Bastards Are Not Uncommon

Boluo and the other warriors wore leaping hounds as their emblem. He had seen the desert hound's head on the tunics of Wangzhe and Zhenli. Thus, he examined his own and there was no hound emblem on his robes but just a gold circle.

"It means you're a member of Luyao but only in name, not by blood," Boluo told him bluntly when Wuyi asked. "Of acknowledged noble blood, but not related all the same. That's all. It's just a quick way of showing you've good blood but aren't of the Luyao. If you don't like it, you can change it. I am sure the patriarch would grant it. A name and a crest of your own."

"A name?"

"Certainly, it's a straightforward inquiry. Illegitimate children are uncommon in noble households, even rarer among those blessed with cultivation talents. Yet, they're not entirely unheard of." Under the pretense of educating Wuyi on the proper care of riding equipment, Boluo browsed through the weapons pavilion, examining all the older and less frequently used equipment. In truth, the maintenance and restoration of such items were among Boluo's peculiar interests, more of his favorite hobby. "First, create a name and an emblem for yourself, then present them to the lord—"

"What name?"

"Why, any name you like. You don't plan to call yourself Wuyi all your life, do you? Even if Zhenli says no one will know outside the desert, it doesn't mean you can take the tag of 'bastard' forever."

Boluo suddenly realized he had touched on a too-sensitive topic that shouldn't be touched; he was calling the kid he took care of a bastard, somehow it felt wrong. He changed the topic in the middle to equipment in the pavilion. "This looks like it's ruined; someone put it away damp and it mildewed. But we'll see what we can do with it."

"It wouldn't feel real," The name did not matter much to Wuyi except everyone who asked his name laughed and called him bastard. This bothered him.

"What?" Boluo held an armload of aged hide with a pungent aroma out toward Wuyi. He took it.

"A name I just put to myself. It wouldn't feel like it was really mine. What kid names himself?" seeing the upcoming leather work he tried to keep Boluo busy in conversation so he might have to do less training as his aching body had still not recovered.

"Well, what do you intend to do, then?"

Wuyi took a breath. "Ask the Patriarch; maybe he should give me a better name. Or you should..."

Boluo frowned. "You have the strangest ideas. Take some time to ponder it, and you'll find a name that suits."

"Wuyi," Wuyi said sarcastically, and he saw Boluo clamp his jaw.

"Let's just mend this leather," Boluo suggested quietly. Wuyi sighed; no matter what the conversation with Boluo, work never stops. 

They brought it over to his worktable and began cleaning it. Wuyi worked on it half-heartedly. Before Boluo could chide him for it, he changed the topic. 

"Bastards aren't exactly uncommon, I'm aware of that," Wuyi spoke. "And in town, their parents name them." He tried to guilt Boluo by reminding him that he had no parents so Boluo would not chide him for being lazy. 

"In town, bastards aren't so rare," Boluo agreed after a moment.

"Warriors and seafarers have their dalliances. It's a common way for common folk, but not for noble clans or cultivators like your father, or for anyone with a bit of pride. What would you have thought of me when you stayed in the stable if I'd gone out at night like that, or brought women up to the room? How would you view women now? Or men? It's fine to fall in love, Wuyi, and no one begrudges a young woman or man a kiss or two. But I've seen what it's like in large cities such as Bingzhen. Traders bring attractive girls or handsome youths to the market like so many commodities. The kids they eventually have might possess names, but they lack much else. Even if they settle down in marriage, they don't cease their... tendencies. If I ever meet the right woman, I want her to be assured that my eyes won't wander, and I'd like to be certain that all my children are truly mine," Boluo spoke with a hint of fervor. He finally had taken the bait. 

What surprised Wuyi, though, was that no matter how much of a drunkard Boluo was, he seemed righteous. Wuyi had yet to catch him doing something wrong, except for his drinking.

Now that Boluo had taken the bait, he was not going to stop. "So what happened with my father? You served him, right? You say he was righteous too. What was he doing sleeping around with a poor woman in a remote desert?"

Boluo suddenly looked weary. "I can't say for sure. He was young, roughly in his twenties, far away from his sect and clan, and grappling with hefty responsibilities. These aren't justifications or excuses, but it's all the understanding either of us will ever have. Besides, your mother might not have been just some poor desert woman. Do you think a simple desert woman would catch your father's eye? I have met your mother but somehow I have no memory of her. Do you remember her face?"

This surprised Wuyi; it was true there was a very vague memory of her in his mind, even if he had stayed with his mother for five years. He believed it was because of his headaches, but now he felt it was something else. 

And that was that. Beyond that point, Boluo decided not to indulge him further and pushed him back to work. Wuyi groaned but had no choice. 

Wuyi's life continued in its usual pattern. He spent some nights in the company of Boluo, either in the stables or animal enclosures, and less frequently, nights in the pavilion when itinerant musicians or storytellers visited. Every so often, he could manage to escape for a night out in the city, but that led to a sleep-deprived following day. His afternoons were consistently occupied with one teacher or another. He realized that these sessions were his summertime education, and winter would bring lessons in calligraphy and scrolls. 

He was busier than he had ever been in his young life, but despite his schedule, he found himself mostly alone.

Loneliness found Wuyi every night as he vainly tried to find a small and cozy spot in his large bed. Whether it was his first home, Boluo, or the pens, he had never experienced solitude like this before in his present life. During the times he had slept above the animal quarters in Boluo's living spaces, his nights had been soothing, his dreams imbued with the comforting and tired satisfaction of the animals that rested and moved beneath his sleeping quarters.

Even if they were not much for companionship, they gave him a feeling of not being alone. But now, isolated in a room walled with stone, he finally had time for all those intrusive thoughts that never bothered him before. He was alone in the truest sense, from one world to another, where he had no one to call his own. He had parents in this world, but his mother was a mystery and his father most probably considered him a mistake, making it impossible for him to expect any closeness.