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guqin-and-flute · 1 year ago

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Are You Here to Stop Me? –Ch. 7 [Peony to Lotus!Verse, Yaoli]

[Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4] [Chapter 5][Chapter 6] [First post in Peony to Lotus Verse]

[Ao3 Series]

[CW: Mention of blood, canon and era typical internalized ableism and misogyny from Yanli]

"You're sure you don't need me to get your parasol, furen?"

Yanli opened her eyes to the buttery autumn sun and smiled up at her maid, who hovered by her elbow like a nervous bird. "A-Si, I’m fine--” she began to insist, gently.

But the girl was already spinning, hurrying away up the garden path and calling back over her shoulder; “I’d better get it, just in case! I’ll be right back!”

With a sigh of fond surrender, Yanli settled back into her heavily cushioned chair, hands resting on her stomach. Nothing moved inside, yet, and it was no more round than it ever was, but there was life there. Wen Qing--Qing-mei, as she had begun to call her in the weeks they had spent so much time together--was certain of it.

Yanli was certain of it, now, as well. In the weeks following the diagnosis, she had felt the changes beginning, quite apart from her the recovery symptoms of lingering wet heaviness in her chest. There was the horrid nausea and sickness in the mornings, the aversion to foods she once loved, a craving for foods of a strange combination. Her belly didn’t look any different, but it certainly felt fuller. And she was so tired. Wen Qing had assured her and A-Yao that it was normal when she was recovering as well as metabolizing for 2.

And ever since the fact had “accidentally” gotten its way around to the rest of her family, as well as the Wen, the servants, and disciples, she was being treated as if she might trip and fall to pieces at any moment--treatment which she amiably bore. Even if it was excessive. Would such pampering really go on for 9 whole months? Her health had always been fragile but now, she hardly had a moment alone!

“You’ve hardly grown at all, yet, and everyone is taking such good care of you,” she murmured down to her own belly, slowly rubbing it.

She wasn’t certain exactly how news got out, as she and A-Yao had intended to wait the 3 customary months to announce the pregnancy--but somehow, everyone in Lotus Pier now knew. She might have suspected A-Xian, with his mischievous streak as wide as the lake, or A-Cheng, who was truly terrible at keeping any secret back from his face; but it just as well might have been given away by the fact that she couldn’t stop cradling her middle or the way that A-Yao’s doting attention on her had increased tenfold.

Besides, A-Xian was far too preoccupied working himself ragged reviving poor Wen Ning, and A-Cheng too busy entrenched in the steps of that cutthroat political dance he must perform to gossip with anyone. It took all of their attention just to keep this whole affair afloat.

She let out a sigh, watching her belly rise and fall with her breath, the tiny purple beads on her hanfu sparkling with every movement. They were all now in an uncomfortable stalemate—which, she supposed, was better than one of the alternatives, being outright war. From what she heard of the initial meeting, it had been tense and heavy, just barely above outright threats. Yanli was just as happy not to have been in any shape to go to Koi Tower and have to face anyone there. A-Cheng seemed incredibly stressed about the outcome, from what she had seen of him, and Yao seemed unhappy, but simply assured her that it was to be expected, assured them all that his father was keeping a wary eye on the other Sects. Jin Guangshan was too politically savvy, he said, to act purely from anger. They still had time to maneuver. And other meetings scheduled.

Even then, they had received plenty of correspondence of outrage, from rival and allied Sects alike—some even from their own people. They had not forgotten the pain of being occupied as a Supervisory Office. The wounds of the loss of all of those in the Lotus Pier compound were not even scarred over, yet, still red and furious. A-Yao was doing things behind the scenes to work on public opinion, but had once described it as carefully walking a tightrope. Yanli would agree, and secretly add that it felt as if it were one high in the air, above crashing waters and hungry mouths. The Jiang still held a strong standing in the jianghu, solid reputation held there equally by the legacy of their parents and A-Cheng's monumental success in the rebuilding of their Sect at his age.

But the children of the Jiang knew better than anyone, save perhaps the other Clans wiped out by the Qishan Wen, to never rely on that remaining true. They were not safe yet. There were miles yet to go, in this.

