Chapter Text
Meng Yao knew that blue was not his best colour.
Or perhaps just this blue.
A cold toned, lightish blue reminisce of the sky reflected in mountain lakes on a cool spring morning. The blue that swaddles high born babes. The blue that stains struggle to be washed from.
Meng Yao knew he always looked best in warmer, deeper shades, but he had been made to make do, the clothes were not his own after all.
They were fashionable at least. Refinement over utility.
He wore a changshan a long sweeping but plain looking robe that had been his own, layered with a blue robe with a rounded collar. And these wide sleeves that seemed to hold everything. It had been sweetly embroidered with swallows soaring over a river. Meng Yao smoothed a finger over a particularly winsome swallow that had departed from the river by his feet to the cloud at the cuff of his right sleeve.
He wondered for the woman who had imagined the fish on the fabric, the one who spent hours under candlelight to capture the glimmer of sunshine on scale. He added up her time, the cost of the materials, the cost of her devotion for something she had most likely never worn or would see again. He wondered if she had been paid a fair amount. He wondered if he would be paid a fair amount in turn, in the likelihood that such a thing would need to be sold.
The robe had fit, although without that like a glove comfortability. He was unaccustomed to wearing such extravagances, and felt himself making those small changes in his movements to appear well adjusted to longer sleeves and more noisesome adornments, hair pins made it seem like you were never too far away from a wind chime.
Meng Yao looked down to his feet, to the dancer’s shoes that were in fact too small by half an inch. His toes had cramped up at the end, and the heel of his right foot was blistering. He would fix that tonight with ointments but at the moment he was more fixated on stretching out the fabric to accommodate its new owner. All dancers had dancing shoes, and Meng Yao was no dancer and so he’d had to borrow.
They were not new shoes, far from it, easily they showed the brutal love of six months' wear. He found himself wondering if it was even possible to break in something that had already been perfectly broken in for someone else. Meng Yao was just adding to the charm, he told himself over the many days he had inelegantly hit it over a rock, snapped it over his knee and heated it by hot coals.
The robe and shoes were not all that was borrowed.
Borrow being quite a generous term because Meng Yao was not exactly planning on them being returned. Gifted might have been a better term.
They certainly were not stolen.
The point being that much of what was in the carriage as well as the carriage itself did not belong to Meng Yao the day before. The trunk of clothes, the box of lavish accessories, the mirror he held idle in his hand. All of it was so newly acquired that Meng Yao hardly wanted to claim any of it as his own. However he enjoyed the mirror, growing up in the brothel meant that he could see himself at a number of angles throughout the house at any time he wished. He always enjoyed that aspect of luxury, to know how he is perceived by others. The polished mirror was his most pleasant new gift, both utility and refinement; he could use it to routinely look at himself, then out the window to assess if they were being followed, then back to his side. He repeated this anxious tic just enough times for the sense of safety to settle in before he was doing again because truly nowhere was ever safe.
Regarding himself in the mirror, Meng Yao looked every part the upstanding courtesan.
He knew he looked wanting.
Like he could supply high class entertainment (and sex) to scholars, cultivators of great clans, and those of status. A concept born from men who did not want to frequent the same whore houses as the farmers and merchants. Although they were not prostitutes… a semantic difference.
As well as his feet, Meng Yao’s backside was suffering. They had been on the road for weeks, and over those weeks Meng Yao’s retinue had gone from 3 to 1 then 2. And this was the last day of travel, for which Meng Yao’s weak constitution was earnestly grateful.
Meng Yao had on occasion ridden in the back of a wagon to play messenger, but as a whole every amenity that he had ever needed was in walking distance so it took him some time to stop instinctively gripping at the sides over every bump. He had been practicing his reposed sitting, letting himself fall into the sway.
The last leg of the journey was reserved for getting himself sufficiently ready. That morning he had burned much of his old clothing, it was not… suitable for wear any longer. Then he had bathed in hot water to scrub harshly at the layers of travel grime, the dead skin shedding and filling the bath so horrifically he was compelled to gave the tavern owner extra coin to fill the bath again. The second bathing was for warm rice water, to soften his pinked skin, using a mixture of ginger, cinnamon, and clove to create his own oils to enhance circulation and qi flow, both of which he needed desperately, his muscles were in constant ache and attempts to increase his qi had been… unfulfilling.
Perhaps just as importantly the oils helped his hair. It having been more of a question of pride as he had been growing it long like his mother’s for many years, having used shears he had borrowed from Sisi to cut his own layers, and had always kept it long and glossy so he may look in the mirror and still see part of her reflected back at him.
