Chapter Text
Ouyang’s impression of the red turbans in his first life had been of a disorganized rabble that barely merited the title of army.
His impression of them in his second life was far less favorable.
He reached Anfeng, a stinking, overcrowded mess that was more a shanty-town than a city, in the eleventh month. By his accounting, if things progressed as they once had, it would only be a few more weeks before the confrontation at Yao River in which he’d once lost ten thousand men in an instant and been put on the path of his fate. Despite this, the rebels were still in disarray. General Ma had died - further proof that Ouyang hadn’t been the inevitable in his case - and they didn’t have a substitute for him yet. The commanders were all children, and only one of them was at the frontlines trying - and failing - to contain the Mongol advance.
Once Ouyang found what passed for a recruitment center among the rebels - a rickety wooden structure that had probably started its life as a shed - the officer posted there looked him up and down, casting a greedy eye on his expensive, polished armor and his well-balanced sword and spat out, “Vanguard”, before gesturing him along and turning his focus on the man in line behind him.
Presumably, he was looking forward to looting his arrow-riddled body after the first battle, though he would need to melt the armor down if he hoped to make anything usable for a whole man out of it.
After the recruitment center, Ouyang was shuffled along to the subcommander in charge of the vanguard, and then to a tiny, cramped tent in a sea of other tiny, cramped tents where he was introduced to the rest of his unit. Four men, each one more pathetic than the last: Old Luo, who had to be nearing fifty at the very least, Wei Shou, who on the other hand was maybe seventeen at best, Chu Gaofeng, who was missing an eye, and finally Mei Yu, who was the only one among them who appeared to have known some measure of prosperity in recent memory. He was tall and clear-skinned, but also weak and spindly and possessed of the kind of prettiness that would become dangerous as soon as the army was on the march and away from easily available whores.
It was late by the time Ouyang settled his meager belongings in the tent that he would share with all of them. When he exited it, he found them gathered around a pot, looking at it as though they had never considered the notion of cooking in their lives. Perhaps they hadn’t. Ouyang had lived an entire life without needing to learn how to prepare anything more complicated than a cup of tea, and eight more years after that. Seven years on the run, however, had changed that: he knew how to cook. If not well, at least passably. He didn’t doubt he could manage something better than they would, if he volunteered his skills, but it was women’s work, and he already looked like a woman. He wasn’t going to start acting like one. “When do drills take place?” he asked, instead, settling himself cross-legged at the edges of their circle and making no move to help.
“Drills?” Gaofeng repeated with a sneer. “You think they make us run drills? That’s precious, sweetheart. You’re in the vanguard. You’ll get killed by a Hu arrow the instant the battle starts. No point training you.”
Ouyang carefully considered whether or not he could get away with punching Gaofeng in the face. Probably not. He had been there less time than him, and even if they were neither of them whole men, the loss of an eye rated lower than the loss of his manhood in the scale of what engineered disgust in people. He bared his teeth, instead, in the kind of smile that usually made people recoil. “Are you really trying to act superior? You’re also in the vanguard. You’re no better than the rest of us.”
Gaofeng’s face went a satisfying shade of red. He was halfway to his feet when Old Luo said, very mildly, “Don’t insult people if you can’t take it when they respond, Ah-Feng.”
Gaofeng sat back down, glaring. “I wasn’t always in the vanguard,” he hissed. “They transferred me here when I was injured. No rewards for loyalty. And now I have to die alongside a fucking eunuch.” He looked around at the other men. “Aren’t you angry? Better to die alongside a dog!”
Old Luo sighed. “Ah-Feng,” he said reproachfully, “since we’re all going to die, couldn’t we at least get along until then?”
“We won’t die!” said Wei Shou, springing to his feet. “What kind of talk is this? Are you cursing us?” He spat on the ground, then looked around at them with an hesitant expression at odds with his actions. Ouyang reassessed his guess of his age downward. Not seventeen. A tall fifteen, maybe.
“That’s right!” Mei Yu said, standing also and clasping Wei Shou’s shoulder. “We have the Prince of Radiance on our side. We have the Mandate of Heaven! We can’t lose!”
“The Red Turbans won’t lose,” Gaofeng snarled. “You’re just a bunch of useless turtle eggs that will get slaughtered in your first engagement. Do you even know what a battle looks like? The Hu’s arrows will blot out the sun. They will turn you into mincemeat. You’ll all die without an intact corpse!”
