And Therefore
Goujun travelled every part of the West once each year, his duty as monarch and his pride as a dragon; he was a white star moving in the sky, a ribbon of white silk on the wind, a red-eyed white-winged flame aloft in the airs Under Heaven, a terror and an astonishment and a glory to those few mortals who saw him from below.
At the end of his path below him, he saw a sign above the small cave which marked the northern boundary of his quarter.
Clouds and Rain Hermitage, it read.
He narrowed his scarlet eyes -- eyes sharp enough to see a single feather on the breast of a single sparrow amid a flock of sparrows ten miles away -- but the shadows within the cave were obdurate to his sight.
So. Something to investigate. Something which he could leave to any of his servants, but, perhaps, he was bored, and perhaps he would walk upon the earth and see who dwelled in such a place.
He fell through the clouds, down to the earth, and shrugged on a form close to human as another man might have shrugged on the mantle that hung around his shoulders. As always, some senses dulled, and others sharpened. His sight became closer to human, and his hearing grew less clear, but the scents of the physical world were abruptly present where before they had been not absent, but different, and the sensation of touch -- silk and leather on his body, wind on his face -- was, as always, intriguing.
As he climbed the hill towards the cave mouth, he wondered who might have chosen to set up a residence here. Youkai, perhaps. They could be driven away easily enough, if their behaviour was inappropriate. Or maybe some monks had chosen it as a dwelling. That would not be unacceptable. Most monks had more piety and propriety than the Bodhisattvas themselves. And . . . well, if it was one of the wandering Taoist Immortals who occasionally chose an inconvenient location to sit down and perfect themselves, such an attitude caused less public disturbance than did many others. He turned these thoughts over in his mind like stones polished by the sea, giving them consideration and then setting them aside.
A man in white robes emerged from the entrance of the cave. The mountain wind caught at the robes, shaking out full hanging sleeves of rich silk and tousling his fragile veil. Glasses like those of Tenpou Gensui hid his eyes. "My, my," he said, and bowed with a courtesy so full as to be almost mocking. "A visitor. Of all the things that could fall from the sky."
Goujun returned a precisely judged acknowledging nod. "I was passing," he said flatly. If this was a person of any skill or power, then they would recognise him, and if not, then there was no need to declare his identity -- yet. "Might I ask this person's name?"
The man in glasses smiled. "I nourish my essence, refine my spirit, preserve my soul, harmonize water and fire, and capture the kan to fill out the li. What else would someone like me do?"
A Taoist, then, and a would-be Immortal, if not one already; a person who attempted to refine himself and culture his own forces in an attempt to reach Heaven and immortality. Goujun had encountered such beings before, and felt a certain abstract charity towards them. One had to acknowledge the degree of effort and self-control, even if one pitied their lesser nature. "I hope that you find my land pleasant," he said.
The Taoist bowed again. "I had not realised that this land lay under your hand, mighty one. I ask your permission to offer you what hospitality I can." His mouth quirked in a small, disquieting smile.
It would provide a grace-note of sorts to the day's travel, a fitting conclusion to his journey. Goujun nodded, and followed the man inside.
The cave itself was dry and spare, two piles of cushions at the centre, strips of silk hanging on the walls in a gesture towards decoration. A small pile of scrolls was stacked in one corner, together with a winejug and two cups. The Taoist fetched the jug and cups, as Goujun seated himself on one of the piles of cushions, waiting to be served.
"A cup of jasper wine in a jade cup," the Taoist said, pouring, "is said to be fit even for dragons. But how can the dust of earth interest one who holds the reins of the sea?"
Goujun waited till the Taoist had filled his own cup and seated himself, before replying. "The sage may treat heaven and earth like straw dogs; the dragon flies above both. All things come from the Five Elements, and none of them should be discounted."
The Taoist chuckled. "My, my. Such interest in doctrine."
Goujun took a polite sip of the wine. Earthly flavours were always different from Heavenly ones, however much these Taoists liked to claim that their wines were the very same as those drunk Above. It tasted of mortality, of grapes that died, of soil and mortal light. "I do not think that any dispute the writings of the Sage, merely the application."
The Taoist raised his cup to his lips. There was wine on them when he lowered it again. "A dragon has no need for such things, mm? He spreads his wings and takes his own path, mm?"
"Of course," Goujun replied, and wondered at the light. It came down in great shafts of brilliance from the holes in the roof, dancing with motes of dust, each speck a whirling fragment in a greater pattern. The air moved against his skin like the touch of a hand.
"And . . ." The Taoist let the word trail away. His eyes were dark behind his glasses, thin and narrow and unrevealing, unlike Tenpou's wide shadowed gaze. His lips were full, fleshy, like Tenpou's, and a fragment of dark hair showed under his veils at the forehead. Long hands -- a sudden acuity of vision made Goujun blink, and the winecup tilted in his grasp, and he took another mouthful from it to steady himself.
"The Western King's path is well known," the Taoist commented. "People sit beneath it and watch the dragon pass. Such petty ambitions, mm? So small a thing to seek."
