Title: All the Colours of the World
Fandom: Guardian
Rating: G
Length: ~4700 words
Notes: Shen Wei/Zhao Yunlan, happily ever after in a Dixingian shack, OFC outsider POV, post-canon (implied spoilers), AU - nearly everyone lives, hallowspunk? Many thanks to trobadora for beta. No warnings.
Summary: Wang Yurong was still angry about the light, about the days and nights, and how everything had suddenly changed exactly seventeen days too late. She’d grown up in darkness. She liked the dark. The new cycles were stupid and unDixingian and made her eyes hurt.



“I heard there are jobs going at the school, for people who can read and write,” said Wang Yurong’s neighbour, Grandma Tan.

Wang Yurong’s mother looked up from pouring the tea. “What school?”

“In the abandoned house by the public well in Wenhua Rd. It hasn’t opened yet, but it’s a hive of activity.” Grandma Tan smiled encouragingly at Wang Yurong. “You should apply, smart girl like you. You could meet a nice boy there.”

Wang Yurong shuddered. Xixi had always said that house was haunted. There were rumours that the Black-Cloaked Envoy had lived there after his Return, and that even now icicles imbued with dark energy hung from the ceilings, but it had been empty for decades. No one, not even Grandma Tan, remembered who owned it, and the only people who went near it were children on a dare. It certainly wasn’t a place anyone in their right mind would go looking for work.

Anyway, Wang Yurong was still angry about the light, about the days and nights, and how everything had suddenly changed exactly seventeen days too late. She’d grown up in darkness. She liked the dark. The new cycles were stupid and unDixingian and made her eyes hurt. But her mother would give her hell if she said any of that to Grandma Tan.

Grandma Tan was old enough to remember what life had been like before. She thought this new regime was a resumption of the way things were supposed to be, and her voice would rise, shrill and disapproving, when she talked about the young people who were protesting the change by sleeping through the day and only going out at night.

Wang Yurong would have been one of those young people herself if she ever went anywhere, but mostly she just stayed in her room, drew tiny, furious cartoons in her notebook and wished things were back the way they used to be.

---

The haunted house was an old two-storey building, set back off the road, with a neglected front yard that was mostly rocks. It had always looked grey before, but in daylight it was pale blue. There was a man up a ladder, painting the window frames yellow and talking to a black furry creature lying on the sill of the open window. “Damn cat, why are you still here if you aren't going to make yourself useful?”

Wang Yurong had never heard of a cat before, let alone seen one. She hitched her bag more firmly onto her shoulder and ventured through the wrought-iron gate and up the overgrown path to get a closer look. The cat was staring golden-eyed at the man, the tip of its long fluffy tail twitching. “Someone had to stay behind and make sure you didn’t bite anyone’s head off,” it said in a man’s voice.

Wang Yurong nearly jumped out of her skin. An animal that could talk?

“I’m fine.” The man sounded stubbornly, falsely cheerful. He was wearing dark glasses – maybe he didn’t like the light either – and there was a thin white stick clamped between his teeth.

The cat curled its tail up and flicked its ears. “Seriously, Boss, how bad is it?”

“It’s nothing.” The man went back to painting.

“Excuse me?” Wang Yurong gave a small wave up at them. “I’m here to ask about the job, but actually – would you mind if I made some sketches first?”

The man twisted sideways to see her, his forehead creased with surprise. Yellow paint dripped onto the concrete below. “Of me?”

“She was talking to me,” said the cat smugly. “I don’t mind at all.” He stretched sinuously, front legs and back, and leapt from the window onto the roof over the entrance, then a window ledge and down to the ground.

Wang Yurong crouched on one knee to talk to him. “I’m Wang Yurong. What’s your name?”

“Da Qing.” He sat upright on his haunches and blinked. “Do you live near here?”

“A few streets away.” She sat cross-legged on the warm, cracked concrete and tugged her drawing things out of her bag, but when she opened the notebook, the blank pages were so bright in the light that she jerked back and nearly dropped it. “Ugh, this stupid daylight!” she muttered.

