Chapter Text
I see reflections in the glass, but the shadow on the wall
keeps me from believing there's someone else inside me,
someone else.
—Электросон, «Тень»
Many times Xie Lian had asked himself the same question: at what exact moment had he shattered beyond recall?
Was it the day the wooden stake pierced his heart? No. Ironic as it may sound, he was still whole then.
Was it the darkness of the coffin, thick with his own clammy blood, that destroyed him? No, not that either.
And what of his miraculous—as it seemed then—return to the Heavenly Realm in the Emperor's arms, and the long recovery that followed within the walls of Jun Wu's Palace? None of that.
At that time, the Heavenly Emperor had imposed a punishment on him for his mistakes: he was to stay in the Palace, remain at his side—which, ostensibly, was to keep him from doing wrong again. That was not it, either. He had been glad to atone, even as a quiet sense of wrongness threaded through him. (you will not leave)
Was it the moment he realised that his and the Emperor's notion of mistakes had taken different paths?
Or the first time he caught the Heavenly Emperor's hungry gaze resting on him?
The first blow across his cheek for a wrong reply?
Perhaps it was the day the Emperor's hands first ventured beneath his inner robes, and his vows were broken (ripped out, crushed, butchered, and flung into the mud)?
But more often, Xie Lian blamed the day he gave up. The day he stopped looking for a way out, ceased his struggles, and threw himself on the mercy of the Emperor's rough palms and demanding mouth; and after the exhausting act, he let himself curl up like a child in Jun Wu's arms, listening to praises. That was when he lost the last shred of his self-respect; then, something snapped and shattered in him beyond all mending.
In his own defense, resistance had ever been futile: Jun Wu took what he wanted, whenever he wanted. Yet at least that struggle testified to his unwillingness, that he never wished for what was done to his body, that he was here against his will. But every effort proved fruitless, and brought him only pain atop inevitable humiliation; until one day he could no longer summon the will to fight back, and froze.
Ironically, after he gave up, the visible side of his life improved almost at once: ‘good behavior’ pleased Jun Wu—though in truth it was nothing but numbness and apathy. With time, Xie Lian was granted more freedom; he was even permitted to tend a garden in the Palace's backyard (hidden, of course, from the outer world behind a high stone wall). Once, Jun Wu burned everything he had grown, saying the prince devoted too much attention to gardening (and this is a commoner’s pursuit). From then on, Xie Lian carefully rationed the hours he spent in the garden, even though it was the only corner where the fallen God could find a semblance of solace.
Sometimes Xie Lian wondered: if a stranger could see what his life had become, what would they think of him? What would they call him: an obedient lover, a concubine, a servant, a hostage? Would they think Xie Lian liked what was being done to him? And what if, in truth, he did like it? What if there had been a way out all along? What if he was tailored perfectly to this role, and that was why all his efforts ended in disaster? The prince who destroyed his kingdom. The preceptor who betrayed those who trusted him. The scrap-collector who carried misfortune at his heels. The failed son. The god who doomed his only follower to a torturous death.
Wu Ming, Wu Ming, I hope you found happiness in all the lives that followed; I hope you found someone better to believe in.
What if Jun Wu were entirely right, and the only thing Xie Lian was good for was to be a pet at the Emperor's feet?
Xie Lian wearily rubbed his brow with his wrist and blew loose strands of hair from his sweaty face. Today was a rare occasion: Jun Wu had left the Palace for longer than a couple of hours; and Xie Lian had fled at once to the garden to plant wild strawberries. He had expected the task to draw his mind away from sluggish, despondent thoughts, as it usually did; but even meticulous work could not stop his mind from devouring itself alive.
One might think the Emperor's absence would bring him some sense of safety. Instead, he waited anxiously for his return, listening closely and flinching at any sound too loud or even vaguely resembling a door opening. The Emperor's demeanor could never have been called even-tempered, but on these rare departures he grew truly unpredictable. Xie Lian could never guess whether Jun Wu would come back in a pleasant mood, or whether he himself would become the recipient of his wrath. The morning after such returns, he would wake with bruises covering his body, vainly trying to forget the humiliation he had been dragged through overnight.
The next spiral of gloomy thoughts was interrupted by a loud, brazen caw. He looked up to see a crow, black as coal, perched on the grapevine trellis. Not long ago, the bird had begun visiting Xie Lian's little garden from time to time, and he had come to think of it as a companion.
“Good day to you too!” He cast a tired smile over his shoulder at the bird. “It has been a while; I am glad you have finally found the time to visit this old gardener!”
The crow cocked its head slightly, flew up closer and settled just a few cun away from Xie Lian.
He jokingly wagged a finger at the crow, “You'd better be careful with the shoots—do not go trumpling them. They are still terribly delicate. And if the strawberries take root and ripen, I promise to treat you to a few. So you’d do well to behave; it is in your own interest.”
The crow cawed and hopped even nearer, one foot held oddly aloft. Xie Lian smiled, paying no mind to the bird's behaviour, and resumed his quiet fussing with the wild strawberries. He intended to finish this garden bed before Jun Wu returned.
Suddenly, the crow sprang into the air and beat its wings right in front of his face, scratched lightly at his wrist, then landed again, this time directly in his line of sight.
Xie Lian cast a worried gaze at the crow.
“What is it, birdie? Do you want something? Perhaps something is off with your foot—let me…” Xie Lian's voice died, and his eyes widened. He had finally seen what was wrong with the bird's foot. Or rather, the foot itself was perfectly fine; but a tiny, barely noticeable case was fastened to it.
A letter? Who could have sent him a letter—especially here? The bird must have been mistaken…
Yet his heart hammered in his chest in a wild dance of hope he refused to acknowledge. This is for you—for you. Someone wants to save you. His fingers trembling, he struggled to extract a tiny strip of paper from the case.
It bore only a few lines:
Your Highness, are you ready to escape? If not, send the letter back intact. If so, before sending it back, tear it slightly in the middle and wait. You shall be rescued when the opportunity arises.
Xie Lian's vision darkened; his heart quickened its frantic thrum against his ribcage, and the note nearly slipped from his fingers. What if it were a trap, a test? What if Jun Wu were testing his loyalty?
But honestly, he could not care less. Even if the Emperor took the last crumbs of freedom he had retained, so be it. He would not allow himself to miss a chance out of fear. Some part of him was alive—the part that was capable of resistance, of dreaming of a life beyond these suffocating walls.
Xie Lian tore the paper and carefully stowed it into the case on the obligingly extended crow's foot. The bird cawed once more and darted upward into the sky with a powerful stroke of its wings.
Xie Lian stood in the garden, his neck craned, his watering eyes never leaving the dwindling speck; his dark thoughts—and even the wild strawberries—entirely forgotten.