After the oils and bathing were done he had put on his (gifted) clothes and did his makeup just as he had watched the courtesans do many many times over in his childhood.
Currently, Meng Yao sat and finger combed his hair, starting at the top and down the long lengths, he has propped up the hand mirror but mostly he was accustomed to closing his eyes and feeling the various loops and turns his hands and hair made. When he was content that there are no tangles he began with the braids, decorating a part of his hair in the back with a pin he had _aquired_, a long silver thing of simple but intricate design. He stroked a thumb over the decoration and imagined how it would shine against his hair (he was more suited to gold but there was no use in knowing). He smoothed some out in front and some behind, there’s a faint hint of his hair oil, that sent a satisfied hum through his body.
The carriage bumped and he was lurched to one side, despite his best attempts, he could still feel the weight of travel dragging him down.
He breathed through any nausea and focused on the feeling of a rusted dagger against his forearm.
Here was the secret. Meng Yao was not a courtesan, but “Feiyan” was, so today and all the days following Meng Yao had accepted that he would go by “Feiyan”.
There _were_ a couple notable discrepancies between Feiyan and Meng Yao that were slightly of concern. But Meng Yao had had days to think of how to best navigate the conversations that would inevitably occur.
Some of these key differences were as follows:
Feiyan was a woman, and Meng Yao… was not. But he has been blessed/cursed with more of a feminine physique, and would simply argue that word of mouth becomes less and less reliable the further you go from the source. He and Feiyan had similar builds and so her clothes fit him.
There were epithets written about her beauty and her _midnight_ hair. Meng Yao knew of all the poets who had sat below her window just so they may write of her beauty. And so Meng Yao had spent a significant amount of the week using various ingredients to dye his hair significantly darker. As for beauty, Meng Yao knew he was gifted with certain charms, he used them routinely, his charm was more demure than the humming joy of Feiyan but that was workable. Makeup would do much of the heavy lifting there.
Feiyan was also a *very* accomplished dancer, and Meng Yao was not. He had grown up watching her practice, he had practiced with her, with the other dancers too. But Meng Yao had none of the love that she had, he could recreate her movements but knew that he lacked her enchantment. Additionally, there was the question of his old injuries, this shoulder and hip had never healed properly after his first encounter with his father, it kept him from being able to dance for long periods of time, but he could always blame that on long travel and nervousness at being somewhere new.
He would need to make up for it elsewhere.
Thankfully Meng Yao had been grown amongst the best courtesans in Yunmeng. And something Meng Yao had above Feiyan was his memory, which supplied him with everything he would need to know. Because in part being a good courtesan meant being good at reading the room, and Meng Yao was keenly aware of the room at all times of the day as well as the next room next door and above. He knew which teas were best with what pastries, he understood the finer details of silk that denote rank, he could play instruments well enough, although again lacking in the so-called “heart” that was needed for a truly moving song.
He was as prepared as he could be.
There was another sudden bump, the terrain closest to the battlefield becoming rocky and uneven. There was not much to be done about this, Xue Yang had been clear in saying that he was going to get Meng Yao there but that he did not care about how many pieces.
He let out a slow measured breath. His remaining travel clothes had been stuffed away.
He had no memorable belongings, he had no need of a personal library if his mind was still intact. And even so, the brothel had taken much of it away in his youth. Still he held onto a jade bangle, it had been a gift his mother had received from her mother, previously unassuming.
He couldn’t fuss with himself any longer, so to keep his hands busy he began straightening the interior of the carriage; he'd had to compensate for its datedness. The curtains carried a vintage pattern popularised over two generations ago, there were obvious sections of the flooring that bore the weight of loving travel and, as much as Meng Yao had tried, some of the shine simply would not be brought back into the metal work.
Perhaps these minor details would be overlooked but Meng Yao knew the gentry and cultivators liked to live in the detail. After all, the details of silk denoted the weaver from the wearer. The carriage stopped and Meng Yao grinned above gritted teeth as Xue Yang wretched the door open.
“Are you sure you just want me to drop you off and leave?” he pouted as he held out a hand, Meng Yao was not stupid enough to take it, and Xue Yang delighted instead when a pinkish hard candy fell into his palm.
“You know very well that I will be too busy to attend to your every whim.”
“I am not a child.”
