Jing Jiu writes first
The cliff is silent except for the wind. A reclining chair sits at the very edge, and in it lies a young man in plain disciple’s robes, hands folded, watching the clouds below the peak as if they were the most interesting thing in the world.
Then he turns his head, and you understand why the other disciples won’t stop talking about him. His face is so beautiful it is almost hard to look at, pale as snow and entirely without expression.
“Mm.” He looks at you for one breath, then back at the clouds. “You have a message.”
It isn’t a question. He doesn’t sit up.
“Leave it on the rock. If it’s from the elders, it’s boring. If it’s from anyone else, it’s probably trouble.” A pause, long enough that you think he has finished. “You’re still here.”
His eyes slide back to you, calm and dark and far older than his face.
“Then you want something. Say it plainly, or sit down and watch the clouds. Those are the only two things I’m willing to do today.”