She wished she could be of more help, but she was still too weak to do much else besides be led about to bask in the shade, as she did now. Today was the first time in a long time she had felt well enough to consider reading, or perhaps embroidery. Maybe even cooking something simple, if she had help. And, in truth, there was not much she could do amidst the street gambler’s Shell Game they were attempting to pull with the Wen amidst the already complicated match of go they always played with the rest of the jianghu.

And so, the leak of who told who about the pregnancy remained a mystery. It didn’t truly bother her; the excitement and congratulations, A-Yuan’s sweet, probing questions. She was just as relieved to be able to not have to keep a secret on top of the upwelling of emotions that swamped her daily. Elation. Terror. Anticipation. Pride. Anxiety. Satisfaction. And, of course, love.

Most of all love.

She had hardly been able to properly absorb what Wen Qing was saying that day, to express the elation and terror that coursed through her--and through A-Yao as well, if the shock in his pale face had been anything to go by--before Qing-mei had somehow herded him out of their room after A-yuan and closed the door firmly behind them. “Jiang-furen,” she had said, coming to sit on the edge of her bed. There was an edge of steel in her face and tone that was nowhere to be found in the gentle hands that folded around Yanli's own. “Please, speak freely. Tell me the truth. Is this what you want?”

Exhaustion had sapped into her bones, as wet and heavy as her breath. “Is…what?” she had trailed off, dizzy.

Wen Qing, seeing this, had first helped her settle back down flat onto her pillows. When the gnawing swirling in her gut and head had abated, slightly, Qing-mei continued, unflinchingly; “This pregnancy. If this isn't what you want, there are ways I can help you that no one will be able to detect. If you are being pressured by Jin Guangyao to--”

“What? A-Yao?“ Yanli had repeated on a laugh more of startlement than humor that had turned into a coughing fit.

As it had squeezed her already sore middle, a strange, aware panic had suddenly overcome her--would coughing so hard hurt the pregnancy? She had curled around her stomach and tried to stifle them, with limited success. From now on, she would be housing another that would share in her discomforts. The thought was…unimaginable.

When the coughing had finally passed, she had gasped, weakly, “Ah, oh no, no…this was planned, we both want to start…. I...we didn't expect...I'm just surprised, I suppose.”

The worried disbelief on Qing-mei’s face had made her close her eyes in weariness, praying for patience and words enough to convince her. She would not live through another well meaning woman trying to pry her marriage apart at the seams because they did not think he deserved her. How to explain to them a husband who laid every choice at her feet? How to properly convey just how safe she had been made to feel in her own marriage? The easiest love she had ever been gifted? “You have gotten the wrong impression, meimei, I'm delighted, I'm...I'm....” Going to have a baby. A baby!

The thought had made her more lightheaded still, either with giddiness, terror, or a combination of the two, she hadn't quite been able to tell.

Even then, it had taken a significant amount of effort to convince her suspicious sister-in-law that, no, her husband was not impregnating her in some sneaky bid to solidify a place of power in their Clan; no, he did not scare, control, or force her; no, he had not been the one to somehow put the idea of transferring her own core to A-Xian into her head. That had been there a while all on its own.

It was still close enough to the failed conversations she had had with Madam Jin that she might have begun to feel the same helpless frustration, if Wen Qing hadn't subsided into a still suspicious acceptance of her wishes and the quickly growing whirlwind of shimmering excitement hadn’t begun swarming through her limbs as every time she said ‘my baby’ and ‘our child’, the future seemed that much more tangible.

And Qing-mei meant well, Yanli knew. Whatever she had seen in A-Yao in their time at the Scorching Sun Palace had clearly scared her deeply, and Yanli wasn't going to dismiss that. Her husband was cunning and clever, able to change faces with the ease of a passing cloud when he needed to. She had seen it herself and she could not, would not deny it. But she knew his heart, knew that he was also kind, sweet, gentle, and frightened--she loved him for all of it. That included the parts he regretted, the parts that Wen Qing hated. Yanli would never have anything to fear from him.

