A name, whispered by the palace gossipers, began to cling to Jian Li like damp silk: ‘Lord Xuan’s Shadow-Scribe.’ Every utterance etched a deeper line into his spirit, a painful reminder of his passage into a more convoluted adult-hood, a station he had never truly sought. He felt the syllables, like ill-fitting ceremonial robes, chafing at his skin. Innumerable nights had bled into mornings as he wrestled with the inherited charge of Lord Xuan’s convalescence. His days cleaved themselves in two: mornings devoted to the Ministry’s meticulous scrolls, evenings to the hushed, scent-laden chambers of Lord Xuan’s secluded pavilion. Truthfully, his hand trembled more often over the inkstone these days, his mind half-distracted from the urgent missives requiring his precise brushwork. A heavy heart invariably guided him back to the Jade Serpent Pavilion. Lord Xuan, his eyes bright with an almost desperate anticipation, would often rush out to greet him, a creature too long confined to its cage. Then, as if Jian Li had been the very air he breathed, Xuan would unload the day’s frustrations, a torrent of grievances barely befitting a high-ranking noble. “Another week of bone broth, they say. My own stomach feels perfectly hale, yet they force this bland mush upon me, Jian Li. It is an insult to a man of my station, a slow torment worse than any wound! And the healers… always with their murmurs of another grafting for my arm. My skin, already a patchwork of disfigurement, will be further marred.” The way Xuan poured out his anguish, his face contorted in genuine misery, made him seem no different from a fretful child denied a sweetmeat. A quiet sigh escaped Jian Li’s lips as he reached into his satchel. A faint aroma of steamed fish and fragrant rice had already seeped into the oiled leather of his bag. A slight, involuntary twist distorted his features. Yet, he mused, the alternative – carrying the dishes openly, a servant in all but name – would have been far more vexing. “What is it you bring?” Xuan’s voice, though sharp, held a peculiar softness, a hopeful lilt that Jian Li almost imagined came with a drooping, silken tail. Disgusting. The thought recoiled upon itself. Jian Li swiftly shook off the unwelcome image and withdrew a lacquered bento box from his satchel. A pitiful hunger entered Xuan’s gaze, sweeping over the offering. Only then did the gloom in his eyes shift, yielding to something else entirely. “This…?” “A small meal. The kitchen staff confirmed your next treatment is yet some days away, so you may partake.” Jian Li kept his tone even, devoid of inflection. “A meal, then.” Xuan’s voice was a whisper. “Do not imbue it with meaning. I merely instructed a new cook nearby, who claimed to specialize in restorative fare.” Jian Li deliberately stripped his words of warmth, for he knew, with a sickening lurch, that he had already imbued the meal with a profound, unspoken significance. He would never confess to having sought, with almost frantic diligence, a humble establishment renowned for preparing dishes both gentle on a recovering constitution and tantalizing to a jaded palate. He wished only to appear as an emissary of protocol, nothing more. A simple courtesy. But even that semblance seemed enough for Lord Xuan. His barely functional right hand, still stiff from the imperfectly healed sinews, rose to scratch at his ear, a gesture almost frantic. The lobe Jian Li glimpsed was a vivid crimson. Jian Li’s gaze drifted downward, drawn by an invisible thread. Xuan’s fingers, those same fingers that once gripped a sword hilt with such authority, now curled in an unnatural, stunted manner. His breath hitched. Why did his eyes fix upon that particular deformity? Why could he not look away? A suffocating tightness bloomed in his chest. “—I… I thank you.” Xuan’s voice was oddly subdued, thick with emotion. He glanced hesitantly at Jian Li, and when their eyes met, he flinched, startled, fumbling awkwardly to open the bento box. Or perhaps, Jian Li mused, he merely feigned surprise, as if being caught gazing at his guardian was a transgression. As if he did not wish Jian Li to notice the fervent admiration in his eyes. Watching Xuan stuff the food into his mouth with mechanical zeal, Jian Li leaned his exhausted frame against a silken cushion. It was a grotesque sight: rice spilling, sauce staining the corners of his mouth. Xuan’s little, ring, and middle fingers on his right hand did not bend properly. Jian Li could not discern if the awkwardness was genuine or a calculated performance for his benefit. Slowly, almost against his will, Jian Li moved closer, taking the spoon from Xuan’s grasp. “What desires your palate?” “…” “More of the quail, perhaps?” At the very least, Jian Li knew, he bore the responsibility of acknowledging Xuan’s suffering. With lips smeared, Xuan chewed, lowering his head slightly, a strange, half-moon smile gracing his features. Jian Li could not comprehend why this man, whose fingers would likely never fully regain their