Threads Of Destiny(Eastern Fantasy, Sequel to Forge of Destiny)

Future Days: Harvest Festival

Fall. The sky has turned an ethereal blue, so bright it hurts, but the sky was not alone in transformation. Towering peaks, white with age, have shed the cloaks and coats of summer, replacing them with robes of silk and jewels and lace. Rivers cut across the mountains, their fingers and arms digging into the stone. The rivers pulled the mountains down. Down into the valleys. Then the rivers, roaring in passion, tumble into the valleys, their strength spent.

Through the valley the river travels, passing by a small village as it goes, and there, with his bare feet skimming the cold water, was Zhou Jin. He was a giant of a boy. Wider than a river, and just as tall. Fingers scarred by field work held a traveler's bag made from a hundred fabric patches. Bright blue eyes, set behind a broken nose, watched the world. His hair was hacked short and uneven, reminiscent of a Black Steel bear's fur. An animal that would bolt at the sight of the boy. At least until it heard Zhou Jin's voice.

His voice snapped and cracked under the slightest pressure, one foot in the comfort of boyhood and the other suspended over the unknowns of manhood. It was a source of endless mockery from the other boys in the village, and if there was one thing Zhou Jin looked forward to as an adult, it was getting his voice to sound the same moment to moment; thankfully the next step in becoming an adult was happening tonight. The harvest festival neared.

For thirteen years Zhou Jin has watched adults dance around a wicker turtle. For thirteen years he has made the same offerings as his mother, mushroom soup with carrots and garlic. For thirteen years he has received the protection of the Lord of the High Gardens through his mother. This year, his fourteenth year, it was time to make his own offering. At Lingxuqiao.

"Ma," he said, craning his head over his shoulder, "we need to leave. We can't be on the road when it gets dark."

"I know, I know." His mother said. "Just a couple minutes more. I'm almost ready." A couple of minutes later she did leave the house.

"Mama." Zhou Jin said. He stood up and hugged her. Fat tears dripped down her face, ruining the makeup she had borrowed from the village elder.

"I know, I know." His mother said, voice thick and heavy. "It's… It's just a big day. You're growing up so fast."

"Ma," he said, "nothing's gonna change. We'll go to Lingxuqiao, I'll make an offering, we'll stay the night, then we'll come home. I'm not going to join the army or anything.

"You're right, you're right." His mother visibly rallied herself. "Alright," she said, "I'm good."

Zhou Jin stepped back from his hug and pretended not to notice the tears that still ran down her face. There were a few moments of checking and triple checking to make sure their clothes, food, and offerings were all packed in his travel bag. Then they were off, following the river down to Lingxuqiao.

Lingxuqiao was large. Larger than anything Zhou Jin had seen in his life. Just standing in the street was painful. There was pressure all around him as people jostled each other for every step. Houses, some three stories tall, pierced the sky like mountains and squeezed the street, forcing the people to keep moving. Forced forward they kept going, pushing, shambling, and falling. Forward to the festival. Forward to the garden.

Zhou Jin saw the garden before his mother, he likely saw it before anyone near him did. Size had its benefits, and an unobstructed view of the garden was one of them. It was a massive thing, reaching from the central palace all the way down to the mortal district. Perhaps a full tenth of the city was taken by its flowers, trees, and hedges. And what flowers, trees, and hedges it had. One spot looked like the sky, the flowers were so brilliantly blue. In another, flowers redder than sin burst from pale black hedges. Trees covered in orange vines with flames for leaves swayed in an unfelt breeze.

Finally the street opened into a plaza, and Zhou Jin stumbled free from the crowd. Only his mother's hand clutching his arm held him back.

"I can't go any further." She said as finger by finger she let go of Zhou Jin's arm. "They won't let me."

Zhou Jin leaned down and kissed her forehead. "Don't worry ma." He said. "Make your offering, I'll make mine. We can meet right here when everything's done. All right?"

His mother nodded even as more tears washed away what makeup remained. Zhou Jin gave her one more hug, then squared his shoulders. A great gong sounded deep within the garden. The harvest festival was starting.

In front of a gate crafted from living wood was a crowd of children, all fourteen years old. Zhou Jin was one of the last to join them, and though some glanced at him, everyone stayed silent. Behind them, over the roofs of the houses, the moon rose, full and bright and orange. For a second time the gong sounded, it's note was deep and primal. Inch by inch the gate opened, and from the garden fog poured out. It was the fog that clung to mountains, that rolled across rice fields in the mornings, that lingered in the valleys. It was the fog of autumn, and within images flickered. Images Zhou Jin wanted.

