Chapter Text
“Come with me, brother.”
A mundane sentence uttered to him many times before. On missions, during ceremonies and banquets, as children when Bi-Han simply had something interesting to show his little brother. Now, the words serve as the uncertain terms of his imprisonment. A light sheen of sweat breaks out over Kuai Liang’s pallid skin as he slashes a wooden practice staff through the air. Sunlight is a privilege he’s yet to regain in its entirety. He practices a kata in his old room at the Temple, the one he had resigned to never occupying again when he ran from the Lin Kuei’s insidious corruption.
No–He will not let his brother put words in his mouth in his own internal monologue. When he left to start his own clan, pave his own way that did not disgrace Father’s memory. With Tomas at his side.
The uncertainty of his brother’s fate has the fine hairs of his arms raising, so he chooses not to think about it.
It’s not as if there is much he can do.
He channels all his uncertainty, fear, and rage into his kiai as he strikes out again. Even as the whoosh of air parting around the staff hits his ears, he knows it’s sloppy. His stance is too wide, giving the move little power behind it, and his wild swing threatens to topple his balance. With a growl, he lets the wooden weapon clatter to the ground.
The last few weeks and who knows how much longer have left him a stranger in his own body. Being strung up motionless in the dungeons shrunk his hard-earned muscle, the meager rations turning him to a gaunt creature. Now he feels out of place in his skin, every step like he’s learning to walk again.
He can’t fathom going back there. Once, he would’ve raised his head high and defied Bi-Han with dignity. Now, the mere thought of those harsh stone walls makes his blood draw back to his core.
Being in this room is a reward. For behaving. For submitting.
On shaky legs, he lowers himself to the ground, slipping into an old meditative stance. Deep breaths make his chest rise. In, out, in, out. There is only one way for his tortured mind to wander.
Terrifying visions stalk behind his closed eyelids and he lets himself be pulled in. Frigid air envelops him in the darkness, numbing his limbs. Puffs of cold exhales mist in the weak flame of faraway sconces. His own breath? Someone else’s? The steel around his neck heats in uncomfortable contrast as he desperately pulls at a vestige of his fire, attempts to summon the smallest ember. A dull electric hum grows louder in his ears. Someone hisses. Stars explode in his vision, pain blooming from the back of his skull. Occipital bone. Oc-ci-pi-tal. Linea nuchalis superior. His head swims. There’s whispered apologies in his ear–that’s nice, he hurts–and despite the sheer cold it’s the heat that’s unbearable. His legs are caught in a vice grip, and he can’t tell if he’s simply shivering or struggling away.
His eyes shoot open. The nightmare makes his stomach churn, as it has done since he first stepped foot back into this room. Since he’s been able to think again.
Three precise knocks sound at his door. It’s time for his appearance at the mess hall.