There was a long silence. Wei Shou was breathing raggedly, his face very red. He looked halfway to tears. Mei Yu, in contrast, was growing steadily paler.
“You and me,” Ouyang said, very evenly, “we will surely die without an intact corpse. There’s some hope left for these three.”
Gaofeng’s face contorted. He didn’t wear a patch over his empty eye socket; the shadows in it seemed to writhe. “I’m not like you.”
“No,” Ouyang agreed, “you aren’t. I can fight as well as any whole man. Can you?”
“Will that help you?”
Ouyang smiled humorlessly. “Evade arrows? No. But if I survive long enough to get into sword range of the opposing army, then it will help.”
Gaofeng scoffed. He stood, went into the tent and came out with a sheathed sword. He threw it at Ouyang’s feet. “Let’s see it, then.”
“Are you asking me to spar with you?” Ouyang asked eagerly. Accidents happened, in spars. If he was a bit too forceful and knocked out a couple of teeth, who was going to blame him?
“No,” Gaofeng said. “I won’t sully my sword with your blood. You say you can fight. Show us. Perform a drill.”
Ouyang looked at him for a long time, without speaking. Long enough that the atmosphere grew uncomfortable. Then, he stood, very slowly, picked up the sword, unsheathed it, and went through the moves he’d practiced every day for two lifetimes, at the greatest speed he could manage. When he was done, he wasn’t even panting, and everyone in the vicinity was looking at him.
Wei Shou was the one who broke the silence. He went over and grabbed Ouyang by the wrist and said, fervently, “Can you teach us?”
Ouyang looked him up and down, and then he said, “If you have a decade or two.”
“If rumors are to be believed, we have about two weeks before we have to move out,” Old Luo said, “maybe less. What can you teach in that time?”
Ouyang looked from him, to Wei Shou, to Mei Yu. They all looked back at him steadily, no hint of mockery on their features. “Not much,” he said, “but more than nothing.”
***
It wasn’t only Ouyang’s unit that turned up for his drills instruction, the next morning. Fifteen people waited for him in the little space he’d found at the edges of the camp. Even more shockingly they came back the next day, even though he’d driven them all so hard that several of them had vomited and Mei Yu had passed out. Attendance grew over the next few days, but none of the men who came bore the ordination scars and grey robes of a monk. He asked around, discretely, but no one else had seen any monks, either: he’d beaten Zhu to Anfeng.
It was, of course, entirely possible that he and Zhu were both there, and neither him nor anyone he’d spoken to had seen her. Even if Anfeng was to Anyang as a candle flame was to a bonfire, it still housed thousands of souls.
It was entirely possible, but it rang false when Ouyang considered it: that she might be so close to him, and that he might not know it. Not only because Heaven seemed to find it amusing to throw him and Zhu Yuanzhang into one another’s paths again and again and again, even when they weren’t seeking one another out, but because it seemed impossible that she might enter a city and not immediately cause everyone in it such a headache that they all had no choice but to become aware of her presence.
***
It was the tenth evening since Ouyang’s arrival in Anfeng. His unit, minus Gaofeng, who was taking a tour of the whorehouses again, and Old Luo, who was in charge of cooking and so mostly sitting up, was sprawled on the ground next to their tent. The night’s meager entertainment was provided by watching a cricket fight. Or, in Ouyang’s case, it was provided by watching Wei Shou cry mournfully as he lost all his money by betting on a cricket fight.
It was also provided by watching Jin Fan, the owner of the crickets, who was tall, well-muscled and very deeply convinced of his own appeal. Ouyang had no idea how he had ended up in the vanguard, but it had likely involved pissing off someone important by sleeping with one of his concubines.
“Have you heard?” Old Luo asked suddenly, cutting though Wei Shou’s dismayed shrieks. He was desultorily stirring the contents of the pot, with a look on his face that probably didn't bode well for the quality of their dinner
“Little Guo as the new general?” Ouyang asked. “I’ve heard. Not even the Prince of Radiance can save us from failure in those hands.” He’d known, of course. Just as he’d known what to expect from the character of their new general. Intelligence, however, was one thing; it was information heard only second-hand, cold and remote. Personal knowledge of the man was quite another.
“You could stand to talk a little more quietly,” Old Luo said, but he couldn’t quite conceal a smirk. “I didn’t meant those news. Word is that a clouds and water monk wandered into the city, stole a horse, pissed off Little Guo and was conscripted into the army - say, are you alright?”