She could tell that Wen Qing still thought she was either helplessly hoodwinked or naive, but she seemed at least satisfied that Yanli wanted this for herself and her family and did not bring up the idea again. In fact, each new day she got to spend with the girl, she seemed to be a little more relaxed. At least she had far more color in her face and light in her eyes than when she had first laid eyes on her in that Lanling forest, looking as much like a corpse as her brother--just a walking one. Yet, even with the improvements to her health and mood, even after weeks, she and A-Cheng still circled each other warily. They practically fled the room whenever they saw that the other had entered.

It might have been amusing if it weren’t so tragic.

How did one matchmake a couple who was, effectively, already married? Yanli thought that she might be able to have some clue, seeing how her and A-Yao’s love had blossomed with care and time, but if the two wouldn’t even share the same air….It reminded her uncomfortably of their parents’ relationship; prickly silence and separate rooms across the Pier. It raised ugly gooseflesh down her back to think of A-Cheng resigning himself to be as miserable in marriage as they clearly had been. She might not have dared to think so as a child, but after her own delightful marriage, knowing what it could feel like…she wept for her parents and all that they had become. For what they both so clearly wanted but didn’t know how to get without sacrificing parts of themselves they refused to let go of, for better or worse.

A-Cheng and Qing-mei didn’t need to love each other. Yanli knew the seed of love was there, in her brother at least, knew that yearning look in his eye. She had seen him as a teenager eagerly waiting for her eye to turn to him--a warming Wen sun, not a burning one. Everything had become hopelessly tangled with rage and regret and duty and grief during the murder of their Clan and the war. But irreparably so? She hoped not. They didn’t need to love each other, but Yanli would have them at least comfortable in their living with each other. She would love to actually host a real wedding for them, one day, in private.

What little she could do for A-Cheng, she tried, probing him gently once in a while--when he had a spare moment to visit, which wasn’t often. She complimented the clothes he had admitted to ordering for Wen Qing; robes in a spectrum of rich plums, burgundies, and muted magentas--red the undertones of each. “Did she ask for those colors in particular?”

“No.” His whole affect always sagged, dulled whenever she gently probed him about his wife and he would stare at his hands.

“Did you choose them yourself, then?”

“...Yes. I…Yes.”

She had been delighted to be surprised by this, though she shouldn’t have been--he had always been a smart dresser with a keen eye for color. Besides some of her Jiang shimei’s and the tailor, she had specifically sought his opinion on her own wedding outfit. He and A-Xian had been planning her entire wedding since they were 8, after all, he was bound to have opinions. And he certainly had--her wedding dress had had both of her brother’s stamps of approval.

Lately, when he came by, he was always well groomed, but could feel the stress humming through him and behind his tired eyes. He could act so prickly, she wondered if anyone was pestering him to make sure he slept well. If they would let themselves, she was sure a wife would be a perfect person to do so. Whenever Yanli tried, he would just say that she shouldn’t worry about him with everything going on with her, that he was sleeping fine, and would proceed to fuss over her instead.

“A-Cheng, what’s troubling you?”

“Nothing, jiejie.”

“You’re a terrible liar, sweetling.

“I don’t have the time to worry about pretending to be married, right now.”

“You could just try talking to her, you know. Just…start a conversation.”

His face scrunched up in a combination of self derision, confusion, and agony, wrinkling his nose and narrowing his eyes. Waiting, she had stroked his hand where it lay balled up on her blanket, his knuckles a pale bite against the rich emerald and purple. “I wouldn’t know what to talk about,” he had finally said, shortly, his voice more of a mumble than the gruff dismissive tone she thought he might have been aiming for.

“You could ask her what she’s feeling, how she likes it here.”

“I don’t think I want to know.” He was staring down at her bedspread, bleakly, tight lines of worry between his brows.

When she had reached up to try to smooth them away, admonishing his doubt with a gentle, “A-Cheng--” he had caught her hand and pressed the backs of her knuckles against his cheek, eyes squeezed shut. After a sharp, indrawn breath, he had announced that he needed to go--and she needed to rest. There was nothing more she could say without making him flee faster.