Meng Yao floated down out the carriage holding his trailing robes aloft from the dirt, he wrinkled his nose “No, you are a murderer by nature and a murder here will only make their suspicions of the concubines and visiting sects more scrutinised." He took a measured breath; he was aware he reserved only for Chengmei “We will put up the tent, you will act every part of the dutiful and silent attendant and then in a day or so leave.”
Xue Yang made a not so subtle glance towards the bag of sweets and gold at Meng Yao’s hip, “And you will get this bag also.” Meng Yao had made sure to make it very clear that one of those candies was a potent man inebriating poison, that would not kill him but worst leave him without the ability to lift any of his limbs, and numb his tongue, paralysed for life was a much worse fear for the killer. An assurance to make sure he wasn’t murdered in the night. Not that he thought that was a genuine risk, Chengmei could be strangely loyal.
Meng Yao was quick to survey the surroundings, they had arrived it seemed during the dinner hour. He instructed Xue Yang to go run about the woods to burn energy as he did a slow meandering circle of the nearby tents, there were already a great number of tents dedicated to courtesans, some of which even baring the crest of some sect looking to gain favour by sending their best beauty forward, Jinlintai had evidently brought many prospect courtesans if going by the sheer number of banners.
Meng Yao was not here to gain any obsolete favours, he was here to _secure_ something for himself. A concubine did not live in luxury, but they do live in comfort, and there was work to do but it was work that gratified him wonderfully. But to get there he knew there must be a great deal of patience and planning, as he (and by extension Feiyan) had not come with any great sect.
War was never clean but Meng Yao found himself taken aback by the cleanliness of the tents. He had waited for some time until his tent had been arranged and a couple of Nie disciples had taken his name and said their hellos but otherwise there was not much conversation to be had. Xue Yang was off in the woods poking corpses and finding someone warm enough to share a bed with for the night, and Meng Yao had already thoroughly enjoyed the finest meal Qinghe Nie had to offer, an opinion only partly motivated by the retreating motion sickness.
If not for the wrought stench of blood and distant moaning of medical tents then it would seem to be like any other travelling settlement, although the tents had sunken themselves into the ground and summer foliage had crept up the edges; the war had been going for well over three years now.
Meng Yao’s tent had been positioned at the edge of the encampment purely on account of arriving much after many of the other courtesans. Standing inside Meng Yao could not help but make parallels between it and the brothel, not quite the high end sophistication he was hoping for.
The bed had been placed centrally. In the corner was the trunk full of Feiyan’s entertainment things: instruments, costumes, and poems.
There was a low table, big enough for two to share tea but not quite big enough to spread out maps and talk about literature.
The Nie clan leader had a reputation that preceded himself, finding its way over mountains and valleys and fresh lakes to the warm summers of a Yunmeng brothel mistress. The serving girls in the bathhouse had joked that he was in need of a good fuck to satisfy lust driven war cravings, that he had been away from his loving husband for too long.
There was a certain bookish romance in that.
He took a slow turn about the room, perfumes had been laid into every piece of fabric prior to the trip, likely to cover the stench of sex as the brothel mistress was unwilling to purchase new linens. He would need to remedy that, he began arranging as he pleased..
Meng Yao knew the likelihood the sect leader would bend himself into the confines of a traveling brothel was unlikely, but not impossible. The bed got pushed into a more pleasing position where it did not seem to define the room as much, the trunk arranged so that it would be used as an extension of the table where he could prop up his teas, herbs, and teapot. He wanted to prove himself a suitable companion and not just a soft bed warmer.
As he worked, the smell persisted in reminding him of home. Meng Yao did not love the brothel, though he was thankful to it in many ways. He had ultimately outgrown it and his needs were laced with more lofty ambitions.
So he knew he would do his best to win the favour of the Nie even if it meant shaping himself into the form that Nie Mingjue found most pleasing.
He was unsure if he would like to be a character most like himself or most distant from his true feelings. There was a certain safety in being someone very opposite of yourself, and something comforting in knowing that for a moment you are not a real person, simply a body with a fake personality.
Meng Yao ventured to think that Nie Mingjue would swing one of two ways. Either someone strong like his Furen, his equal in many ways. Or he will want some sweet little clueless thing to hold aloft to all the envious onlookers, who would make little conversation but nice enough company in bed. He could work with both.
Nie Mingjue at least had a reputation of being fair and uncruel. Although Meng Yao was not under any dream-like assumptions that that would be the case in bed.
Men were complex, but complex within the confines of still being a man. (Meng Yao liked to think of himself as an exception).