“Fine,” Ouyang said. The words came out a little muffled, because he still had his face buried in his hands, and a little choked, because he was still laughing. There you are, he thought. “Do you know where I can find this monk?”
“I might,” Jin Fan said, grinning at him with a gleam in his eyes. “But it’ll cost you.”
Ouyang snorted. “Sure. I’ll pay for information I could find out by taking a stroll through the camp.”
Jin Fan clapped both hands to his chest, pretending injury. He had unremarkable features, save his eyes, which were absurdly long-lashed. In the firelight, those lashes cast long, dark shadows on his cheeks. “Not with money! Aiya, Brother Ouyang, how greedy do you think I am?”
Ouyang sent a speaking glance at the crickets and didn’t answer.
“Fine,” Jin Fan said, pouting. He was lying flat on the ground, so when he looked at Ouyang, it was up, through the dark, thick fringe of those lashes. It shouldn’t have been as appealing as it was. “I just want some gossip, Brother Ouyang, don’t be so serious. Why are you asking, do you know him?”
“I might,” Ouyang said. “I can’t be sure until I see him, of course, but I don’t think there can be that many monks with his personality in Henan.” Or the rest of the Great Yuan, for that matter.
“So he’s a real monk?” Jin Fan asked eagerly. “People have been saying he’s fake.”
“The one I know is real enough,” Ouyang said, and didn’t add I even burned down her monastery, once. During her ordination ceremony, no less!. “He was a novice the last time I saw him, but it’s been years.” He paused, then added, “He was in Wuhuang Monastery.”
The men’s faces instantly sobered at the mention of Wuhuang Monastery. Wei Shou cursed the Mongols under his breath, and Jin Fan gave up the directions to Zhu’s unit with no further prompting.
***
The first thing he noticed, upon reaching her tent, was the horse tied up to a post next to it. When Old Luo had said Zhu had stolen a horse, Ouyang had assumed he’d meant one of the ill-fed nags that populated Anfeng, not an actual Mongol warhorse. Feeling an odd kind of hunger, he walked closer to examine it. He was a gelding, and not as wonderful as the mare Esen had gifted him in his previous life, but still a better horse than any Ouyang had even managed to get close to in years. He extended his hand, and rubbed his soft nose, very gently. “Hello,” he whispered, “Where did you come from?”
“Are you trying to steal this monk’s horse?” said a familiar voice, very close to his shoulder.
“Yes,” Ouyang said, without turning around, “that’s why I’m standing right in front of your tent petting him.”
“You should know,” Zhu said, “that they put thieves’ heads on walls here. Just for your information.”
“How lucky that you’re a monk,” Ouyang replied, “and so will show mercy to this sinner.”
“You must not have met many monks, if you think us merciful.” It was impossible to read her emotions from the tone of her voice. There was amusement in it, and it obscured anything else, like silt in a pond.
“I’ve met a few,” Ouyang said, and finally turned to face her. It had been odd to see her when she’d been a child, so much smaller and softer than he’d remembered her. It was odder still to see her now, when the features were the same as in his memories, and the shadows behind her eyes so much lighter. Her hands hung limply at her sides, both of them, because he’d never cut one off. He felt his lips stretch. He said, quiet enough that only she would hear, in the scant space between them, “Long time no see, Little Sister.”
An expression flashed over her face, too quick for him to discern, before it settled back into her usual cheerful opacity. “It’s you,” she said. “You’re the one who wanted to know about ghosts. What are you doing here?”
The question threw him, though perhaps he should have expected it. He opened his mouth to deliver some passionate reply about his belief in the Prince of Radiance, but he knew it would ring false. He was a good liar, but only when there was truth in his lies. He was here for her, but he knew he couldn’t say that, either. How could he explain it, that he owed her, for something she hadn’t even done yet? Be honest with yourself, at least, he thought, that’s not really why you’re doing this, either. You know she doesn’t need you. Her eyes were starting to narrow. He’d been silent too long. “The same thing you’re doing, I expect.”
This seemed to amuse her: he caught a flash of it, in her eyes, something true and private. “Somehow, this monks doubts it,” she said with an easy smile. “This monk isn’t a soldier, but you look fierce, Benefactor…”
“Ouyang,” Ouyang supplied, resignedly. Doubtlessly, she was going somewhere with this, and doubtlessly the road there was going to be long and meandering.