“You don’t like the light?” The man climbed down the ladder. His hair was dark, but he moved like a grandfather.

“Lao Zhao, you’re dripping paint on the path,” Da Qing reproached him.

Lao Zhao shrugged but otherwise ignored him, still holding the paintbrush, still waiting for Wang Yurong’s reply. He seemed genuinely curious, as if everyone else he’d met was happy about the change.

“Why would I?” she said, knowing she was being rude but too bitter to care. She swiped the tears from her stinging eyes. “Now we have light, what’s the difference between us and Haixing?”

“Where do I start?” Da Qing waved his tail. “Oh, right, the fish here taste terrible.”

Wang Yurong was still talking to Lao Zhao. “Why – do you like the light?”

“It is what it is.” The man chewed on his little white stick for a moment, then took off his dark glasses and offered them to her. “Here, I think you need these more than I do.”

Wang Yurong squinted at him. He seemed like he could see, but there were twin flames filling his eyes, as bright as the light in the sky. Was it a power? And his outstretched arm didn’t cast a shadow on his legs. He had no shadow at all.

Spooked, she waved the offered glasses away, but when she tried to stand up, she tripped on a crack in the concrete. Her notebook flew out of her grasp, and she went sprawling, grazing her knee and bruising the heel of her hand.

Before she could even cry out, Da Qing surged and transformed in a thick puff of dark energy. His fur vanished, and then he was a full-sized man about her age in a white t-shirt and torn denim overalls.

She yelped in surprise, starting back and banging her elbow on the concrete. “Ow!”

“Are you okay?” He offered her a hand up. His grip was warm and strong, no fur at all.

She wobbled slightly on her feet when he let her go, and clenched the hand he’d released into a fist to keep from reaching out again to make sure he was real. “You— you changed?”

“Of course. Haven’t you heard of Yashou?”

“There are no Yashou in Dixing. I thought they were fairy tales.” There weren’t even rumours of them here, but she couldn’t deny his existence or the evidence of her eyes. She rubbed her elbow and studied him, fascinated all over again. He had a nice face, clean-shaven, with curious, friendly eyes. She felt her cheeks grow warm and asked, partly as a distraction, “What does that – changing shape, I mean – what does it feel like? Does it hurt?”

“Not even a little bit. It sort of tingles and stretches.” He grinned, and she grinned back. For the first time in over a month, she didn’t feel lonely or angry. She was just interested.

“And you can do it whenever you want? That’s so cool!”

Lao Zhao cleared his throat pointedly. Her notebook had fallen just where the fresh paint drips had been, landing open, face down with some of the pages bent. He picked it up, glanced at the open pages and grimaced. “I’m afraid your comic—” He looked again, and his eyebrows rose. The creases by his eyes deepened. “—Xixi’s Horrible Haixing Adventure has a little more colour than it did.”

It had had none. Wang Yurong didn’t have paints or coloured pens. She’d painstakingly stippled and crosshatched and even used charcoal in some places to get the shading right, and she didn’t want strangers seeing it, especially now it was ruined. She stopped dusting off her skirt and took the book back, trying not to snatch it out of his hands, and assessed the damage. There was a yellow blotch in the sky – that was okay; it could be the Haixing sun – but another, more difficult uneven one partly fell across Xixi’s face. Dammit! She might have to re-do that whole page.

“Have you been to Haixing?” asked Da Qing.

It was a relief to turn back to him, away from her spoiled comic, the amusement on Lao Zhao’s face, and the unnatural brightness of his eyes. “Of course not. Have you?”

Lao Zhao laughed and answered for him. “I should think so – he was born there. We both were.”

“But you have—” She pointed to her own eyes. “I thought you were from Dixing. Isn’t that a power?”

“Ah, you noticed?” Lao Zhao took the white stick out of his mouth and tucked it into his jeans pocket. His expression turned serious. “That’s not a birth-right power. More of a recent acquisition.”

