Chapter Text
"i am not the only traveller
who has not repaid his debt
i've been searching for a trail to follow again -
take me back to the night we met"
A golden mask.
Gilded and shining under the light of the sun, the rubies glinting and the pearls faintly shimmering. His hair flows past his shoulders and down his back to his waist in a fall of black silk as dark as a raven's wing, tied up neatly with a ruby and pearl enamelled gold piece. Large dark eyes blink up at Hua Cheng, glowing a deep purple slightly at the edges. The half of the face that's visible show a handsome and healthy young man - full lips tinted a tender red, a well defined jaw and rosy cheeks. There's a grace to the slope of his neck, the slight heart shape of his face.
"Hello."
It's warm. Mild, with a soft curl to it, somehow like the way the skies are painted pastel as the sun gently sets beyond the horizon. Like finally feeling the familiar embrace of someone you've been longing to see for so long, the bliss of reunion after an impossibly long separation.
And there's more. There's a slight tinge to his words, a slight . . . spice to it. Something distinctly foreign, something distinctly exotic, from beyond the sea.
"How did you get here?" The person - probably his age or so, really, maybe a year or two older, no older than twelve, simply shrugs. There's a grace to that movement that shouldn't be possible in someone so young.
"I simply saw a path - I was curious, and here I am. Am I not supposed to be here?"
"I - no. The garden's a free place for everybody."
"That's good, then. I wouldn't have liked to have broken a rule." And when he smiles, his face seems brighter than the sun that illuminates his golden mask, his flowing hair, his loose red and white robes. "Would you care to join me?"
"Oh - of course." Gingerly, Hua Cheng sets himself down next to him. The scent of exotic spices and blossoms cling to the masked stranger, one that's seeped deep into his skin, flowered oils have been run through his hair, and there's a distinct sheen to his lips that speak of someone having applied rouge there.
The masked boy leans back on his palms, and the soles of his feet flash pink in the light as they're bared to the world for a second. There's a faraway look in his eyes, a look that's startlingly mature for someone so young. Again. "Tell me - have you ever wanted to simply run away from everything without looking back? Just abandon everything and go to somewhere where no one can ever find you?"
". . . I can't."
The boy shoots him an inquisitive look as he pulls himself back up into a proper sitting position. "Go on."
"I have a duty to fulfill." He doesn't elaborate, and the masked boy doesn't prod any further.
"Hm." Absently, his companion brushes a stray lock of sun soaked hair off his shoulder. "But if you could, would you?"
To runaway where no one can find me, where no one knows me? Such a choice . . . "I would."
In a heartbeat.
Again, even with his mask, his face lights up with that same sun bright smile. "Truly?"
"Why do you sound so delighted?" But there's a smile beginning to form on his own lips too.
"My apologies, I just . . . my apologies. I simply . . ." His smile brightens even more. "I cannot say exactly, but - I'm glad, that I'm not alone in having such wishes. It's morbid, I know, but . . . I'm simply glad that I'm not the only one."
A warm feeling starts to spread through Hua Cheng's belly, but then, his companion's smile drops. "My apologies again, but I must go."
And before Hua Cheng could even say anything, the masked boy is already gone.
A prince - that's who he must be.
The richness of his mask, the finery of his robes, the excellence of his jewels. And beyond that, the grace with which he had carried himself, even as he was running back to the palaces . . .
I might be able to see him again at the celebrations. If he's attending.
Of course he would - all of the princes in the world would. To win the hand of the most beautiful princess in the world - what prince would pass up on that opportunity?
A failed one, perhaps. An unwanted one.
Or a twelve year old child, too unappealing for even an ancient, withered hag to consider looking at, least of all the most beautiful princess in the world. A ghostling, born from a demon.
It might be better that we never meet again. For his sake.
Despite that, his eye is still drawn to that golden mask.
His stranger's wasn't the only golden mask in attendance - there were dozens upon dozens of them, embellished with the same kind of finely cut rubies and pearls, but also amethysts and emeralds and diamonds, and garishly so. His stranger's had been decorated tastefully, the rubies and pearls selectively cut and placed, simple and oh so beautiful in its minimalism. Not a trace of that flowing pitch black hair perfumed faintly with their flowery oils, his scent of those exotic spices and blossoms.
The princess is seated upon her high grand throne of gold, in shimmering silk, with an elaborate confection of spun crystal and seed pearls upon her brow, white gossamer hiding the face the bards model all their songs after, the face the poets write all their prose for. The princes before him make their speeches and proposals with grandeur and the utmost passion, but all Hua Cheng can feel for the princess said to be the most beautiful in the world is coldness. He recites the speech written by a stranger in a stranger's voice, not his own, and it vaguely registers in the back of his head that he doesn't even know the princess's name, nor that of her father, nor that of her kingdom.
And he finds that he doesn't care, and that he would like to see his mysterious stranger once more with his golden mask and his scent of all those exotic spices and his voice with that lovely foreign drawl.
I hope you might be able to find happiness in one of those princes. Those figures in their masks and their proclamations of passion and love, the princess behind her veil and still upon her throne, silent and unmoving and more like some master artist's most perfect statue. Would her white skin be cold to the touch, her hidden eyes incapable of blinking?
And the world seems to still then, as Hua Cheng's body freezes. He makes no sound, but the scented oils he had ran through his long hair, the spices that have permeated deep into his skin and his clothes, give him away.
There's a slight smile on his face, one of mild but not unwelcome surprise. "How did you know I was approaching?"
"Your scent."
That smile widens. His clothes are more elaborate, much richer, but still tasteful and never once venturing into gaudy and harsh. He looks quite lovely. "Do I smell so bad?"
"No, I do not mean, I-"
"Relax, I was merely joking. But I assume you weren't? Pray tell me more about what makes my scent so distinctive for you." The moonlight does wonders for him - his skin like freshly fallen snow, the contrast with his hair as dark as night without a moon or a star, and that smile playing on his lips made redder by the rouge dabbled on delicately there.
"It's - it's like something from faraway. I'm not quite sure - it's - but it's - it's a pleasant scent."
How eloquent, Hua Cheng - how bloody eloquent that was!
"It is?" His smile is softer now, smaller, but somehow, it's the brightest. "You're the first to say that, you know?"
His smile is contemplative, and his face almost glows in the warm embrace of the moonlight. "Say, what's your name?"
"My . . . name?"
"Mhm. Your name is?" His stranger's eyes are focused fully on him, and his voice is genuine, sweet and innocently pure. He means it.
No one's ever asked me that before. Not like you. "Hua Cheng. My name - my name is Hua Cheng."
The voice that leaves his lips isn't that alien one he had used to speak that proposal some faceless courtier had written, the one of the ghost prince that hides himself away never to be seen by anyone else - that voice is Hua Cheng's. It almost sounds strange, his own voice on his own lips, speaking his own name.
"Hello, Hua Cheng." That smile widens, and that warm feeling returns. "It's a pleasure to meet you."