Que Zhi looked away and pushed the dried grass closer to the camels.
The camels snorted in bewilderment.
He heard the sound of water—light and crisp, like someone stepping into a shallow shoal. He didn’t look up.
A few breaths later, another sound came—this time the splash of water being scooped up, droplets pattering back onto the surface in a fine, dense rhythm.
His throat felt dry. He reached for a waterskin, but found it empty.
Que Zhi set the waterskin down and went back to dividing the dried grass, his movements as methodical as before—but if anyone had been watching his hands closely, they would have noticed he’d divided the same bundle of grass three times over.
By the water, Xi Yu was utterly oblivious.
He stood in the waist-deep shallows, coolness shooting up from the soles of his feet to the top of his head—every pore rejoicing.
He scooped up water and poured it from his collarbones downward, droplets sliding over his lean frame—confined too long in the cold palace, his build hadn’t fully matured; his frame was slender but not frail, his waist tightly tapered.
Water streamed from his shoulders, converging into a thin rivulet in the hollow of his spine, trickling down the clear groove of his vertebrae before disappearing into the moonlit surface.
Xi Yu washed with great care—even picking the sand from beneath his fingernails bit by bit—as if this was something he’d put off for a long time and could finally take his time doing.
Moonlight fell upon him, the water’s surface shattered into flowing sheets of silver foil, and he was the unreal silhouette at their center—lean and fluid lines, spine slightly arched, the contours of his shoulder blades faintly visible beneath his skin.
On the bank, Que Zhi had already finished dividing the same bundle of grass for the fourth time.
He stood up, walked to the water’s edge, turned his back to the water—turned his back to that lean figure in the moonlight—crouched down, and began washing the waterskins. He washed them slowly, vigorously, the leather squeaking under his friction.
He didn’t know what he was thinking, but he knew one thing was already settled.
From the faceless figure in the sunlight at the inn entrance, to the hatless face in the dusk by the well, to the profile gazing at the sky in the Gobi dawn, to that fleeting glimpse of shoulder blades curving like butterfly wings—each time he had been confirming the same thing.
Now that thing was confirmed.
He set the washed waterskins on the bank, stood up, and without turning around, said in a hoarse voice: “Don’t wash too long—the water’s cold.”
Behind him came Xi Yu’s voice, carrying a barely perceptible smile: “All right.”
A branch snapped in the fire with a burst of sparks. The camel flicked its tail and snorted.
Que Zhi looked down at the curved knife resting on his knee—the dark red leather cord wrapped around the scabbard was slightly polished from his thumb tracing over it.
He let go, placed the knife beside his blanket, then lay down and closed his eyes.
The sky was still so low, the Milky Way spanning the heavens like the breath of the Gobi night.
The fire slowly died down, its embers flickering uncertainly.
He heard the water sounds stop, followed by the soft patter of bare feet on damp sand—light and gentle, as if afraid of waking someone.
Then the rustle of fabric, the faint sound of a sash being retied.
The footsteps drew nearer, and someone sat down across from him on the blanket, bringing with them a crisp, cool breath of moisture—mingled with the green scent of poplar leaves and the cold fragrance of water still lingering on skin.
That scent was faint—so faint it seemed carried away by the night wind—but Que Zhi smelled it.
He opened his eyes.
Xi Yu sat across from him, dressed in clean inner robes, his blue robe draped over his shoulders but not yet tied.
His hair was wet, loose and unbound, droplets falling from the ends and soaking into the fabric at his shoulders.
The fire was weak now, but his silhouette was still clearly outlined—damp hair clinging to the sides of his face, making his jawline appear even narrower; droplets trickling down his neck, a thin sheen of water pooled in the hollow of his collarbone.
He was tying his sash, head lowered—fingers long and pale, nails trimmed short, knuckles showing distinct bone definition as they bent, like some kind of instrument made for plucking strings.
Que Zhi closed his eyes again.
“I washed my clothes,” Xi Yu said, his voice light, as if talking to himself. “Will they dry by tomorrow?”
“Yes,” Que Zhi said. “Hang them on the camel’s back. A morning’s walk and they’ll be dry.”
“Good.”
Silence.
The last dry branch in the fire collapsed, scattering a few sparks.
Xi Yu wrapped himself in his blanket and lay down, pulling the dagger from his sleeve and placing it beside his pillow—his so-called pillow being nothing more than a flat stone with a folded pack on top.
His hand hung outside the blanket, fingers resting lightly on the dagger’s leather sheath, his fingertip unconsciously tracing the Western Regions carving on it.
“Que Zhi.”
“Mm.”
“You’ve traveled this road before—who did you travel with?”
Que Zhi was silent for a long time. So long that Xi Yu thought he wouldn’t answer—then he heard: “With a bunch of dead men.”
The fire dimmed, leaving only dark red embers flickering in the sand.
Xi Yu didn’t ask further.
He turned his head to look at the vague, motionless silhouette across from him in the darkness—so still, like a silent stone.
But Xi Yu knew—stones didn’t speak in that kind of voice.
He lowered his eyes, ran his fingertip back and forth over the dagger’s carving, then closed his eyes.
The night wind passed through the poplar grove, leaves rustling—as if the Gobi were sighing in its sleep.
At dawn, Xi Yu woke to the sound of birds.
There were few birds in the Gobi, but the oasis harbored a few nameless little sparrows that hopped among the poplar branches, their calls crisp and brief.
He opened his eyes. Daylight was already spilling in from the east, dyeing the thin mist over the water golden.
He sat up and realized there was an extra blanket on him. Not his own—that one was still wrapped securely around him.
This one was Que Zhi’s—woven of thick wool, coarse and scratchy, but very warm.
He picked up the blanket, folded it, and placed it beside Que Zhi’s pack.
Que Zhi was already up, crouching by the water washing his face. He glanced back at the sound of footsteps, then stood up and wiped the water from his face.
He caught sight of the neatly folded blanket, and a very low, rumbling sound rolled from his throat—like some kind of feline being smoothed the wrong way.
He handed over a flask of water and a broken piece of flatbread: “Eat up, then we move.”
Xi Yu took the flatbread, sat down by the water, and stuck his feet into the cool shallows—soaking his feet while nibbling on the bread.
His ankles were slender, the bones prominent, the skin there so pale from years of sunlessness it was nearly translucent, faint blue veins visible beneath the surface.
He swished his feet in the water, sending up splashes that wet the cuffs of his trousers.
Xi Yu looked down at the reflection of his ankles in the water and suddenly found it a bit amusing—a dead man walking, sitting at the edge of a Gobi oasis, soaking his feet and nibbling flatbread, poplars and blue sky overhead, and behind him, an endless sea of sand.
He thought of those old boots in the cold palace.
The soles had worn smooth, yet he’d still worn them.
Now he was barefoot, standing in the water, the current running between his toes—ticklish.
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