Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

He had been in the middle of an utterly meaningless meeting filled with even more useless people about a pointless failed attack on his life when he felt the cold drop down his spine.

A chill that didn’t belong to the weather. He knew himself well enough to know that the waterfall wouldn't cause him an illness.

He stood abruptly, eyes distant, even as the officials turned toward him with startled expressions. He was the crowned prince—ornamented, inscrutable, untouchable and masked—but he was gone before they could finish their stiff bows or voice their   objections, already striding out into the hallway like a man possessed.

“Your highness?” Gaoshun called, jogging to keep up. “Is something the matter?”

It was quiet. Too quiet.

And Jinshi, despite every rational, court-trained instinct, had learned to trust that part of himself Maomao had stirred into wakefulness.

The part that felt.

By the time the second hour passed and there was still no sign of her nor account of seeing her, he wasn’t walking. He was running.

She wasn’t in her room. The bed had been turned down. Her shoes were still beside the mat. The window was closed, locked from the inside. A small plate of fruit was untouched on the table.

There were no signs of struggle. No blood. No note.

Which made it worse.

Jinshi stood there, staring at the empty room as if it would yield some secret, some lie he hadn’t yet learned to see. And then, slowly, terribly, he realized he knew exactly what had happened. The moment he saw that damned bezoar sitting proudly on the table.

Someone had taken her.

Someone had taken Maomao.

Someone had taken her.

And he was going to retrieve her, by any means necessary.

He waited the whole day to seek her out like a fool.

She had been tired. He told himself that. Resting. That was all. Maybe embarrassed from their contact or ill from the water.

A breath, then another, each tighter than the last.

By sundown the compound was in chaos. A full sweep of the premises. He refused to call it a panic, but something in his chest had already cracked by the time they found the loose panel in the far corridor.

Dust scattered on the floor. A drag mark. Something like blood.

Not much. But enough.

His voice was calm when he gave the orders.

“Prepare the men. Quietly. No alarms. No court officials. This is not to leave the compound.”

“But Your—”

“You will search every inch of that forest. Now.”

He spent every second comparing patrol-reports, cross interviewing the soldiers and huntsmen with every discrepancy. Few had seen the crowned prince before, and even though they couldn't see his face they could certainly see his anger.

The search began with bloodhounds and trackers, through records of guards who had recently taken leave and kitchen boys who had once worked in noble households. No corners of the court were spared.

Every lead he followed felt like a knife pressed to the meat of his ribs.

He overheard one of the footmen say she wasn't worth all this, that the crown prince was foolish for caring about some runaway maid.

He now walks without a tongue to wag so recklessly. 

The seventh day brought a breakthrough—a campfire spotted deep in the hunting valleys. Too distant for normal travel. Too inconvenient for anyone to stumble upon.

The men weren't even masked, though they were armed, and laughing.

And Jinshi brought hell with him.

The first one fell before he could draw his weapon.

The second managed to raise a shout.

The third screamed, “They’re here!” before Jinshi’s blade buried itself in his chest.

He’d told the men not to go easy.

He hadn't told them not to scream.

The cellar door was jammed—of course it was. Old hinges and warped wood. Jinshi didn’t wait for it to be opened.

He kicked it in.

And when he saw her—

Everything inside him stopped.

Maomao was tied to a beam like a butchered offering, her limbs hanging or twisted, her face slack, lips bloodied, skin burning hot even in the cold air. Blood crusted down her chin. She was soaked, as if someone had doused her. Her lips looked dry and cracked but crusted blood painted the bottom lip like crude coloring. Her robes were soaked and clinging to her frame. Her shoulder— he couldn't even think of that now.

She wasn’t even conscious enough to be afraid.

Jinshi couldn’t breathe. A gun was shot off aimed directly at his head, but he was too well trained for such a pathetic attempt.

The three men inside fell with such ease sit could be called a slaughter.

Someone moved to cut her down, and he barked—“Don’t  you dare touch her.”

He did it himself, but she fell with such speed that he had to fall as well to catch her, hands fumbling to free her ice cold hands from the cord tying them together. They bit into her wrists like they had grown there.

“Maomao,” he whispered, each syllable unraveling him.

Her head turned, slowly, as if the motion alone was a monumental task.

Jinshi tried to take in her injuries but the list got too long, “Maomao. Gods. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Her gaze found him directly. Then drifted past.

“No,” she whispered. "No you're not." She reached up to touch his face with limply hanging fingers, white as a ghosts. “You’re not real.”

He felt the earth shift under him.

“What?”

“You’re a dream. A nice and pretty one at least. The fever’s got me bad this time, but this is sick even for something coming out of my head.” She coughed as she spoke, blood coming up to stain her teeth.

He couldn’t speak.

So he did the only thing his hands understood.

He pulled her to him.

Tight. Desperate. Unforgiving.

She whimpered—barely, as if her body resented the pain, not him.

But he didn’t let go.

“Why would you come?” she murmured, as if she hadn’t just been pulled from a nightmare.  “Why would anyone come?”

And that—that—was what broke him.

“Because you’re mine,” he hissed into her hair. “And I’d burn the country down to its studs to find you, to get you back, forget the forest or these lowly bastard scum.”

"Jinshi," she cried, then slumped in a heap into his chest.

Gone.

His heart seized.

“Send for the physicians!”