“Benefactor Ouyang,” she continued, still smiling widely at him. She started to walk, away from camp and towards the city. “Walk with this monk a little, this monk is glad to see a familiar face! Let us catch up.”
This monk is lying to me with her eyes wide open, Ouyang thought, but just nodded and followed her.
“Why did you think you might have ghosts around you, Benefactor Ouyang?” she asked airily, once they’d been walking for some time. They had entered the parts of Anfeng in which some buildings were still standing, surrounded on all sides by leaning, rickety wooden structures that served as temporary housing. Night was falling quickly, and the streets were emptying.
“It’s a long story,” Ouyang said, as they walked a seemingly random path deeper and deeper into the city, “perhaps some day I will tell it to you.”
“Aiya, Benefactor Ouyang, so mysterious!” Zhu said. It was now dark enough that he could only see her outline, a few steps ahead of him, as they entered a secluded alley. “We’re at war, and no moment is guaranteed. You should tell it now, or you might die before you get the chance.”
“Will I have time to tell it, Little Sister?” Ouyang asked, suppressing laughter. “I don’t think you’ll find a better spot that this for your murder attempt.”
He’d startled her: he could see it in the lines of her shoulders. A moment later, there was a flash of moonlight against steel, as her sword thrust toward his throat.
And then she was on the ground, and Ouyang had her sword. “That was really bad, Little Sister,” he said. “I run drills every morning in the western part of the camp, you should come.”
“I’m not your little sister,” she said, sounding so raw that it startled him. He had the disconcerting sensation of having walked too close to a cliff’s edge, and having had what he’d thought was firm ground crumble beneath his feet. Nothing he’d done had ever seemed to shake her. Even cutting off her arm hadn’t stopped her, but this had pierced through her armor, and found something soft and vulnerable.
He knelt down next to her, and studied her features in the scant moonlight. Her chest was heaving, and her eyes were wide and glittering. She was trembling. The expression on her face was of a deep, existential terror. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I won’t tell anyone.”
She made a noise like a wounded animal. “You can’t call me that,” she hissed, “You can’t even think it. I- I’m not-”
“Not a woman?” Ouyang asked. “But you’re not a man, either.”
“I don’t know what I am,” she admitted, the words a whisper so low he had to strain to hear it. “But don’t call me Little Sister. I’m certainly not that.”
There was something, in his chest, like a string being pulled taut. He remembered all those time Zhu had said they were alike, and he understood, a little, what she had meant: not that he was womanly like her, but that they were neither of them womanly, and that the world would never accept it. “Master Zhu,” he said, like a peace offering, and offered her his hand to pull her to her feet.
By the time she was standing she had recomposed herself, all the raw animal pain and fear tucked away beneath her usual inscrutable smile. “This monk has to admit, Benefactor Ouyang,” she said, dusting herself off and heading out of the alley, “he didn’t expect such a gracious reaction. You truly have missed your calling, joining the army! With patience like that, you ought to have become a monk, too.”
“My physical attributes might have proven an impediment,” he said wryly.
She gave a bark of laughter. “If you think that, Benefactor Ouyang, you might be lacking in imagination.” As he walked past her at the mouth of the alley, she threw an arm around his shoulders. “Don’t worry. This monk will teach you.” Then, after they’d been walking for some time, in a wheedling tone, “Could this monk have his sword back?”
Ouyang ducked away from her arm and turned to look at her face closely. It bore a look of supreme innocence. “Are you going to try to kill me again?”
“This monk wouldn’t,” Zhu said piously, “This monk has taken vows.”
Ouyang bit down on a smile. “This monk is in the army.”
“Then this monk will likely need the sword,” Zhu said, serenely. “It must be better than nothing, even if this monk doesn’t know how to use it yet.”
Ouyang considered her. She was stubborn as a mule and persistent as a cockroach, but he didn’t think she’d try a brute force attempt again, so soon after being put on her back. He’d be better off watching out for poison in his food, or, he thought wryly, accusations of theft. Accusations that would hold a great deal more weight if he was found in possession of a surplus of weapons. It was also awkward to carry around an unsheathed sword in the city, and she had kept a hold of the scabbard.
He handed the sword back to her.
“Thank you, Benefactor Ouyang,” Zhu said brightly. “Now that your death no longer seems imminent, won’t you tell me why you were asking about ghosts?”
This time, he made no efforts to conceal his smile. “Not yet,” he replied, “you’ll have to keep on not killing me if you want to find out someday.”