Hot flashes

The moonlight shone on his face, which was deathly pale. His lips were pressed into a thin line, and his eyes stared straight ahead, something glistening in their sockets.

Zhou Heng lay on his back without saying anything more.

Xiao Jue walked for a long time. The moon moved from east to west, and the shadows of the two people on the mountain path grew longer and then shorter. His steps became slower and heavier, but he never stopped.

Zhou Heng's breathing grew weaker and weaker, and his warm breath sprayed onto Xiao Jue's neck, becoming lighter and shallower, like a candle flame that was about to burn out.

Xiao Jue suddenly quickened his pace.

He gritted his teeth and walked forward step by step. Sweat blurred his vision, but he didn't bother to wipe it away. His legs were trembling, and every step felt like walking on a knife's edge.

The breathing on my back eased up a bit.

Xiao Jue's heart clenched suddenly. He stopped and put Zhou Heng down, letting him lean against a tree.

Zhou Heng's face was deathly pale, his lips were chapped, his eyes were closed, and his eyelashes were motionless.

Xiao Jue squatted down in front of him and reached out to check his breath. It was very weak, like a faint breeze.

He looked down at his arm. It was covered in sweat, and the cuts from the branches were still visible; some had scabbed over, others were still bleeding. He opened his mouth and bit down on his forearm.

His skin was bitten open, blood gushed out, and the sweet, metallic taste of metal filled his mouth. He brought his arm to Zhou Heng's mouth, and blood dripped onto his chapped lips.

Zhou Heng's lips moved slightly.

Xiao Jue pressed his arm closer, letting the blood trickle down his lip. Zhou Heng's throat moved, then moved again.

Xiao Jue tore a strip from his sleeve and wrapped it around the wound. Then he carried Zhou Heng on his back and continued walking.

The moon slowly sank, and a faint glimmer of dawn appeared on the horizon. Xiao Jue's legs no longer obeyed his commands; he simply moved mechanically.

He didn't know how long he had been walking. He only remembered that it was light and then dark again, over and over again.

On the seventh day—or perhaps the eighth, he couldn’t remember—he carried Zhou Heng on his back and fell out of a grove of trees.

Suddenly, a wide-open plain opened up before him. In the distance, there were mountains, and at their foot, smoke rose from chimneys, houses stood, and voices could be heard. He stood there, watching the smoke and fire, his legs trembling, his whole body shaking.

Then he saw the horses. A dark mass, surging up from the foot of the mountain. The sound of their hooves shook the ground, raising clouds of dust. The horses ran very fast, like a black torrent, charging straight towards them.

Xiao Jue's heart sank to the bottom.

He stood there, holding Zhou Heng in his arms, with a dense forest behind him and a dark mass of cavalry in front of him.

He had nowhere to retreat, no strength to run anymore, and could barely stand.

His legs were trembling, his hands were trembling, his whole body was trembling. He hugged Zhou Heng tighter, raised his head, and looked at the horses that were getting closer and closer.

Despair washed over me like ice water, rising from my feet to my chest.

The sound of horses' hooves grew closer.

He saw the cavalrymen's armor gleaming coldly in the sunlight, saw their sabers drawn, and saw their banners fluttering in the wind. He closed his eyes.

The sound of horses' hooves stopped in front of him.

A dead silence.

"The Second Young Master?"

The voice was old, hoarse, and trembling with disbelief. Xiao Jue suddenly opened his eyes. His face was weathered, his eyes were sunken, and the lines at the corners of his mouth were like those carved by a knife.

He recognized that face.

That was an old general under his father's command, surnamed Han, who had guarded the northern border for twenty years. At this moment, he dismounted, staggered over, ran to Xiao Jue, and knelt down with a thud.

"Second Young Master!" he shouted, his voice cracking like a broken drum. "It really is you! We've been looking for you for almost two months!"

Xiao Jue stood there, looking at the man kneeling on the ground, at the cavalrymen behind him, and at the flags fluttering in the wind.

He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but nothing came out of his throat.

He lowered his head and looked at Zhou Heng in his arms. Zhou Heng's eyes were closed, his face was as white as paper, and there were dried bloodstains on his lips.

Xiao Jue knelt on the ground, still holding Zhou Heng in his arms, his head lowered, his forehead pressed against Zhou Heng's cold forehead.

Tears welled up from his closed eyes, falling drop by drop onto Zhou Heng's face, onto his chapped lips, and onto his bloodless cheeks.

He heard people shouting, running, and calling for the physician.

Someone tried to take Zhou Heng away from his arms, but he gripped the bag even tighter, his knuckles turning white.

Someone was speaking in his ear, but he couldn't hear clearly; he only felt that the voices were getting farther and farther away, and more and more indistinct.

The light before my eyes dimmed little by little, like a candle burning to its end. The last flicker of light swayed a few times in the wind before finally going out.

His hands were still tightly wrapped around Zhou Heng's waist, like a drowning person grabbing the last piece of driftwood.

Someone tried to pry his hands open, but they couldn't. His fingers seemed to have taken root and grown onto Zhou Heng's body; no matter how hard they tried, they couldn't be pried open.

The sounds grew fainter and fainter, like the receding tide, taking away even the last trace of sound.