In the woods, there is a hut, and in that hut lives a man.
He wakes up in the morning, and it’s a sunny day. He stretches and feels something make a satisfying pop in his spine, then he ties his hair into a haphazard bun with a brown ribbon, shrugs on his robes, and gulps down a cup of water before hurrying outside. He has a chicken coop and a vegetable patch and a well, and just down the small hill, there’s a stream where he bathes. He tinkers with his tools and mends his clothes when needed; he repairs the roof or the fence or the chicken coop; he cooks and brews tea and does his laundry. He sweeps the floor, makes sure his hut is neat and tidy, everything—or almost everything—in its proper place.
He drinks his evening tea in the yard in the silence of the night, and gazes up to the sky and the bright star hovering just above the horizon.
He likes to think it gazes right back.
Then he goes to bed.
In the morning, he wakes up. It’s a cloudy day, but that’s as good as a sunny day, and he goes on with his tasks.
He does his chores.
He drinks tea under the lonely star.
He goes to bed.
He wakes up and it’s a rainy day and a sunny day and a cloudy day and a cool day and a hot day and he herds the chickens and the spring and tea and roof and he goes to bed and he wakes up and it’s a sunny cloudy cool beautiful day, it’s night, it’s day, it’s his hut under a lonely star.
He goes to bed.
Sometimes he thinks he sees a flash of white from the corner of his eye. It’s a tall shape, almost like a person or a ghost (why would you think that? ghosts don’t exist), but when he turns to look, the shape is gone. Sometimes he cocks his head and tries to reach out because there’s something very familiar about the shape—perhaps the sense of a steady presence, the faintest scent of sandalwood, but when he tries to think about it, it slips from his mind like sand from a closed fist (there’s no sand around this hut).
The man blinks, turns, walks back to his hut. The roof needs preparing, he thinks, as there’s a small leak in the far right corner of his room, right next to his bed.
He picks up his tools and goes to work.
He wakes up, and it’s a cloudy, slightly chilly day. He stretches, drinks a cup of water, and hurries outside to—
”Oh, hello?” the man says.
There’s a magpie on the fence. It perches on top of a thick stick and preens at him, bobbing its tail and cocking its head.
”Ello?” it chirps.
The man laughs. ”You can talk? What a smart bird you are!
”Talk! Talk!” the magpie echoes and cackles.
He grins. It’s not that he’s been lonely (there’s no reason to feel lonely), but he’s not going to say no to company, even if it’s a bird. Besides, magpies are smart and can learn to use tools! He once read about it in—
”Right, carrots,” he says with a decisive air. ”I believe I have a good selection of carrots waiting for me to dig them up. You can come along if you like, my friend.”
”Fren!” the magpie croons and hops after him.
They develop a routine. The man wakes in the morning, stretches, drinks a cup of water, and then walks outside where the magpie is waiting. Sometimes, it brings him presents like shiny rocks or a very strange-looking stick.
One time it brings him a red ribbon.
”Is this for me?” he asks. ”Where did you find it? It’s pretty (very flashy, so bright)!”
Without his conscious thought, his hand reaches out to pick it up and twines it into his hair. It’s like he doesn’t need to think about it and his hands know what to do all their own. He goes on with his chores and wonders why the magpie looks so smug.
When he goes to bed that night, he lets his hair down, and the red ribbon falls on the floor.
In the morning, he wakes up and ties his hair in a haphazard bun with a brown ribbon.
”Oh, what a pretty ribbon!” he exclaims as the magpie lands on his shoulder and shakes its head to make the red ribbon dangling from its beak dance in the air. ”Is this for me?”
It’s sometimes warm and sometimes cold but never so much that he’d need extra clothing. He has them—his hut is small but well-stocked with thicker robes and mittens and scarves, but so far there hasn’t been a need for them. On some colder days, he takes his bowl of soup outside and eats, watching the steam from the bowl rise in the air.
It would be very pretty here if it snowed.
He has no idea why he thinks that. He’s never seen snow.
One day, the magpie wakes him up with a screech and sharp knocks on the door. ”Ello? Ello?” it calls. ”Ello? Fren!”
”Not yet—Lan Zhan—” he mumbles, tucking his head under the cover. When a series of sharp knocks comes again, he sits up, disoriented. ”What?” he calls.
”Ello? Fren!”
