao…?” The dragon god furrows his brows.

 

“I’m grown up, but I don’t want to be like you!” Zitao declares. “I’m not you, and I’m grown up! Ouch!”

 

Something hits him on the head, and Zitao scowls, clutching at his hurt. Lu Han stands there, ladle in hand.

 

“So noisy,” he complains. “Of course you’re not Yifan.”

 

Zitao sticks out his tongue at Lu Han’s back as the deer spirit goes back to the kitchen, muttering about children these days. Yifan is laughing, and Zitao scowls at him too.

 

“It’s not funny,” he says. “I’m serious!”

 

The dragon god is still laughing as he grips Zitao’s shoulder. “I know you’re serious,” he says. “I’m laughing because I’m happy.”

 

“Stop laughing!” Zitao complains.

 

Have I learned something about myself? The thought hovers at the back of his mind, even as Yifan pulls Zitao into an embrace. And even though he’s all grown up, he’s more than happy to let Yifan mess up his hair.

 

That night, for the first time, he drinks together with Yifan, and he doesn’t know if he’s grown up or not, all he knows is that for the first time in his life, he understands why Yifan had told him that he was different.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

Zitao is wearing a zhishen of green the shade of bamboo when the forest seems to part. A great beast with hooves of a deer but the scales and antlers of a dragon, its mane flowing upwards as he treads through the trees, his steps as light as if each hoof was riding on a cloud. He is struck with a familiarity he cannot name, and it is habit that he kneels and bows before the qilin, even though he has never done so before.

 

“You’ve grown up well,” the qilin speaks, as if speaking for the wind itself. When Zitao looks up, Yixing stands in his human form, a smile playing about his lips as he holds out his hand to Zitao.

 

Zitao bites his lip, and allows the qilin to help him to his feet.

 

“Yifan…is in the palace,” Zitao says. His eyes are cast to the ground in deference. The last time he’d seen the  qilin, he’d had to crane his neck upwards – now, he is acutely aware that he is a good half head taller.

 

The qilin blinks in surprise, and then  he smiles. “You remind me of someone I once knew,” he says.

 

A half century is also enough time for Zitao to come to understand sadness and nostalgia, and the expression on the qilin’s face before he walks past him to greet the dragon god is a mirror of that in his own heart.