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The first days without his sight were a blur of confusion and dread. Jiaoqiu had always prided himself on his sharp vision, on seeing details others missed. But now, there was only darkness—thick, suffocating. He lay still, his mind scrambling to catch up with what his body already knew.
“Moze? General?” His voice was faint, hesitant. No response. The scent of familiar incense lingered at the edge of his awareness, reminding him of the Alchemy Commission halls. Yet, even with that comfort, nothing felt real.
The silence that followed was deafening. No rustle of clothing, no subtle shift in the air from Moze’s steady presence or Feixiao’s familiar footfalls. His sightless eyes darted frantically, though the world remained dark. In his mind, Jiaoqiu swore his eyes were open, but no light pierced through.
“…Lingsha? Bailu?” He swore he had opened his eyes. He must have. But there was no light, no shapes, no shadows. Panic clawed at his chest, and Jiaoqiu let out a broken laugh, a bitter sound that echoed in the room. "Tumbledust." The word tasted bitter.
He had done this to himself.
Later, when Lingsha came to check on him, her words were clinical, a reflection of the harsh reality. "Jiaoqiu...your eyes...the toxin..." she said, hesitant, though her voice carried the weight of finality.
Jiaoqiu only hummed in response, a small, almost noncommittal sound. No one could know what was truly going on inside his mind. Feixiao had been saved—that mattered, didn’t it? She would live, and the crimson moon that had nearly taken her life was now gone. For that, he was supposed to feel relief and contentment.
“I’m content,” Jiaoqiu said softly, a smile playing on his lips that felt false even to him.
...
The days after were harder than he let on.
Jiaoqiu once knew his home by heart, every nook and every object placed with deliberate precision. Now, he fumbled through it like a stranger. His feather fan lay on the table—it always did—but when he reached for it, he knocked over a cup of tea instead. The scalding liquid burned his hand, but he didn’t react, letting it spill across the surface. What was the point of caring about such a small injury when his entire world had collapsed?
He couldn’t feel Moze’s presence like he used to. Moze, always a shadow at the edge of his vision, now seemed to disappear entirely unless he spoke.
Jiaoqiu hated the silence that stretched between them.
“I know you’re there,” Jiaoqiu said one evening, his voice rough with exhaustion. “But I can’t find you anymore.”
Moze, typically silent, shifted just enough for Jiaoqiu to sense him. “I’m here,” he replied, his voice soft and steady.
But it wasn’t enough. Jiaoqiu had grown used to being able to track Moze, to catch his subtle movements. Now, Moze had to speak for him to know where he was. The loss of that quiet connection felt like yet another blow, another reminder of his helplessness.
...
Even the simple pleasures had become battles.
Food, once a source of solace and joy, was now a torment. Jiaoqiu prided himself on his culinary knowledge—he could mix spices with finesse, and create flavors that danced on the tongue. But now? He couldn’t even chop ingredients without slicing his fingers. The smell of herbs was overpowering, their textures strange under his fingers as he struggled to cook a dish he once made blindfolded for fun.
Now, he was blind. And nothing was fun.
Every failed attempt was a reminder of his limitations. And with each reminder, Jiaoqiu felt a piece of himself slip away.
...
Days passed, and the world became a maze Jiaoqiu couldn’t navigate. The tasks that were once second nature—preparing herbs, mixing potions, even walking across a room—became mountains he had to climb. He never complained and never asked for help. Moze was there, silent and steady as always, watching him like a shadow. Feixiao, too, checked in, offering her quiet support. She would sit beside him, her presence a comfort, though words were scarce between them.
But it was Moze’s silence that weighed heavier than anything. Before, Jiaoqiu could always sense him, and could always tell where the assassin was even if he didn’t speak. His sharp eyes had tracked Moze’s subtle movements, the way he could slip in and out of spaces without a sound. But now, Moze was a ghost. Jiaoqiu could no longer locate him in the room unless Moze chose to make himself known.
He hated it.
The first time he stumbled into Moze, it was almost comedic. Jiaoqiu had been trying to reach for a vial, miscalculating the distance, and ended up bumping into the assassin’s solid frame. For a moment, neither of them moved.
"Sorry," Jiaoqiu murmured, stepping back awkwardly.
Moze didn’t say anything at first, only taking Jiaoqiu’s arm and guiding him back to his seat. His touch was firm, but not rough.
"You don’t need to apologize," Moze finally said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Jiaoqiu smiled faintly. "I didn’t even know you were there."
Moze remained silent, and Jiaoqiu let out a quiet breath. The frustration bubbled beneath his skin, but he swallowed it. He didn’t need to tell Moze. He didn’t need to make it anyone else’s problem.
...
Feixiao visited that evening, and her voice lit up as she entered, though Jiaoqiu could hear the underlying concern.
“How are you feeling, healer?” she asked, her usual teasing tone intact.
Jiaoqiu turned his head toward her voice, offering a practiced smile. “Fit for duty, General. You know me.”
Feixiao snorted softly, her tone a mix of amusement and worry. “I don’t need a doctor who lies to me.”
“I’m not lying,” Jiaoqiu retorted, though his voice lacked conviction. “I just— I don’t want you to worry.”
Feixiao’s hand rested on his arm, a gentle pressure that spoke of reassurance and solidarity. “You don’t have to pretend with me, Jiaoqiu. You never did.”
