The dawn mist clung to the slopes of the Cangyun Mountains, curling like delicate silk around pine and cypress. The village of Lingxi lay nestled below, its mud-and-brick huts clustered unevenly along narrow paths. Smoke rose from clay chimneys, carrying the faint scent of cooked millet and firewood, and the soft trill of a bamboo flute floated from a distant hut, signaling morning chores.
Li Rong tended the small plot beside his hut, the soil damp from last night's rain. Young shoots of nettle, wild garlic, and coarse millet swayed lightly in the breeze. He adjusted the thin bamboo supports, pressed soil around the roots, and examined the irrigation channels, ensuring water from the hillside flowed evenly. Observation and care preserve life, even here in the mountains. His movements were deliberate, mindful of the fragile balance between nature, survival, and the customs of the villagers who often relied on superstition as much as labor.
Wen lay upon the straw mat inside the hut, body still tender from past injuries. His breathing was steady, yet each motion reminded him of past battles, of betrayals by court and kin. Today, he would follow Li Rong into the mountains again, weak but resolute. Even in this frailty, I must remain watchful. Trust is not blind.
Li Rong prepared a small satchel: bundles of herbs wrapped in cloth, a simple gourd of water, and a handful of coarse millet. He tied a thin cord around Wen's arm to guide him over rough terrain. "Careful steps," he said softly, voice calm yet firm. "The soil here is loose, and the ridge slopes sharply. Lean lightly on my arm." Wen nodded, muscles tensing with effort as he rose, his trust growing in tandem with his caution.
The mountain path was narrow, lined with rocks smoothed by wind and rain. A sudden rustle startled them — a wild pheasant burst from the underbrush, wings beating against the cold air. Loose stones slid toward the clearing, and Li Rong reacted instantly, steadying Wen and shielding him with his own body. Even the smallest movement can cause disaster. Awareness and prudence are stronger than strength alone.
They reached a plateau where wild herbs thrived: mint, young garlic, and delicate shoots of horsetail. Li Rong knelt on the damp earth, fingers brushing leaves and stems, assessing their quality. Even here, knowledge of the world beyond this village is valuable. He whispered the properties of each plant in classical phrasing, mentally cross-referencing with his modern understanding of healing and nutrition. Wen watched, impressed by the integration of ancient knowledge and practical skill.
The villagers below whispered among themselves: "The outcast Ger moves in the mountains with that stranger again…" "Touching another man — daring, dangerous, unnatural." Their judgment lingered, heavy yet distant. Li Rong ignored it, understanding both the weight of tradition and the necessity of moral courage. Every act — tending herbs, steadying Wen, navigating the mountains — was a careful balance of social awareness and responsibility.
By afternoon, they paused near a small spring. Li Rong refilled Wen's gourd, cupping water in his hands before guiding Wen to drink. The touch was light but steady, precise, respectful — a subtle intimacy that went unnoticed by the world outside. Wen's gaze met Li Rong's briefly, an unspoken acknowledgment of trust and protection. Even in weakness, I feel strength here — not of muscle, but of mind and principle.
The path home wound through shaded groves where sunlight dappled the moss-covered stones. Li Rong brushed stray pine needles from Wen's shoulders, adjusted his blanket, and checked minor scrapes sustained along the way. Even small injuries matter. Healing is an act of foresight and care. Wen allowed the gestures, the closeness, and the attentive observation, sensing the growing bond that words could not yet capture.
As dusk fell, the mist rolled down the mountainsides, softening the village below. Smoke from evening fires mingled with the scent of wet soil and herbs. Li Rong placed the gathered herbs carefully on a woven mat and stoked the clay stove for their simple dinner of millet porridge. Social norms remained a shadow outside the hut, yet within these walls, a quiet trust had taken root — precise, deliberate, and profound.
Li Rong reflected, quietly, on what he sought in a lover: mutual respect, intelligence, empathy, and understanding. Strength alone was insufficient; it was the combination of foresight, moral courage, and subtle care that defined connection. Wen, even weakened, displayed these qualities in quiet gestures and measured patience. In their shared silence, a bond formed that transcended social expectation, rooted instead in observation, trust, and responsibility.
And as the first stars pierced the evening mist, Li Rong and Wen sat together by the firelight, the small hut a sanctuary against the mountains and the village beyond. Their paths were intertwined now, delicate threads of protection, trust, and perhaps something deeper beginning to weave between them.