“And more like shackles than a power,” muttered Da Qing.

“Shut up, it’s an honour.” Lao Zhao shrugged at Wang Yurong, relaxed again. “So you could say I’m, ah, a naturalised Dixingren. Zhao Yunlan, but you can call me Lao Zhao – everyone does. Are you sure you don’t want these?” He waved the dark glasses at her.

She shook her head, hoping he’d put them back on. His eyes were worse than the light from the sky, somehow. He did, and she let out a breath, then frowned, catching up with what he’d said. “So, wait, you’re Haixingren—”

“Human,” said Lao Zhao.

“Speak for yourself,” said Da Qing, sounding offended.

“—and you’re opening a school for the citizens of Dixing?” Wang Yurong put her hands on her hips. Lao Zhao was much older than her and he had a power where she had none, and Da Qing was a fairy tale character come to life, and even if this was her mother’s idea and she herself didn’t really want it, she had come to apply for a job; she should be on her best behaviour. But she couldn’t let this pass without challenge. “Isn’t that a bit presumptuous? What are you going to teach us – Haixing history?”

“We’re not the—” started Da Qing.

Lao Zhao held up a hand to cut him off. “Let her finish. What does Wang Yurong think we should teach?” He lowered himself stiffly to sit on the steps to the front door, leant back against one of the pillars and folded his arms. “What would you put on the syllabus, if you were designing it?”

“Dixing history,” she said immediately. “Traditional music and crafts, origin theory, powers, the Hallows—”

Da Qing snickered.

Lao Zhao ignored him and prompted, “Maths, reading and writing?”

“Sure.” That seemed less important; people had been learning how to read, write and do sums from their parents forever. But she supposed it would be good to have classes for people whose parents were too busy, or who didn’t have parents, or who couldn’t afford ink and paper. She was about to say that when the front door of the school opened and a woman looked out.

“Lunch is ready. Are they back yet?”

“Not yet,” said Da Qing.

“Set one more place at the table, though,” said Lao Zhao. “Wang Zheng, this is our new teacher of history and cultural studies. You will stay for lunch, right?”

“I—” Wang Yurong knew she was staring, but she couldn’t help it. The figure framed in the shadow of the doorway was the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen. Her hair was honey brown, her dress white and ethereal, and she almost seemed to glow. Her name didn’t matter; there was no mistaking her identity. “You’re one of the Mountain-River Lovers!”

Everyone knew about the Lovers. When the citizens had stormed the palace to stop the false Envoy from destroying the world, the Mountain-River Awl had spun into the air above their heads, its aura glowing like the lava from Mt Dixing, and the Lovers had fallen out of the maelstrom. No one knew if they’d been trapped in the Awl or if they were, jointly, the Awl personified, but it seemed safest to bow, so she did.

“Aw, Wang Zheng, you’re famous.” Lao Zhao sounded both ironic and affectionate. He couldn’t be the other Lover, could he? Had she been disrespecting him all this time?

But when they went inside, it was obvious who Wang Zheng’s lover was: a quiet, equally beautiful man named Sang Zan. He was carrying large steaming bowls of vegetables and rice to the table.

The dining hall was a long room with windows down either side. On one side they showed four or five metres of garden bounded by the wall of the neighbouring property. An elderly man was scrubbing graffiti off the old stones, and a teenager was using her power to draw green shoots out of the ground. She must have been at it for some time, because there were a row of saplings behind her and the faint green of new grass making itself felt. Plants did like the light, even some native Dixing species, and Wang Yurong felt a twinge of guilt at wishing for the permanent dark to be restored.

“The others aren’t joining us?” asked Lao Zhao, beckoning to the tree-growing girl. She saw him and shook her head.

“They w-wanted to f-finish first,” said Sang Zan. “They s-said they’ll eat later.”

The light streaming through the windows on the other side of the room was dazzlingly bright, to the point where Wang Yurong regretted refusing the loan of the dark glasses. But once her eyes had partially adjusted, something became clear that couldn’t be seen from the street: the school was built in a U-shape with wings on either side that enclosed and sheltered a private courtyard, away from the street.

