The celestial vestments weighed on Bixian’s shoulders.
The Weaver fasted the silver cord tight around the crane’s middle and then stood back. Compared to Bixian’s white prison robes, the fabrics of her new garb shimmered. The Weaver always made fine work; the robes were a deceptively plain gray that revealed itself to be a scale pattern when held to the light. Embroidery lined the edges, telling a tale of the magpies that flew once a year to create a bridge from earth to the heavens.
“How does the new executor like her garments?”
“Heavy.”
The Weaver let out a small laugh. “Such is the burden of divinity.”
Bixian raised her hand and drew the Knife of Sublimation from her belt. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but said nothing, simply staring at her reflection within the Knife’s golden blade.
The Weaver placed her hand atop Bixian’s. “This blade was once mine, along with its sister. May it serve you well.”
“How quickly we return to servitude,” Bixian mused. “How quickly our rebellion gets quashed.”
“Such is the fate of lesser beings, yoked to linear time,” a voice called from the hallway. Bixian and the Weaver turned to see Chang’e the moon goddess, visiting heaven from her lunar exile.
The Weaver stepped away as Bixian bowed. “I don’t believe we have met, goddess.”
Chang’e cocked her head and looked Bixian up and down. “No, but I have been watching you, crane of the Qilin Sage. You have a habit of practicing the flute at night.”
“I hope my music was to your liking.”
“Sound doesn’t reach me.”
Bixian clenched her teeth. “Then I hope my actions were sufficiently amusing for you.”
The moon goddess smirked. “It has been amusing watching Heaven’s armies going around in circles and chasing shadows. I must admit, I admire your selfishness. Making a fool out of Heaven and then demanding a position. Heaven does tend to reward the bold.”
“How dare–”
The Weaver held out her hand between Bixian and Chang’e. “It was a difficult choice that our sister made,” she said, glaring at Chang’e. “We should honor her.”
Chang’e looked past the Weaver, not towards Bixian but an empty space among the clouds. “There will always be an archer to shoot down the suns. But what happens to him once the deed is done?” She walked up to Bixian and held her face in her two hands, cold as outer space. “You made your choice, Crane. Live with it.”
Bixian slapped the moon goddess’ hands away and turned away from her and the Weaver. As she did her eyes caught sight of familiar robes of light jade green. The Qilin Sage approached, and, sensing his intent, the two goddesses retreated.
Despite not wanting to acknowledge his presence, Bixian couldn’t help but notice the shock of white hair on his head. Everything from his beard and eyebrows to his eyelashes had turned from inky black to silvery white, and he was no longer a handsome young sage but a wizened elder. Though the Qilin Sage was never considered a beauty, he still had the incandescent glow of youth immortality bestowed. This youth was now all but vanished from his face. Even his body had lost its vitality; his shoulders slumped and his back was no longer straight.
“You’ve grown old,” Bixian observed.
“Who do we have to blame for that?” he responded sourly.
She was taller than him now, Bixian realized, but her sense of superiority was dampened by the Qilin Sage’s powerlessness. It was only with slight satisfaction that she said to him, “I am no longer your crane, but Heaven’s Executor. Please speak to me with respect.”
The Qilin Sage barely spared her a glance. “Grey suits you.”
Bixian forced herself to stand still and not fuss over her robes. This was not what the Qilin Sage came here to say to her, and all she had to do was to wait for him to speak his mind.
At last, the question came:
“Why did you do it?”
Bixian threw her head back and laughed; a deep-bellied guffaw that felt foreign coming from her body after months of imprisonment. “To what are you referring to? You must be more specific.”
The Qilin Sage pursed his lips, an expression that used to be striking on his young face. In this new wizened face, it barely looked any different from his neutral expression.
“All of it.”
“Well, on a rainy night I heard a young scholar crying…”
“Not that,” the Qilin Sage said angrily. “You know I am not asking you about that part.”
“Why haven’t you?” Bixian countered. “Why haven’t you ever asked yourself why I have stayed by your side for four hundred years?”
The Qilin Sage looked away.
“Did you think my devotion was absolute? Did you think I was still a beast, never wanting for more than my lot?”
“What did you want, Bixian?”
Bixian’s grip tightened around the hilt of the Knife of Sublimation. Hers now, not her master’s. He had given his gift away, while she had hers secure around her belt. At last she was his equal; how empty it felt.
“I wanted to ascend alongside you. Did you never consider that I also wanted the divinity you granted to your students?”
“No, Bixian, I did not, because you never told me.”
Bixian simmered with rage. “I did. Many times, but you never listened.”
“We can argue forever about who was at fault.”
“The blood of the Qiao will be on your hands.”
“I have no qualms foiling the plans of demons,” the Qilin Sage said calmly, tucking his flywhisk under one of his arms.
Bixian glared at her former master. She was reminded of his calmness walking through the devastation of Tianping Temple. Pity notwithstanding, did he feel sadness witnessing the demise of his friend? Or did he roll over and bend to Heaven’s will then as he did now, never questioning, the type of coward who begets tyrants?
“There was no plan. No goal other than to live from morning to morning, and harvest to harvest. No goal other than to live freely and watch their children grow. Now can you tell me, my master of four hundred years, why they deserve Heaven’s wrath? And more, why it must be done by my hand?”
For four hundred years she had followed him, excusing his callousness, his pride and selfishness, as godly virtues. Having spent time among the Qiao, she now could name demons whose talents exceeded him by measures, and celestial beings who carried themselves with such humble bearings they could be mistaken for bodhisattvas. All despite their stations, which the Qilin Sage would scoff at before taking them in as charity.
What a hypocrite she was, taking a position in Heaven over beings more virtuous than its armies. They would condemn her for her choice, as she did herself.
When the Weaver measured her for her new vestments, she asked to be dressed in grey. No longer the pure white of her feathers, her actions would stain her soul forever.
Did Bixian choose right? Was there a choice to be made?