He scrambles up and throws on a robe before rushing out of the hut. The magpie stands in front of the door, looking impatient. ”What is it? You’ve never come to get me. Is something wrong? Are you alright?”
”Ello!” The magpie calls and flies a bit ahead before turning back to him with another shrill, ”Ello!”
”You want me to follow?” he asks. ”Well…I don’t see why not!” He ties his hair with his brown ribbon (brown is a good color, sensible, calm) as he hurries after the magpie. It leads him toward the woods a short distance from the hut. He’s never been there (no reason to go there, none at all), which is why he slows down to peer into the foliage. It’s thick, the trees big and close together, making the shade look dark (dark dark dark).
”Ello! Fren!” the magpie calls.
There’s a…rabbit? A small, white rabbit huddling under a bush.
”Oh,” he breathes. ”This is what you wanted me to find, right?” He kneels and reaches out a hand to the rabbit, making sure to keep his movements calm and slow. Sudden moves and loud noises can spook them, and then they don’t want to be a pile (there are no piles of rabbits).
”Hi, hello,” he whispers when the rabbit finally hops forward to sniff his hand. ”What are you doing here, all alone? Are you lost?”
The rabbit doesn’t answer but it carefully gets closer, places its front paws on his knees, and stretches its neck to peer at him.
”Would you like to come home with me? My home isn’t much, but I’m sure it can fit one small rabbit.” Gently, he picks up the rabbit and stands up. ”I have carrots,” he offers.
He builds a rabbit hutch next to the house, opposite the chicken coop. The rabbit stays in the hutch during the day when he does his chores but he lets it inside for the night. He hasn’t seen any predators near his hut, but he’d rather be safe than sorry. In the evenings, he cooks dinner and eats with the rabbit on his lap.
It’s nice. It feels good to wake up in the morning, knowing there’s work to do, and it’s nice to sit down to eat in the evening, knowing he’s done a hard day’s work and now it’s time to rest.
Sometimes he talks to the rabbit when he cooks. It never answers, but that’s okay. He’s used to quiet, attentive company, and it’s enough for him that he knows the rabbit is there.
”I was thinking about tomorrow—” he says one day in between spoonfuls, and suddenly pauses. ”No talking during eating,” he reminds himself.
Wait.
Where did that come from?
Why wouldn’t he talk while eating? What if he has something important to say? What if he forgets about it while he eats and the idea is lost forever? Strange.
The rabbit makes a discontented sound, and he suddenly realizes he’s been clutching it uncomfortably close. ”Oh no, my apologies, my friend,” he says and hurries to gently pet it. ”Would you like some carrots? I might even have some radish—” he stands up and makes his way to the small crate by the wall and rummages through it.
By the time he emerges with a carrot, he’s already forgotten about rules about talking while eating.
With the rabbit and the magpie, he doesn’t feel lonely (and why would you when you have everything you need right here); the magpie might have a limited vocabulary, but it talks back at him and it’s clearly very smart. The rabbit is a calming presence in his life, able to soothe his thoughts when they try to run colliding circles in his head and keep him from sleeping. Their routine is a good one: wake up, drink a cup of water, gather breakfast ingredients, do chores, tinker with whatever he has in hand.
Some days, he feels restless, almost like he needs to run or his thoughts are too big for his head or that he’s about to burst from the seams. Some evenings, it’s almost like he can feel the tea burn on its way down—not like it’s hot but like it’s…something else. Sharp, strong, flavorful (the tea is just fine).
The strange feelings usually pass quickly and he almost never remembers them.
(Except that he does.)
”This—wait,” he says, staring at the ribbon dangling from the magpie’s beak.
It’s white.
Like in a trance, he reaches out but snatches his hand back at the last moment. ”I don’t—what is this?”
The magpie lets out a garbled sound, muffled by the ribbon it’s still holding. It hops closer and thrusts its head forward with a commanding air.
”For me?” he says, slowly. Somehow, it doesn’t seem quite right. But he holds out his hand anyway and takes the ribbon.
It’s cool and slippery and, for a moment, he fears it’ll spill from his hold like water. He clenches his hand around it, somehow knowing that if it ends on the floor, it’ll be gone forever.
…How does he know that?
”If it’s not for me, then for who?” he mutters, tilting his head, eyes going vacant for a moment. Then he sees something white from the corner of his eye, and knows exactly what to do.