The courtyard was at least twice the size of Wang Yurong’s mother’s house, and it seemed brighter even than the rest of daytime Dixing. When she squinted and shielded her eyes, she could just make out a fountain in the centre of the yard; in the centre of the fountain, on a tall iron post, hung a lantern. It was that lantern that bathed the school – and the whole world – in light.

Its flame looked just as eerie as the flames in Lao Zhao’s eyes.

“Add a place for our new teacher of history and cultural studies,” Lao Zhao told Sang Zan, and this time, Wang Yurong heard him loud and clear.

She spun around to stare. “You don’t mean me?”

“Teacher training starts next week. You can design your own syllabus.” He sat down, picked up his chopsticks and pointed with them. “Somewhere to channel your frustration about these pesky alien invaders. We’ll help if you need it – I know the Institute Director already has some thoughts.”

She looked around.

“He’s not here right now,” said Da Qing at her side. “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. The director’s Dixingren.”

For some reason, that made Lao Zhao laugh. “He is that.”

It was all moving so fast, she felt dizzy. She gave Da Qing a grateful look. He seemed the most normal out of all of them, despite being a Yashou, and he didn’t find her funny the way Lao Zhao clearly did.

Sang Zan made encouraging motions, inviting them to begin the meal, so she sat down, helped herself to fish, vegetables and rice, and began eating, glad for the chance to observe these people and their casual, foreign manners. Everything they said was confusing in one way or another, but they seemed to know each other well, to like each other and accept each other’s strangeness. She couldn’t deny it was more fun to be in the middle of all this than curled up in her room at home.

“Where’s Xiao Shen?” asked Lao Zhao, as if he’d just noticed an absence.

“He said he won’t come downstairs again until Director Shen returns,” said Wang Zheng.

Lao Zhao frowned. “It’s been five days. Why now?”

“You tease him too much.” Da Qing waved his chopsticks at Lao Zhao severely. “You know he’s still—” He didn’t finish the sentence, but apparently he didn’t need to. Everyone nodded.

“Re-c-covering,” said Sang Zan.

“But he is recovering,” said Lao Zhao. “And teasing is good for him!”

“He still doesn’t remember anything, so it’s important to be kind,” said Wang Zheng, and apparently that was the final word on the matter. Her firm gaze included Sang Zan, who wrinkled his nose.

Da Qing started to say something else, and Wang Zheng offered Wang Yurong more food, but before she could accept, a distant grumble, like the low roar of a volcano, started up outside. It grew steadily louder and nearer, until it sounded like it was coming from the road right by the house. Then it cut off, and the air filled with silence.

Da Qing turned his head towards the door and blinked. “Hey, isn’t that— It can’t be!”

He scraped his chair back and ran from the room. Everyone else looked at each other, questioning, except Lao Zhao, whose eyes were fixed on the doorway. He put down his chopsticks and called, “Is it them? Because I think my ears are deceiving me. That sounded like—”

“They’re here!”

“You’re sure?” Lao Zhao jumped up, was already going to see, a new energy in his stride as if he were suddenly twenty years younger. “They’re back?”

“Not just that,” called Da Qing. “Wait till you see what they came in!”

The others were abandoning their places too, hot on Lao Zhao’s heels, leaving their lunches half-eaten, so Wang Yurong followed. Wang Zheng and Sang Zan stayed watching from the doorway, but the rest of them went down to the gate.

In the street, taking up the entire width of the cobbled road, was a bright red vehicle the size of a house. It had enormous black wheels, and a long boxy shape made of brown leather was lashed to its roof. Lao Zhao started laughing.

Two men climbed out either side of the vehicle – with difficulty, because there wasn’t room to open the doors all the way – and Lao Zhao grabbed the nearest one by the shoulder, laughing so hard now he was in danger of falling over. “Shen Wei, Shen Wei, what have you done?”

He patted the shiny red surface of the vehicle affectionately.