For some reason that affronted Goujun. "It is reasonable to aspire to the heights, even if one is not born to them. Through obedience and proper behaviour, even the most lowly may rise. You yourself believe in self-perfection, do you not?"
"I'm glad," the other murmured, "to have you approve of it."
The Taoist was smiling. He didn't stop smiling. He kept on smiling. It was a human face, not the perfection of a Heavenly face; a shading of stubble, the quirk of those lips, the narrow devouring intensity of those eyes. Short jagged nails tipped the hands which held the still-full winecup so carefully. Light spun around him like a spider's webs and he sat there, secure at the heart of it.
Goujun tried to put his winecup down, but the world shifted as he moved, and he saw the cup fall from his hands, tilting in midair and beginning to spill the remaining wine in a dark curve of liquid, shattering on the floor in a sudden thunderclap of sound in the silence, pieces spinning across the smooth stone. The pool of liquid seemed to throb like a heart as he looked at it. He tried to breathe deeply, but the air wouldn't come properly, only in gasps, and the silk of the cushions beneath his clawed hands was soft and fluid and gave no support as he tried to hold himself upright, as he slipped backwards.
In a pale blur of robes, the Taoist rose to his feet to look down at him. Light flared around him in a parody of a halo. "The wine of earth can sometimes be a little strong, mm? Anh?"
Goujun tried to call his true form to him, a thought that should have been as natural as breathing, as the pulse in his head, but it would not come. He was mired in this human-like body, a thing of flesh and blood and scale. "Who are you?" he whispered.
"Anh. A student." The Taoist knelt down in front of him, sleeves swinging wide and loose to catch the eye and tease it with visions of wings, the black leather of his gloves seeming to crawl up and over his hands. He parted Goujun's robes, hands moving like spiders over the white silk, dirty and human against the icy purity of his clothing, but warm through the silk against his skin, distracting in their touch.
"Stop." The word was like a drug in itself, half-swallowed, barely audible. Lassitude and disorientation sapping his muscles, weighing him down in the softness of the cushions.
"Now don't be like that." He could see the Taoist, his head propped up by a fold of the cushions, and wasn't even spared the ignominy of the other man's eyes. Hands loosened the fastening of his breeches, began to draw them down his legs, hot and immediate against his bare skin. "So smooth. Not like a kami at all."
Goujun tried to find words, through the haze of spinning light and the inescapable sensations of physical flesh, of tightness through his body, the hurting need of his groin, that this was wrong, improper, this was something that should not be happening, that should not exist, and even that was something which he could not frame in his proper, well-ordered, draconic mind. This cannot be and therefore it is not. But I am here. The Taoist's hands folded around his private parts, those human things, teasing them to burning, and his head tilted back as he gasped for breath and shut his eyes because the falling strings of light were too much to bear now, too many things at once.
And this was not a thing of dragons at all, not the softer, warmer sensation of a mouth around him, not the noise of his own breathing in the darkness of his closed eyes, not the helplessness, and not the wrenching tremors of his body as he cried out, body arched and shivering, heat rushing out of him as the Taoist's mouth kept on working, a puppet, a meat doll, human past any fool's desiring.
It died away slowly, leaving him with what seemed barely the strength to open his eyes. This cannot be. Therefore it is not.
The Taoist rose to his feet, and walked around behind Goujun. There was a hiss of silk as he knelt, the soft sound of his knees against the rock. He gently tugged Goujun's braid out from beneath his shoulders, and began to loosen it, unwinding the ties that held it neatly together. "So firm, mm? Like silver, like real metal. No, no, don't say anything." He let the length of silk fall away in a soft rustle, and started to undo the length of braid, fingers occasionally brushing the back of Goujun's neck. "The moon mates with the sun, the phoenix mates with the dragon. Through absorption and refinement, all things can rise to become immortal. Even the most lowly may rise." He let the heavy weight of loose hair cascade over the cushions. "Now, now. Don't exert yourself. It's all written down, if you know how to read it." Those knowing hands folded the drape of his silken robes back over him, hiding him from the whispering air, the afternoon sunlight that still shone uninterrupted in the room. He stood again. "Of course, there's nothing wrong with self-improvement for anyone. But where can a dragon go? He's already a dragon, mm?"
He gathered up the scrolls in the corner, settling them in the crook of one arm with the gesture of a man accustomed to their weight, and was gone between one step and the next, veil drifting round his face.
Light moved slowly through the cave as the afternoon wore towards sunset, and slowly, slowly things returned to their normal patterns; energy flowed uninterrupted, muscles moved as they should. Goujun sat up in the pile of cushions, hair loose around his shoulders, eyes blood-red and cold as star rubies. The room still smelled of heavy wine, where the puddle on the floor had dried in a dark thick smear, haloed by shards of jade.
This cannot be.
Outside the sun sank in the West, slowly passing beneath the waves, laying a bloody light across the sea.
Therefore it is not.
And his body ached with what had not happened.
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