"What made you decide to get it?" Ling wanted to know.

Ping blinked, looking up from his lone post by the trees. He had not noticed the arrival of Ling. "Huh?"

"The arrow," the lean man clarified, leaning against the trunk and looking down at him. "What made you decide to get it?"

Ping looked away. He supposed he should be happy to find someone already willing to talk to him, but he wasn't. The camp's decided hostility against him made it better for him to think, to keep quiet. "It was just there," he replied, looking out to the horizon.

There was a slight breeze and the branches and leaves shook, like the soft swishing of the birds' wings. Or the soothing sound of the weavers' machines. He could almost remember Achi, her slender hands pulling and weaving, threading the spool over and over again, her face calm in a work that was always tiresome to Ping...Ping...Ping... "Ping."

"Huh?" His eyes snapped open and he looked up again. Ling was leaning too close. "Sorry. I dozed off."

"I understand." Ling's voice was sympathetic.

No, you don't, Ping wanted to say but he only nodded and looked out into the mountains. There was silence again, but he didn't sleep. Instead, his hands absently enclosed around the wisps of grass beside him.

There was a slight sound of movement, and Ping turned to see Ling sit at one side of the tree. He frowned, a little irritated, but he shrugged. The tree wasn't his, and he wasn't supposed to complain.

"Do you miss home, Ping?" Ling asked.

Ping did not turn to him. Somehow, he knew Ling was not looking at him as well. "A little," he replied guardedly. He stopped, then went on, so that Ling would see he wasn't upset with the question: "There's nothing to miss."

"How old are you?"

The question took him by surprise. "Fifteen summers and fourteen winters." He blinked in surprise, finally daring to turn at the other man. "You?"

"A little older," Ling replied breezily. He was already settled comfortably against the tree with his arms at the back of his head, his eyes half-lidded. "Un...so, you're fifteen. That would explain why you don't have a beard."

"Beard--" Ping smiled and he had to turn away again. Ping would NEVER have a beard. "Yes."

"Do you know you're the camp hero now?"

Ping ducked, blushing slightly. "No," he admitted truthfully. He looked out at the horizon once more. The mountains were a shade of blue against the sky. "It was just an arrow," he muttered.

"You're too quiet."

The young man kept his mouth shut.

With his eyes still closed in relaxation, Ling went on, "You never talk about home and girls and others. You never talk about your father, even though he's a big war hero."

Ping bit his lip and felt a sharp pain in his chest. He couldn't understand. "There's nothing to talk about," he replied quietly.

"What made you decide to get the arrow?"

Ping looked at the horizon again and did not reply.

~ * ~

He supposed it would have been easier.

That night, Ping had decided to take a walk, looking for Kwan, who was at least talking to him a bit. He was going to ask if he had some ointment for his aching back, after all the training that day. The cold, hard ground in his little tent that was too far from the campsite was not welcoming.

Captain Li Shang had had met him outside. He was scowling. Ping had stopped to bow to him but Shang had only tapped his feet and crossed his arms in irritation.

"I don't care if your father's Fa Zhu," Captain Li told him, annoyance on his face. "I don't care if your father's the emperor."

"Sir," he had uttered quietly, not knowing what to say.

Then, the captain's expression softened, and he sighed. "I know you're determined, and I know you have some problems with the camp--"

Ping kept quiet.

"--but...you're really not suited for the rage of war." The way Captain Li said it, it seemed more like poetry instead of a dismissal. His lips formed words that intoxicated Ping, drowning his senses as if Li's words were his own world. "You may go home."

"Home, sir?" he had repeated dumbly.

There were words that followed, kind words, words to tell his father, his family, so that he would not be truly disgraced. The word reverberated in his mind and he almost wept in front of Li. He could go home.

If he went home...Mulan would be disgraced.

He had not even noticed Captain Li was already gone. He had not even noticed that he was standing in the middle of the campsite, in near tears.

Because Ping could go home.

But he had no home.

~ * ~

The arrow had been kept at the top part of the pole, where Li Shang had shot it. It was there to mock them, to tell them they could not become soldiers fit to become the Emperor's guards.

He had stared up at it, the silent stick jutting out like a lone branch from a tree. The shadows on the ground seemed so tall.

And he wondered why he could feel his senses swimming again, like he was sick. His mind was floating, his body felt feverish and cold. He opened his mouth to take a deep breath but all that came out was a gasp.

And he found himself taking the gold-laden plates that were to be tied around his wrists before moving up the pole. He found himself climbing and falling, short breath after breath.

~ * ~

"What made you decide to get the arrow?" Ling had asked him.

Ping looked down at his callused hands and remembered how the stick had felt in his palms. He remembered the rage as he sat on top of the pole, clenching the arrow, watching the horizon's sunrise, not even hearing the gasps of his fellow trainees.

What made you decide...?

Baba.

He buried his face in his hands and took a deep, ragged breath to choke out the sobs that were threatening to pour out.

~ * ~

His eyes had caught the movement at the elaborate tent and, without thinking, he threw it to the entrance.

Li Shang stared at it in wonder before narrowing his eyes to look at him.

Ping wanted to laugh, but his body ached too much and he wouldn't be surprised if he found his hands bleeding. The gold plates now hung at his elbows and he could still feel their sharp tug. So he only smiled.

And Captain Li had smiled back.

~ * ~

Shang took the arrow, raised it to the sky, and broke it to two.

The whole camp cheered.

Ping looked out at the horizon once more. It was already morning. Sunrise was gone. He would not be going home after all.

~ * ~

What made you decide...?

Maybe it was because of his words. The way his lips formed and moved Ping, how he said his simple sentences that seemed like he was talking to a learned woman. Maybe it was because his words were so much like the poetry Mulan used to read every night.

Or maybe because he had touched Ping, that night, on the shoulder, and it was all Ping could feel, like an imprint on his skin. A touch.

Or maybe it was because he smiled gently as he spoke to him, even when he was dismissing him. As if he truly cared for Ping's life and honor, even though he should be glad he was losing a boy not essential to his group.

~ * ~

What made you decide to get the arrow? Ling had asked him.

"Maybe," Mulan whispered to the darkened tent, "it was because of how Ping looks at Shang."

And she closed her eyes and slept.