The man smiled broadly at Lao Zhao’s delight. He was almost as grey as his coat, but he looked so happy, it didn’t seem to matter. He wore round spectacles and a blue shirt, and he reached for Lao Zhao’s shoulder in return. “Since you can’t leave Dixing, I brought some things I thought you might be missing.”

“And over-extended yourself in the process! Don’t deny it, it’s written all over your exhausted face.” Lao Zhao slid his arm around the man’s waist to support him, and wagged a finger. “And you call me reckless! What if you’d got stuck in the portal?” He turned to the other new arrival, a taller man in thick-rimmed glasses. “Lin Jing, why didn’t you stop him? You know these do-it-yourself doorways drain his energy more than the old one. I only asked for lollipops!”

“We brought those too.” Lin Jing held up a fat plastic sack. “And how exactly did you expect me to overrule Director Shen? The jeep has a full tank of gas, by the way. When that’s gone I’m going to convert it to run on solar. Well, on Hallow’s light. And we brought more sunglasses, and that generator we talked about and a server so we can charge our phones and get a why-fie network up and running.”

Lao Zhao wasn’t listening, his attention already back on Director Shen. “There’s only one thing I really missed, and it wasn’t my damn car,” he said, “but thank you. Tell me the truth, are you okay?”

“I just need food and rest.” Director Shen looked back at him, warm and fond, as if none of the others existed. “How about you? I see you only got halfway through painting the window frames. How bad has it been?”

“Ah, I was interrupted.” Lao Zhao waved away his concern. “I’ve got you back, and I can have couch naps now. Nothing else matters.”

Director Shen glanced up at the house again. “And everything else here’s been all right? Has he—”

“Not much change. He’ll be glad you’re back.” Lao Zhao was suddenly more serious than Wang Yurong had seen him yet.

“In the meantime,” said Da Qing, butting in without ceremony, “the car is blocking the road. Where are we going to keep it?”

“There’s an empty section at the end of the next street,” volunteered Wang Yurong. “You could put it there. Can I—?” She looked longingly at the vehicle. It was so very red, like nothing she’d ever seen, and the controls inside looked complex and interesting and fun. She wondered how fast it could go.

“And you are?” Director Shen regarded her with raised eyebrows.

“Allow me to present our latest recruit, Wang Yurong, teacher of history and cultural studies,” said Lao Zhao, his arm still around the director’s waist. “An artist who loves the traditional Dixing dark. Wang Yurong, this is Shen Wei, Institute Director Shen, more formally known as Hei Pao Shi. We mentioned we already have a real Dixingren on staff, didn’t we?”

He grinned, and Wang Yurong wanted to glare at him – for describing her that way, for not telling her sooner – but anyone could see how things stood, and she couldn’t offend the Lord Envoy by scolding his lover, however deservedly. She lowered her gaze. She should never have come here; if it weren’t for Grandma Tan and her mother, she’d be safely back in her room with just her notebook and her pen. Where she belonged.

It had been the Envoy’s energy field that had weakened the false Envoy long enough for the people to stop him – those with fighting powers attacking at once; the others taking on his army in hand-to-hand combat. Wang Yurong hadn’t been there, had been sick in bed that day and hadn’t known about any of it until it was over, but she’d heard all the reports Grandma Tan had relayed to her mother, and despite the new daylight, she was thankful. The Black-Cloaked Envoy had been a shadowy figure her whole life, absent more often than not; he’d left the rule of Dixing to the Regent and the King. But when the people had needed him most, he’d come through, and by some accounts it had nearly killed him.

There was a smudge of dirt on her skirt from where she’d fallen earlier. She felt her cheeks go hot as she bowed. “Hei Pao Daren, it’s an honour.”

“I’m glad to meet you.” The Envoy’s voice was kind. And when she dared look up, he was serious. “We’re desperately in need of Dixingren teachers. Please call me Director Shen.”