A laughing father wrestled with him. A field of golden rice, his to harvest. A dance with a pretty girl who winked at him. Zhou Jin had never felt a want so strong as when he looked into the fog. Then the images were gone, and an old man stood in their place. Heavy cloaks of reds and emeralds adorned the man who held a staff of green wood. Fog flowed off his head instead of hair and when it reached the ground it pooled about his feet. When the man looked up Zhou Jin knew that the man was looking right at him.

"Greeting children." The man said, his voice echoing from the fog. "Harvests are a time of change, where old wants are fulfilled and new ones are made. Each of you are at the age where such change is more and more common, and tonight is one of those changes. For thirteen years your families have made offerings for you. Tonight you will make your first true offering. Prepare your hearts, enter the garden, and give your thanks to the Lord of the High Garden." With that the old man turned and walked into the mist, and behind him the children walked too. Once more the gong sounded.

Before the old man's staff the fog parted, revealing the path and the garden. Lights flickered and floated around the path, their pale blue light casting shadows. In those shadows figures danced, some were bestial, others ethereal. They danced to the sound of the gong, whose notes were slow, steady, and deep; a heart that forced Zhou Jin's heart to beat in time with it.

Statues rose along the path, made from stone and roots they loomed large as ceaseless guardians. With each step the statues grew larger, until at last the largest statue of them all came into view.

The children had entered a clearing, the priest nowhere to be seen, and at the very end of the clearing was the statue of a Xuan Wu. Above them all a serpent rose, and with eyes of burning rubies it glared down at the world. Below it, with legs taller and thicker than Zhou Jin, was a turtle, moss, the same vibrant green as the emeralds that made up its gentle eyes, grew in the spaces between scales. Before the statue a bonfire crackled, smoke drifted into the sky with serpentine grace. The gong played on.

One by one the children approached. One by one they made their offerings. Flames roared and lept, smoke plumed higher and higher, and yet no child edged away from the heat. Roasted meats, dumplings, and pastries all vanished into the flames; each transformed into smoke. Then it was Zhou Jin's turn.

With a cylinder of soup in hand, Zhou Jin approached the flame. This close he could feel the heat on his face, see those flickering images from before, understand what gifts he had been given; there was only one thing he could before a flame of a god. He gave thanks.

Zhou Jin blinked. Sweat poured off his face, his hands shook. A tug on his elbow forced him away from the fire. A priest in red and green robes held his elbow in a gentle grip and steered him away from the statue. There was a deep sound in his ear, but it wasn't the gong. It was his heart.

"Take a breath." The priest said. "Take a deep breath. You did well."

"Wha…?" Zhou Jin couldn't speak. His breath was labored and painful, as if he had swallowed hot ash.

"It's alright." The priest said. "Everyone reacts this way to the Lord of the High Garden." It was then that Zhou Jin noticed the other children. Some had pale bloodless faces, others were flush, sweating as if the fire was still next to them. One poor girl was clutching her stomach as a priest with a white jade mask sat on the ground with her. Everyone was struggling.

"Was…?" Zhou Jin tried to get a question out as his heart slowed and breaths came less painfully. He had never truly believed the stories about the Ling Clan and the Lord. He knew they existed, but nothing could be that powerful. Now he wasn't sure.

"The Lord of the High Garden slumbers," The priest said, "but that is his fire. His presence rests heavy here. Now off you go."

Before Zhou Jin were the gates of the garden, opened wide. Beyond them he could see a milling mass of parents, each one holding a candle. In the front was his mother. He saw the moment she noticed him, her cheeks dimpled as she smiled and her eyes squeezed tight as tears started falling again. Then he was in front of her. He hugged her.

"See, ma?" Zhou Jin said, questions banished as he held his mother. "No problems."

"No problems." His mother said back with a teary smile.

Later that night, as Zhou Jin stared at the dark ceiling of his rented room, he could hear the gong in his mind. It beat the same rhythm as his heart. He could see the twin pair of eyes staring down from above. He could feel the heat of the fire. It was a heavy comfortable presence, and sleep came easy that night.

A.N
Another Omake for @yrsillar
Fall is coming quickly where I come and so I was inspired to write this piece. Please enjoy!