dexterity, whose body bore the mottled scars of battle or sickness, could smile with such unbridled, almost childish glee. He truly had no comprehension. He could not bring himself to meet that bright, glowing face. What, pray tell, could be so amusing? Were it Jian Li, he knew he would desire only oblivion. He selected a succulent piece of quail and gently guided it to Xuan’s mouth. Xuan chewed forcefully, his smile unwavering. This man, Jian Li thought, always left him profoundly unsettled. He had chosen to bring this meal, in truth, because of a visit made before his arrival at the pavilion this evening—a necessary errand to Lord Xuan’s ancestral estate. --- This was the second time since Lord Xuan’s grievous injury that Jian Li found himself holding the family’s guest pass, granting him entry to the usually secluded estate. Xuan’s own kin had, to Jian Li’s knowledge, visited him at the pavilion a mere handful of times since his convalescence began: once, his venerable father; twice, his elegant mother. His mother, especially, had offered Jian Li saccharine smiles, her demeanor overflowing with gratitude, as if to reward him for diligently shouldering the very burdens she had so readily cast aside. Lord Xuan, Jian Li remembered, had merely rested his chin on his hand, eyes fixed on his mother’s retreating, rustling robes. Jian Li’s sole purpose that day had been to retrieve a few personal effects for Xuan, trifles to alleviate the crushing tedium of his confinement. That was all. He understood, perhaps better than anyone, the soul-numbing monotony of being ensnared within four walls, having himself experienced prolonged illness in his youth. And because he had endured it, he believed he knew precisely what Xuan needed. He convinced himself it was not sympathy. Nor was it affection. It was merely a practical application of experience. That day, instead of returning directly to his small lodging near the Ministry, he had paused at Lord Xuan’s ancestral residence. The sprawling mansion, with its grand gates and manicured courtyards, had still extended its silent welcome. But Scholar An, Lord Xuan’s elder cousin and a notoriously sharp-tongued court official, had not. Leaning against the polished wood of Xuan’s deserted bedchamber door, Scholar An’s voice had been as dry and rustling as parchment. “Still hovering over Lord Xuan, are we?” To be frank, Jian Li harbored little warmth for Scholar An. How could she, a direct kinswoman, have neglected to visit Xuan at the pavilion even once? Her own blood relative, grievously afflicted. That primal, unspoken code of kin-duty made him judge her, instinctively. He had not even realized the silent condemnation until the very moment he felt it. His jaw tightened, and he clamped his mouth shut, resuming the careful packing of Xuan’s precious calligraphy brushes into his satchel. “Indeed.” His voice was clipped. “He truly is consumed, isn’t he? That madman, utterly fixated upon you.” Jian Li’s hand, poised over a silk-wrapped inkstone, froze. He turned, as if a sudden, unseen force had compelled him. “—Consumed by… me?” “What, does the thought please you so?” Scholar An’s lip curled. “No, I merely inquire.” “No one ‘merely inquires’ in these halls, Minister. You desired to know, so you asked.” Disgusting. Scholar An muttered something under her breath, but Jian Li pretended not to hear. Still, she stepped closer, ignoring his rigid posture. This entire lineage, Jian Li mused, seemed to possess a talent for overlooking others. “Tell me, where did you disappear to after the Imperial Examinations, Jian Li?” Scholar An’s eyes narrowed. “I returned to my ancestral village for a period of reflection.” Jian Li offered a half-truth. The entire Celestial City, he knew, likely buzzed with rumors. “It is not as if I sought to know,” she continued, her voice devoid of interest. “But Lord Xuan… he descended into a terrifying frenzy over it. That man, who barely deigned to offer incense to our ancestors, suddenly began to wail prayers to the Heavenly Emperor, then to curse the Celestial Mandate itself, smashing the geomantic jade his own father had gifted him. He cherished that jade, you know. He called the Emperor a ‘feckless pup’ or some such blasphemy. Then he locked himself away, and our household finally knew a moment of peace. He does not even realize who the true demon is. Fool.” Her voice, which had dripped with mockery, suddenly softened, perhaps noticing the shift in Jian Li’s expression. “What is the matter? Your face is flushed.” “It is not.” Jian Li averted his gaze. “No, truly. You are not… taken with him, are you? Do you harbor affection?” “I said no.” “—By the Jade Emperor.” Scholar An gasped, covering her mouth as if horrified. “You are utterly mad. Truly.” Why did she persist in her accusations when he had already denied them? Annoyed, Jian Li yanked his satchel’s zipper shut with a sharp hiss. He, too, felt a stinging urge to criticize her. “Why do you speak such slander to me? Your father, Lord