What a mess all of this was.

Qing-mei was not much more of a help on that front. And Yanli was even less inclined to force her, poor girl--they didn’t have the history and she didn’t want to trap her. Every time she brought up A-Cheng or their marriage or what she felt about the whole relationship, she clammed up and grew solemn. “I’m grateful to Jiang-zongzhu. To all of you,” was all she would ever say, regarding their arrangement.

At least Yanli had finally convinced her to stop calling her Jiang-furen, insisting that if they were going to be sisters now, it only made sense. She had confided in the younger woman that she had never had a little sister before, that she was excited to have someone to call ‘meimei’. At that, quite apart from her unflappable, self assured doctorly attitude, Qing-mei had offered, shyly, that she had never been a little sister before and that she found the idea quite odd. This tacit acceptance of the role delighted Yanli beyond words.

Qing-mei had taken to visiting her long past the time she had finished checking and treating her, taking tea and meals in her room either A-Yao came back or Yanli would, embarrassingly. fall asleep mid sentence. They hadn’t been able to visit like this very often when she had sheltered them in Yiling--Wen Qing would be called away and there had been work to be done, healing A-Cheng. Now, though, they had time and privacy, and their conversations would wander both wide and deep, over being elder sisters to trouble-prone younger brothers, about their shared time in Yiling, their mothers, their favorite books. Qing-mei was very clearly reluctant to confide her worries in her, whether in not wanting to cause her further stress or simply due to her own innate reservation, and so their conversations rarely included fears or the far future.

But, sometimes, she would talk about Wei Wuxian’s progress and Wen Ning. “I don’t know what I’m more afraid of,” she had whispered one evening as the sun set outside, stock still next to Yanli’s bed, staring at the screen that threw spindly shadows of willow’s fingers across like thrashing ropes. “The idea that he may never come back. Or that he might…and I don’t know what he will be.” She had turned her head then, her neck and spine braced bravely, but her large, sweet eyes shining with tears in the low lantern light. “Da-gu, he’s so cold,” she had choked, barely audible.

When Yanli had sat forward and reached out her arms, there was no hesitation when Qing-mei huddled into them, shaking silently.

Yanli herself had not yet seen what was left of Qing-mei’s gentle brother since she had landed at Lotus Pier, barely conscious herself. It hurt her heart to remember the shy, earnest boy she had seen attempting to become invisible behind his sister, despite his standing several inches taller than her at the Cloud Recesses what felt like eons ago. She hardly knew a thing about him, and all she did was through Xianxian and Qing-mei’s eyes. Hopefully there was a future possible for them to get to know each other on their own terms.

Though she wholeheartedly believed in Xianxian’s brilliance and dogged tenacity, she had to admit…a conscious fierce corpse had never been achieved before. And the work was hard and damaging. It had scared her when she had finally seen what A-Xian had looked like after a week of what was clearly just a diet of half forgotten food and resentful energy. She had found him in the family shrine just a few days ago, when it was too rainy to sit outside comfortably. The early autumn had been washing warm, wet storms over them almost daily, but often, they came and went within minutes and she would patiently await the sun beneath a tree and her parasol. That day, however, the day woke to rain, and it had stayed, churning the lake cloudy with disturbed particulates.

Though she enjoyed a good walk in the rain, everyone--A-Yao, A-Cheng, He Si, Qing-mei, Liu-popo, her childhood doctor-- had cautioned against going out in it when she was still fragile, and so her maid had helped her shuffle slowly across shining walkways and summer-verdant ponds pebbled with raindrops, huddled together under a waxed parasol and cloak. When she saw a hunched, dark shape within, she had paused at the door, squinting into the incense and candle warmed gloom within. When she recognized the set of her brother’s shoulders, she had quietly dismissed He Si with a lift of her chin.

A-Xian had looked up when she moved from the fresh, silvery air of the outside to the space of quietly splashing water and remembered prayers. Immediately, the comforting hiss and patter of rain receded even more when she slid the door shut, leaving them surrounded only by the pale darkness of the ornate lotus screen panels--a private little universe. When she turned, A-XIan was already there, helping her out of her cloak, taking the dripping parasol from her hand. “Shijie! Are you sure you should be up?” The shadows beneath his eyes were dark and he had missed a spot on his jaw shaving this morning.