He lifted her—carefully, as if her bones were glass. Her skin was on fire. Every breath she took was a ragged struggle. He pressed her against his chest and held her there like she might fall apart if he loosened his grip.

“Go,” he ordered. “Move. Now.”

They cleared the woods by nightfall.

And then the real agony began.

She didn’t wake for three days.

Not when they cleaned her.

Not when they stitched the torn skin.

Not when they popped her shoulder back in place.

Not even when he whispered her name a hundred times under his breath.

Suiren sat beside her, her face stony with grief.

Xiaolan cried twice and then didn’t stop praying.

Jinshi didn’t sleep.

He sat by her bed, knees pulled to his chest, staring at the rise and fall of her thready breath like it was the only thing keeping his own lungs moving.

When they gave her a fever tea, he held the cup.

When she trembled, he folded the blankets tighter.

When she moaned, he closed his eyes and imagined the screams he would have let out if the others weren’t listening.

This wasn’t about appearances anymore.

This wasn’t about honor or image or anything he could control.

He’d lost that the moment he saw her like that—tied and broken.

He should have told her.

He would tell her.

She'd learn about the extent of her injuries when she woke up, she should have something stable to rely on.

He would—

A small sound cut him off.

Barely a whisper.

He sat up, eyes snapping to her face.

Maomao blinked. Once. Twice.

Then she looked at the ceiling and asked faintly, “No more dreams?” As if it had all simply been a long slumber.

Suiren snorted through her nose, relief coloring her voice. “If you’re well enough to be speaking nonsense so soon, you must truly be healing well.”

Xiaolan bolted up from her slumped position at the foot of the bed. “Maomao!" she cried, "you scared us half to death—”

Maomao turned her face away.

“I didn’t think anyone would come.”

The silence that followed was a blade.

Jinshi stood.

He couldn’t stay.

Not when her voice sounded like that.

Not when her heart had sealed itself off again like nothing had changed.

Not when he had felt her rib cage shake against his own and thought—gods, this is what it means to lose something precious.

He left the room before the anger could rise.

Or the heartbreak.

Or the guilt.

The first night, he sat outside her door like a dog.

Not because he had nowhere else to be.

But because she was the only place he wanted to be.

And he would wait.

For the fever to leave her.

For the fight to return to her voice.

For the moment when he could look her in the eye and say—

"You are not alone. Not anymore."

Even if it terrified him.

Even if she laughed at him.

Even if she left again.

Because Jinshi had faced enemies and court vipers and assassins.

But none of them had ever made him feel like he did now, just listening for the next breath behind the wall.

He had nearly lost her.

And next time—

There wouldn’t be a next time.

He wouldn’t allow it.

Not even if he had to take her into the inner palace himself, kicking and screaming.

She was his now.

Whether she liked it or not, he'd take responsibility and happily dote on her for the days to come.

The corridor was quiet, save for the occasional creak of ancient wood cooling beneath the hush of night. Moonlight poured through the slats in the paper windows, tracing thin silver lines across the floor.

He sat on a cushion just outside her room, legs drawn up, elbows braced on his knees. A cup of tea had long since gone cold beside him. He hadn’t touched it. He hadn’t touched anything since they brought her back, barely breathing, barely whole.

His thoughts spun useless circles—every time he closed his eyes, he saw her face. Pale, sweat-drenched, lips cracked and bloodied. Her body, limp in his arms. The marks around her wrists. The way she hadn’t believed he was real. Hadn't believed herself worth saving.

He had sworn, then. Quietly. Unthinkingly.

He would not let her be alone again.

Not even now.

A shadow shifted under the doorframe, flickering across the paper screen.

Then—

A sound tore through the silence.

A scream.

Raw. Terrified.

Jinshi was on his feet before he could think, before the breath had even left his lungs. His blade was half-drawn from its sheath as he threw open the sliding door with a bang that echoed down the hallway.

The room inside was dim. A single oil lamp flickered against the far wall.

Maomao thrashed beneath the blankets, breath coming in heaving, guttural sobs. Her hands clawed at her throat, nails raking at skin that had already seen too much damage.

“Maomao!” Jinshi crossed the room in two strides, the sword clattering to the floor. “It’s me—it’s alright, you’re safe, you’re safe—”

She didn’t hear him. Her eyes were wide, glassy, unfocused. She fought the sheets like they were bindings.

Jinshi didn’t dare touch her. Not yet. She was panicking, lost somewhere in a memory he couldn’t reach.

So he knelt at her bedside and spoke low, firm, steady. “It’s over. They’re gone. You’re not there anymore. Look at me, Maomao. Please.”

Still no response.

He reached out, heart hammering in his throat, and gently took her wrist.

Her skin was clammy, fever-warm.

But she stilled.

Her gaze flickered toward him—unfocused still, but something shifted. Her lips parted.

He exhaled. “It’s over,” he said, softer now. “They're all dead.”

She blinked. Once. Then again. Her mouth trembled.

“I… know,” she rasped. “I just—”

She didn’t finish. Her body sagged, the fight draining out of her as her limbs went slack against the sheets. Not asleep, not yet. But no longer lost.

Jinshi kept hold of her wrist, thumb brushing lightly across the back of her hand. A lifeline, small but solid.

He didn’t say another word.

And he didn’t let go.

"Would you.. would you please pour me some water?"

Oh he hated how she begged for it, hated how she must have pleaded with them for just a sip of water—but a part of him knew Maomao would never beg them for anything, not even for mercy as they beat her.