Rising Phoenix

She slowly slid her fingers along the scar, tracing the uneven surface of the long and wide wound, imagining the terrible blow that caused it.

Feng Zhiwei thought back to the stories about the prince… that when he was seven he had almost died from an illness and emerged with a very different personality. Had that illness actually been this injury?

The scar ended and her finger tips brushed against good skin, the smooth coolness sending a blush through Feng Zhiwei’s cheeks. She quickly pulled back her hand and schooled her thoughts, thinking about anything but the barely covered man beside her, hoping for the awkwardness to pass.

While she thought about Helian Zheng’s smelly feet and wondered if Gu Nanyi might one day finally get sick of walnuts, Feng Zhiwei used the quilt to wipe down Ning Yi before bringing over and covering him with dry quilt, swapping the two quilts and never exposing Ning Yi’s bare skin.

Finally, Feng Zhiwei picked up the quilt covered Ning Yi and placed him on the bed.

The man was still unconscious, but his shallow, rapid breathing had smoothed out somewhat. Feng Zhiwei continued forcefully rubbing his body, helping his blood circulate, bringing a certain amount of relief to the unfortunate prince. The grey-green tinge to his pale face gradually retreated, the ill color fading away and setting off the man’s drooping eyelashes and the shadows underneath his elegant, closed eyes. None of his usual poise or gorgeous beauty remained, with only a soft and light frailty in its place, and he was like a graceful wisp of a cloud.

As she busied herself helping the prince, Feng Zhiwei was soon sweating all over and could only regard the comfortably dreaming fellow with frustration and envy, patting his face: “Sleeping so well!”

After energetically patting Ning Yi’s face, Feng Zhiwei felt refreshed and patted him a few more times. Aih, she really had to seize every opportunity to beat him a little, after all she would not get any more chances in the future.

Somewhat appeased, Feng Zhiwei realized that Ning Yi’s hair was still wet, so she removed his gold crown and hair pin and spread out his hair. Worried that his head might hurt after resting on a wet pillow, Feng Zhiwei moved him closer to the side and draped his long, black hair over the edge of the bed.

With Ning Yi more or less taken care of, Feng Zhiwei left the bedside to find a fire stone and fire pan. As she pulled down the grey cloth covering the furniture, she could not help but grunt in approval — everything in the room was simple and elegant, detailed and beautiful. It was immediately obvious that the slightly foreign design was very precious, with every marvelous curve showing off the unique beauty of a different culture.

But Feng Zhiwei had neither the time nor the mood to appreciate the beauty as she rooted around the room for the things she sought. Luckily, the room stored pretty much everything she could want, and she even found a cattail ottoman and a wooden clapper.

After securing the fire stone and dragging the fire pan under the bed, she started the fire and began drying Ning Yi’s clothes and hair as she combed through the wet locks.

His hair was well tended and felt soft and cool like brocaded silk, and Feng Zhiwei leaned over to gently brush away some of the strands stuck to his forehead.

Then Ning Yi woke.

His sleep had been plagued with struggles as he trudged through a world of dark pain, chaos, and an ever whipping storm of ice, and when he finally escaped and opened his eyes, he could see nothing except a thin, white finger fine like jade, gently moving above his face.

As he followed the hand back to its source, he saw the fine arc of a snowy chin and the curves of soft pink lips, glistening in the dim grey of the room.

Heavy curtains hang low around them as fire crackled, sending warmth into his bones.

The dark, cold, and pain faded like a passing dream.

Or was this dream?

As his unfocused eyes stared, the finger in front of his eyes moved busily like a butterfly flying among flowers, and Ning Yi was brought back to a moment much like this many, many years ago, in a palace room like this, with a woman like the one beside him, gently, carefully wiping his forehead and brushing aside the clumped strands of sweaty hair.

His heart filled with joy.

Had everything he lost come back to him?

He quietly groaned as he caught the finger and pulled it to his cheeks, leaning gently into it.

“Mother…”

The warm finger pressed into his cold cheek and he felt as if the gentleness in the hand was pushing into him, and his eyes creased with pleasure as he refused to let the hand go.

Feng Zhiwei froze as Ning Yi clutched her finger and rubbed his face against her, unable to decide whether to pull back or allow Ning Yi to continue taking advantage of her.

The man was clearly not fully awake, so she hesitated. If she pulled away and fully woke him, would he grow angry out of embarrassment? But if she did not move and he came to, would he be even more embarrassed and even more upset?

As she waffled, her finger quivered slightly, and Ning Yi fully woke.

His misty, blurry eyes focused and became clear as dark jade, and he fully opened his eyes and saw the face before him.

Ning Yi’s gaze slowly sharpened as he took in the person and the room they were sitting in, and he let go of Feng Zhiwei’s finger as he asked in his deep voice: “Why are you here?”

He showed no embarrassment or anger, instantly snapping back to his normal sharp and cool poise, the mistiness in his dark eyes gone and his alert guard back in place.

Feng Zhiwei wiped her finger against her dress before turning back to drying his clothes, smiling faintly as she replied: “I was trying to hide from the rain and stumbled over here.

As Ning Yi listened, he grabbed a corner of his quilt and pulled away the covers, but when he saw what lay underneath he quickly pulled the fabric back over him.

The quilt once again secured, Ning Yi began staring blankly down at himself.

Feng Zhiwei faced away from him, her back to the bed as she calmly held up his underwear to check if it was fully dry.

But as she lifted up the offending piece of clothing, Ning Yi could no longer hold onto his calm and he angrily yelled: “Put it down!”

Feng Zhiwei turned her head and shot him an innocent glance, sighing dramatically. So difficult! She was only doing this for his comfort, or else why would she care whether his underwear was dry? If all she wanted was appearances, she could have just made sure nobody could see his wetness from his outer robes.

Retrieving the pretty much dried clothes, she dutifully folded them into a neat pile and brought them over to the bed, the silk short taking pride of place on the top of the pile, forcing another deep breath from Ning Yi.

He could not help but look up at the woman beside him. She looked completely serious and innocent of all teasing, and even seemed to hide a shy embarrassment, but he still felt that she had definitely done this on purpose.

But even the embarrassment and awkwardness of the moment served to help scatter some of the thick, cloying sadness pressing down on him. Ning Yi sighed and circulated his Qi — even though his old injury had acted up, his wound had not worsened and his body had not been damaged by the coldness of the storm.

He had her to thank for this.

The neatly folded clothes were placed down by his side, and Ning Yi looked up to stare numbly into the woman’s face. The storm had washed away the makeup concealing her beauty, and her extraordinary elegance stunned him. Her slim face held eyes filled with liquid light, wet like the mist scattered by the rain. She had loosened her ruined hair bun, and when she leaned over her silky hair hung down and brushed against the back of his hand, the soft locks piercing their way gently into his heart.