“You may call this one Zhi Ji,” the other man stated, a smirk plastered on his face, fully aware of the disturbance he was causing. He seemed as if he truly didn’t mind. It seemed as though he was used to having things be the way he wanted them to be. 

“Zhi Ji…” Jiehong muttered under his breath. The nickname seemed too familiar for a stranger to be giving him. Though perhaps, much like himself, the other man simply did not wish to be known. For now, Jiehong would ponder this within his own mind, but he would not choose to question the other. It would, after all, be rather rude to do so.

The stranger, Zhi Ji, had taken a step forward, while amusement glinted in those slate grey eyes. His hand moved to take Jiehong’s wrist in a surprisingly gentle grasp. 

“You really ought to be more careful,” he muttered, watching a crimson droplet appear on Jiehong’s finger. His eyes traced the area, curious and yet full of something else which neither chose to remark on.

Jiehong startled slightly, realising at once this man was stronger than he looked as the gentle grasp never wavered even when he started tugging against the hold. Wide eyes glanced down at the place where they joined. Jiehong watched blood emerge from his skin and trail down his wrist onto the other man. It looked as though a simple red string now connected the two.  

“I-it’s nothing,” he stuttered, brows creasing as he tried once more to remove his wrist from the stranger’s grasp. He just wasn’t used to being touched by anyone, least of all this man he had only just met. Nobody had touched him in a long time… centuries maybe. 

Slender fingers shifted, moving to hold him still as a white cloth was brought… from where? Jiehong wasn’t sure, his focus still on the place where the two were touching. The other man wiped at the droplet of blood, before beginning to quickly, and yet precisely, bandage the small wound. 

“This isn’t nothing,” that raspy voice murmured, as he brought his eyes to glance back up at the powerless God’s face. 

Jiehong still couldn’t believe that there was another person here, with him, to begin with. He stood still, taking in the other man, looking for some kind of clue or sign as to who he may be, or how he was here. Why he was here. But the lack of that gentle contact once again startled him, causing a soft blush to coat Jiehong’s cheeks. Though if asked why, he would not be able to say. 

“Thank you… though it is truly unnecessary,” he managed, stepping back and trying to appear more composed than he felt. He clasped his hands in front of himself. The stranger’s kindness left him unnerved. Nobody was kind to him anymore; not if he wasn’t useful to them. 

“I do apologise for startling you. I was simply curious.” Zhi Ji smiled, moving to walk slowly around what was left of the temple. It was no longer the brightly coloured temple from long ago; the flowers having all since died, and the Flower God’s monetary reserves having long since dried out as well. 

“I…” Jiehong paused, trying to find his words, the right way to phrase things. He was, after all, never impolite. However, he remembered something... A word. A name. 

“You know my name?” 

He’d spoken his confusion aloud without meaning to do so. Not many knew of him anymore, and those who did only had negative connotations associated with his moniker.

The other man hummed softly in agreement. 

“Yes, Jiehong: the God of Flowers. Beautiful and serene, graceful in all he does. Carer of the people,” the other recited, matter of factly, as his hands moved to fold behind his back. 

Jiehong was shocked, confused, and mostly embarrassed. That was a title he’d held, of course, or he’d used to hold. It was no longer what people referred to him as. He glanced up at the other, and noticed the way his jet black hair swayed slightly with the breeze–the broken windows and the crack in the door allowed an almost constant draft to come through the building. Jiehong’s eyes narrowed slightly. 

“I have nothing to give you. I have no power. There is nothing I can do for you,” he spoke, feeling the weeds in his hair grow, the vines winding down his neck to brush his collarbones. He was frustrated. Upset. There was truly nothing he could offer the other. He spun around, moving to the entrance of the building. He opened the door fully, making it groan and sway slightly. His hand raised to gesture to the outside. 

“So if you would please take your leave.” 

The one who called himself Zhi Ji blinked and looked at the open space where the door was once closed. Jiehong stood with stiffness to his shoulders and Zhi Ji sighed, as he walked toward the other. He moved gracefully, robes shifting in the wind as he went, seeming to glide. The intruder glared at the humble floor and seemed to be angry with himself, before he forced his eyes to soften and finally meet Jiehong’s gaze once more.

“This one was rude. I apologise. I shall go,” he bowed a full ninety degrees, before he turned with a flourish, hands clenched by his sides, as he exited the abode in a swish of black and silver. 

The amount of time since the young man had invaded Jiehong’s home seemed inconsequential, as that was still all that Jiehong could think of. Jiehong sighed and shifted onto the side of his bedroll, glancing at the bandage adorning his finger. This reminder of what had occurred today proved it was not some hallucination conjured up by a lonely mind nor a figment of his imagination. His eyes fluttered shut, and his arm came up to cover his eyes as if to shield him from the memory. The man… Zhi Ji… was strange. But he had not done anything untoward. He simply helped, then left. Jiehong tutted. The entire event did not make any sense to him. His eyes scrunched shut as he willed himself into a restless sleep.

A steady drip, drip, drip is what caused Jiehong to awaken. Shooting upright as another drop hit his forehead, he glanced up toward the disturbance. Noting the steady stream of dripping water falling through the old roof into the temple, he huffed slightly, moving to stand. Another thing he couldn’t afford to fix. He turned, remembering he needed to fix the table today also. The events of yesterday had stopped him from completing that one particular task.

He moved a hand to wipe his face, removing the water which stung his eyes, and blinked blearily at the table in front of him. He froze and rubbed his eyes once more, before looking again. Yes, it was his table. Only the table was fixed. No longer tilted and splintered apart, but sturdy and in one piece. 

Confused and with his hands slightly shaking, he noted a piece of paper, neatly in the centre of the table, and atop that, like a bow upon a gift, was the offending teacup which had splintered into shards and cut his finger in the first place. It had also since been mended–a much more impressive feat to Jiehong than the repaired table itself. He set the teacup aside. The now coveted prize shone with gold veins which had been used to to merge together all the broken pieces, but Jiehong turned his attention back to the note. He reached out his hand. Steadily but warily he raised the paper, his emerald eyes widening at the page’s content. 

Jiehong,

Once again I apologise for my disturbance yesterday. To show you how sorry I am, I have fixed this table for you. Do try to not break anything else. I do hope you are able to enjoy a nice meal at the table now that it is not in danger of falling to pieces and I hope you’ll forgive this one's rudeness for trespassing to fix my mistake. Though I should admit that I am unable to truly apologise when meeting you was the experience it was.

If you need assistance, please think of me.  I know such thoughts must run through your mind, but, I can assure you, that you shall not be a bother. Perhaps next time we can have a better conversation. I look forward to such an occurrence, for our time was rather short when last we saw each other.

Have a good morning, Your Highness,

Zhi Ji

Jiehong’s eyes travelled over the letter, again and again. The young man fixed his table? Why? To apologise? It made no sense to him, and yet as he reread the same message once more, the corners of his slightly parted lips upturned, and in his hair a small yet sturdy sunflower bloomed amongst the weeds.