“Now, now, enough with the introductions,” said Lao Zhao, fussing over him. “We can talk about this when you’ve eaten and rested. Lin Jing, move the car before the neighbours complain, would you?” He shepherded the director up the path.

“Some welcome,” said Lin Jing, but he was clearly used to being treated casually. “Good thing I had lunch with Zhu Hong, Xiao Guo and Lao Chu before we left Haixing. Da Qing, give me a hand with this?” He began untying the brown leather object from the top of the car, and Da Qing climbed over the wall to help. It looked like furniture.

Da Qing opened a door at the back of the car and wrestled two heavy-looking squabs and two rolls in matching leather from inside. He passed them over the wall to Wang Yurong. “Here, you carry these.”

She grabbed them as best she could, but one of the rolls immediately eluded her and fell to the ground. “I’ll come back for that.”

Between them, they got all the parts of the couch, as Da Qing called it, into the school and up the stairs to the private rooms Lao Zhao shared with Director Shen. And once the couch was assembled, Da Qing flopped onto it lengthwise and pressed his face against the leather with a contented sigh. “Home again.”

Lin Jing looked at Wang Yurong. “It’s going to take fish snacks to move him now. Want to come and show me where to park the car?”

Wang Yurong bounced on her toes. “Yes!”

They were only halfway down the stairs when hurried footsteps sounded behind them. “Wait up, wait up, I’m coming too,” said Da Qing, and he was back by her side, and that just made it better.

---

Later, somehow, she found herself up the ladder finishing the window frames while Da Qing, back in cat form, kept her company and told her how the plans for the school had come about.

Through her new dark glasses – her own pair – the pale blue house didn’t dazzle so much, and the daylight brought out warm brown highlights in the Yashou’s black fur. The yellow paint was cheerful and glossy, and when she closed her eyes, she could recall the green of newly sprouting leaves in the garden, the bright red of the Haixing car. There were some good things about the light after all. She wasn’t completely ungrateful.

Lao Zhao and Director Shen came out to inspect her work in progress. The director was still pale, but his skin had lost its earlier ashen quality and there was colour in his lips.

Lao Zhao had another white stick in his mouth. “We’re going to need an optician,” he said. “No, I don’t mean for me. Some of the locals are having trouble. They’re not used to it.”

Wang Yurong slid the wet paintbrush down the side of the frame and said, before she could think better of interrupting, “The school should schedule some classes at night.”

“Night classes – now there’s an idea!” said Lao Zhao.

“It seems like a good solution. Thank you, Teacher Wang,” said the director, adding to Lao Zhao, “Even so, next time I go back, I’ll see if Doctor Cheng wouldn’t mind coming down for a visit. We might need to offer an eye clinic.”

“Oh, that reminds me,” said Lao Zhao, “I don’t suppose you came across a Dixingren called Xixi in your travels? A recent arrival in Haixing.”

Wang Yurong nearly fell off the ladder.

“Ah, maybe next time. If you find her, tell her there’s light here now, and someone who misses her.”

Wang Yurong half-turned to stare down at him, and he grinned up at her and shrugged.

Zhai Xixi had always wanted to see the sun. Their whole lives, she’d pestered Wang Yurong to sneak through the portal to Haixing with her. Wang Yurong had thought if she just kept saying no, Xixi would give up her stupid dream and stay. But just seventeen days before the attempted coup, she’d vanished, leaving Wang Yurong only a note.

Wang Yurong straightened on the ladder, too confused to be embarrassed. “How did he—?”

The tip of Da Qing’s tail flicked back and forth. “He can be annoyingly observant. It’s unnatural, but you get used to it.”

Wang Yurong burst out laughing. The world was bathed in Hallow’s light, showing all the colours of the world, and she had dark glasses to cut out the worst of the glare; she was making friends with a Yashou cat; she was going to be a teacher in a real school, and work with the Black-Cloaked Envoy himself. She couldn’t wait to see Grandma Tan’s face when she heard about all of it. And maybe one day the Envoy would find Xixi in Haixing, and she’d come back.

Right now anything seemed possible.



END