The reassurance should’ve lifted some of the weight off his chest, but it didn’t. If anything, it made it worse.
Moze was nearby—Jiaoqiu could tell by the faint sound of his breathing, though the assassin remained as silent as ever. And for the first time in a long while, Jiaoqiu felt lost. His world had always been filled with subtle signals, the minute details he could detect with his eyes. Now, they were gone, and all he had left was his hearing and the vague sense of where people might be.
It wasn’t enough.
The incense still burned in the corner, but it didn’t calm him like it used to. He couldn’t see its slow curl through the air, couldn’t trace its path with his eyes. And it struck him, harder than before, that the world he used to navigate so easily was now foreign to him.
Feixiao’s hand squeezed his arm, and for a moment, Jiaoqiu leaned into the touch. “I’m fine, General,” he whispered.
She didn’t respond, but the silence that followed was heavy with understanding. Moze moved then, his presence like a subtle shift in the air, and Jiaoqiu almost wished the assassin would speak more, just to remind him he was there.
But Moze didn’t. He never did.
And Jiaoqiu never asked.
...
During that heavy night, Jiaoqiu felt the sting of his blindness most acutely. He could no longer recall the exact features of those who cared for him. The memory of Moze’s face, once so vividly imprinted in his mind, was slipping away, blurred and indistinct. Feixiao’s imposing figure and sharp eyes were now shadows of a past he struggled to remember.
It wasn’t just the sight of others that eluded him; it was the very essence of their presence. He began to dread the idea of forgetting what they looked like, their expressions, their reactions. Each day, the world grew a little more distant, their faces a little more abstract.
Moze’s presence was a subtle shift in the air, but without visual cues, it became increasingly difficult to discern his exact location or his mood. The silence was a constant companion, and Jiaoqiu found himself wishing for Moze’s voice, just to anchor him to reality.
In the quiet sanctuary of his room, Jiaoqiu found himself consumed by the darkness that had overtaken his world. The faces of those he cherished were becoming elusive, slipping away like wisps of smoke. The frustration of not being able to recall Moze’s features, the subtle details of his presence, gnawed at him.
He sat still, the emptiness of his sight pressing heavily upon him. “I can’t remember,” he murmured, his voice tinged with frustration. “I can’t remember what anyone looks like anymore. It’s like they’re slipping away.”
The silence around him was thick and suffocating. Moze’s presence, usually so palpable, felt distant and intangible. Jiaoqiu turned his head, straining to sense where the assassin might be.
“You’re not here, are you?” Jiaoqiu asked, his voice carrying a note of desperation.
A soft, almost imperceptible shift in the air signaled that Moze was indeed close. The assassin’s hand landed gently on Jiaoqiu’s shoulder, grounding him amid his despair.
“I can’t remember,” Jiaoqiu said, his voice tight with anguish. “I try to picture your face, but it’s like trying to grasp smoke. I can’t even see you anymore.”
Moze’s hand, firm and steady, rested on Jiaoqiu’s shoulder, a grounding force amidst the chaos of his thoughts. “You won’t forget,” he said quietly, his voice calm and steady. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Jiaoqiu shook his head vehemently, frustration lacing his tone. “But how can you be so sure? What if I do forget? What if the image of you becomes just another ghost in my mind? I can’t see you. I can’t hold onto anything.”
Moze’s grip tightened slightly, a gesture of reassurance. “Even if you can’t see me, it doesn’t change who I am. I’m here, present, even if you can’t picture my face.”
Jiaoqiu’s voice wavered, caught between anger and despair. “It’s not just you. It’s Feixiao too. Her face is becoming a blur. I can’t remember the way she used to look at me, the way her eyes used to shine. It’s like they’re disappearing from my mind.”
The silence that followed was heavy, laden with the weight of Jiaoqiu’s fears. Moze’s voice, softer now, broke through the stillness. “You know, I used to think my presence was just a shadow, something insubstantial. But maybe I’m more than that.”
Jiaoqiu’s frustration flared. “More than a shadow? What does that even mean? I’m losing the very essence of the people I care about. I’m losing you and Feixiao. How can you tell me it doesn’t matter?”
Moze’s voice carried a faint, almost imperceptible warmth. “I’m saying that you don’t have to hold onto my face. I’m the presence that stays with you.”
Jiaoqiu’s tears threatened to spill. “It’s not just about presence. It’s about knowing that the people I care about are real. That they haven’t just become figments of my imagination. I miss the way you look at me, the way Feixiao’s face used to light up when she spoke.”
Moze’s hand remained on Jiaoqiu’s shoulder, a steady anchor amidst the storm of his emotions. “You don’t have to. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
Jiaoqiu leaned into Moze’s touch, finding a measure of solace despite his overwhelming grief. “It’s just so strange,” he said, his voice breaking. “I never thought I’d miss the little things so much. The way you would look at me, the expressions you made. It’s all slipping away, and I can’t stop it.”
Moze’s tone remained firm but compassionate. “You don’t have to stop it. Just know that while memories might fade, my support and presence are real. That’s what matters.”
Jiaoqiu nodded, his sobbing choked with emotion.
Moze’s presence was a steady force, a quiet promise amidst Jiaoqiu’s turmoil. “I'm here,” he said, his voice unwavering and resolute.
Jiaoqiu found a small, yet significant solace in Moze’s words. While the faces of those he loved might blur, the certainty of their presence—and their unwavering support—was something he could still hold onto.