Xuan’s own father, told me he regarded Lord Xuan as little more than a distant nephew, not even a true son.” Such a contradiction. Jian Li knew it well. Minister Han Taesan, who always found a way to prick at his composure, had once observed: “Jian Li, you always, always end up performing some act of kindness, no matter your intentions.” But in this particular moment, Jian Li possessed an excuse. The faint, brown scars that mottled Lord Xuan’s back, visible only when the healers attended to him. Just as Xuan could not meet Jian Li’s eyes with his raw desire, Jian Li could not bring himself to look upon those marks, those physical manifestations of suffering. --- “Jian Li,” Xuan’s voice, hoarse, drew Jian Li from his thoughts, creeping closer. Jian Li pretended not to notice, yet he listened, every nerve alight. “Yes, Lord Xuan.” “Then… may I place my faith in you?” “What is this talk, Lord Xuan?” Jian Li asked, his voice carefully neutral. “I shall not… harbor affections for you.” In that instant, Jian Li’s composure shattered, his heart plummeting to the cold marble floor. His stomach twisted, a sickening lurch. Something tightened around his chest, squeezing the very breath from his lungs. He almost asked—the words nearly tumbling from his lips without thought: *Why not?* The moment the treacherous question formed, Jian Li realized the abyss he was about to step into. His true, hidden thoughts, shameful and raw, had almost escaped. Jian Li, you are a fool. He clenched his fists, forcing the words back down, swallowing the bitter truth. Yes. This was for the best. For both of them. He told himself this with fierce resolve. “Then instead, I shall hold faith in you.” Xuan’s reply was strange, his voice tangled with both sorrow and a peculiar, radiant joy. Like a disciple receiving a profound, mystical revelation. Was there any other way to describe him in this moment? Jian Li did not understand his words. And yet, he did not pull his hand away. He did not flee. The suffocating weight pressing on his chest no longer merely squeezed; it pierced him, a sharp, cold blade. “I am an apostate now. Honestly, you are of far greater use to my life than that distant, uncaring Emperor in the sky.” “Hold your tongue, Lord Xuan!” Jian Li hissed, his voice barely a whisper. This man… “You blaspheme with every breath.” “No, that is not so! I was raised a devout believer, you know!” Xuan insisted, his voice laced with mock indignation. “Then what was that declaration just now?” Xuan frantically shook his hands, a movement both desperate and almost comical, as if his very life depended on Jian Li’s belief. His tone, tinged with genuine panic, suggested he might truly weep if Jian Li doubted him. Caught off guard, Jian Li was left speechless. Then, as if he had made a sudden, profound decision, Xuan slid off the low cushion and dropped to his knees before Jian Li. “Then I shall show you.” “Lord Xuan, what are you doing?” A large hand, its fingers still imperfectly formed, grasped Jian Li’s foot. Since Jian Li had been seated with his legs propped loosely upon the cushions, he slid forward slightly, barely maintaining his perch on the edge of the seat. His foot, dangling slightly in the air, was held firm by Xuan’s grip. Then, Xuan’s gaze landed on an old, faint scar on the sole of Jian Li’s foot, a mark from stepping on broken pottery as a child. His brow furrowed with an intensity that startled Jian Li, and to Jian Li’s utter disbelief—Xuan’s eyes filled with moisture. Jian Li jerked back in shock, attempting to pull his foot away. Before he could escape, Xuan lowered his head. “What are you—” “By the grace of the Imperial Ancestors, by the wisdom of the Heavenly Dragons, by the virtue of the Emperor’s mandate—” Cold fingertips brushed against Jian Li’s ankle. A sharp ache shot up his calf, deep into his stomach. What madness was this man enacting? He tried to yank his foot free, but his strength, mysteriously, abandoned him. Xuan looked up at him once, his eyes burning with an almost frightening devotion. Then, with a face that showed not a single trace of disgust, but rather profound reverence— “—I greet my Lord.” He pressed his lips to the very tip of Jian Li’s foot. Xuan’s fine, soft hair brushed against Jian Li’s ankle, a feather-light touch that sent shivers through his skin. The gentle pressure of his lips rubbed against the base of Jian Li’s toes. “S-Stop it…” Jian Li threw an arm over his face, a futile gesture against the overwhelming intimacy. Xuan’s right hand tightened around Jian Li’s ankle. And in that moment—Jian Li stopped resisting. Three weak, malformed fingers held onto him with surprising tenacity. A delicate, fragile grip tapped lightly against his skin. The lips that had just cursed the heavens now traced a path upward, along his calf. And Jian Li did nothing to stop him. That was when he realized. This relentless, incurable disease—this nightmare of entanglement and suffocating responsibility—still was not over.

The Weight of Devotion