The next morning, the white ribbon is still neatly tied around the rabbit’s neck.
There are things that bother him. Things he knows and that he doesn’t know.
He knows how to take care of a small hut, how to farm, how to mend fences. He knows how to tinker and how to make things work even when they shouldn’t.
He doesn’t know his own name.
He has no idea where he comes from or how long he’s been here (there’s no need to know).
There are things nagging at him, nibbling at his thoughts in the back of his head, but for some reason, he hasn’t really thought about them. Why? He seems to be very curious about everything around him; why not about this?
Why hasn’t he ever tried to leave (there’s no need to leave)?
Who is he?
One day, he does his chores, rakes the small yard, plucks weeds from the vegetable patch, and feeds the chickens, and then he walks to the river. It’s a sluggishly moving body of water, and he knows he can float for a long time and the river won’t carry him away.
…How does he know that?
The magpie watches him when he strips, folds his clothes neatly in a pile, and wades into the river. The water is cool but not too cold, and he takes a moment to just swim, letting his mind go still and calm.
Like a lake filled with lotuses (there are…no…lo t u s…e s).
Then he flips onto his back, spreads his arms, and closes his eyes.
And focuses in.
How did he ever forget about this?
How did he not remember how it feels to have a core—admittedly a small one, but a core anyway?
(Why does he think he didn’t have a core?)
(What is a core?)
He lets out a small, breathless laugh and keeps running (dancing!) the small bundle of warmth around his limbs, gathers it close in his chest, and lets it pool in his belly where it curls like a contented cat, radiating warm light throughout his whole body. It makes him more conscious about his surroundings and he reaches slowly out, careful like handling the rabbit.
If he moves too suddenly, he’ll scare it.
(Nothing to scare, no, no…no t h)
(Why?)
(Nothing)
(I would like to leave now.)
(Ther e sn o n e e e e d to)
He opens his eyes and says softly aloud, ”I would like to leave now.”
His clothes are where he left them. He sketches a shape in the air with an absent-minded casualness and his skin and hair repel the water still clinging to them. He doesn’t pay it any mind but pulls his clothes on, gazing toward the woods. That’s where he should head, he knows without thinking.
”Ello! Fren!” the magpie croaks before picking up the red ribbon from the ground and holding it out to him.
”Thank you,” he says and bows. ”What do you think, we probably should pick up the rabbit before we leave?”
”Fren!”
”Yeah.”
His hair in a half-ponytail, he heads back to the hut. It looks almost despondent in the low light, misshapen and forlorn. He doesn’t let it stop him. (He knows that if he stops, he might not leave, and he doesn’t want to risk it.)
Apart from the rabbit, there’s nothing he needs from the hut, nothing he wants to take with him, so he merely picks the small white ball of fur, tucks it into the crook of his elbow, and walks out.
Something tries to reach out for him, like something desperately not wanting to be left behind. He shakes his head and starts to hum under his breath, a melody that’s full of yearning and love. He doesn’t know the song but he knows it, and whatever that’s reaching for him seems to realize it.
The woods loom in front of them, but unlike the time he found the rabbit, it doesn’t look threatening. Instead, it looks like an old, forgotten forest that hasn’t seen people in a long time, and it makes it suspicious.
”I would like to leave, please,” he says politely. ”I’m only asking to be let through.”
”Leave!” the magpie echoes. With a flutter of wings, it lands on his shoulder, its nails sharp enough to hurt a little.
Together, they walk through the woods. There’s no path he can see, but he feels the way forward with a certainty he doesn’t need to doubt. The sky is blue. The magpie is his friend. Someone is waiting for him on the other side of the forest.
He doesn’t know how long he walks, but when the trees slowly start to thin out and a bit of light starts to seep through, he lets out a breath.
”Almost there,” he murmurs, glancing down at the rabbit.
On his shoulder, the magpie lets out a cackle.
When he looks up, he sees a white shape right behind the treeline. It’s standing still, a tall, imposing figure that seems to stare right into his eyes, even though they’re too far for that to be true. Almost without noticing, he picks up pace until he’s jogging, rushing through the trees that make a last attempt to snag him. He dodges the twigs and ducks under one thick, low-hanging branch, and then he’s through, he’s out, he’s—
”Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan whispers, eyes wide and desperately relieved.
Wei Wuxian chokes a sob through his smile and runs home into his husband’s arms.