“I don’t think staying in bed for the rest of my pregnancy would be good for me or my baby, A-XIan.” She had softened the already gentle jibe by brushing back the hair from his face and patting his cheek, feeling the prickle under her fingers. “Help me to the cushions?”

He, of course, did, supporting her elbow, his other hand wrapped protectively around her far shoulder. The scent that clung to him was sharp and unpleasant, wholly unlike the memories she associated with him. Long ago, she had buried her nose in the top of his little boy head, and would breathe in soap and sunshine and love--and now, as a man, he used to smell like the spices he liked to eat and something fresh. Now, he smelled like…danger, soot, blood. That alone would have unnerved her. But when they sat next to each other and her eyes adjusted, she could take in the whole of him.

“I know, I know, I look terrible. I look worse than I feel, don’t worry,” he waved off her eye’s widening with feigned ease, smiling.

He had lost weight quickly, leaving him hollow cheeked and wan. His hair was only hastily brushed, his topknot uneven, slightly lopsided, and his eyes were bloodshot. On his hands, cinnabar, soot, and old blood was smeared, half-heartedly wiped, then smeared again, darkening around his nails. “A-Xian,” she had intoned with enough force that he immediately sat up straight, sucking in his lips like a child caught out doing something he knew he shouldn’t be doing. “After we talk, you’re going to take a bath and eat a full meal outside your room. Alright?”

“Really, I’m--”

“A-Xian!” She had broken in, frowning, eyebrows drawn down.

He hunkered down, pouting as he muttered, “Yes, Shijie.” Tilting doleful eyes and pushed out lip up at her, he then whined, “Shijieeee, don’t be mad at me. I’ll do better. Sorry if I’m smelly.” To illustrate this, he theatrically lifted up his sleeve to sniff it, then wrinkled his nose in real distaste. “Ugh. Alright, I get it.”

With a sigh, she had reached for his hands. He had seemed to wake to what was on them and scrubbed his palms on his thighs before taking them. “It’s not that, Xianxian, you know that. I’m worried about you. I’m worried about both of you.”

Apparently, he and A-Cheng had also been warily circling each other, like they did after most fights. Their spats, she had heard from a combination of A-Yao, He Si, and Qing-mei were more mundane and brotherly, now, weeks later--though they ended as often with eye rolling and secret smiles as hurt feelings and tight lipped silences. It had been bad right after their return, she had heard--A-Cheng storming around with a poisonous temper for days and A-Xian working on Wen Ning all hours of the day and night, refusing to leave his room. She hated that she had to hear about it second hand, that they visited her one at a time, that when she was able to emerge from her room, they were often away, doing what they could. She wasn’t around to soothe their rough edges from grinding against the other.

Qing-mei was with her the most, A-Yao a close second, when he wasn’t helping A-Cheng or something else that needed doing around the Pier. Xianxian had only come in a few times, sometimes too exhausted to do anything but drape himself over the edge of her bed and childishly request hair stroking, which she, of course, gave. Once, a day or two after she had discovered she was pregnant, apparently deciding that she was well enough for a scolding, he had come and very seriously told her to never even think about giving him her core again. “Aren’t you glad Wen Qing said no to that nonsense?” he had demanded, frowning at her in displeasure.

Yanli thought it was rich of him being so incensed about it, but she had let it go. “I wasn’t…I don’t remember doing it. It was the fever, I think.”

“Well, don’t even go thinking it!” he had said, fierceness belayed by him anxiously petting at her arm. “Put it out of your head! Alright?”

She thought about a great many things that she didn’t share with him. It wasn’t something she thought of…constantly. Or even very often. It was just something that had reared its head when she had learned of what A-Xian and Wen Qing had done. When he had sat before A-Cheng and herself with A-Yao by his side and tried to pretend it wasn’t the worst thing they had ever heard. She felt sick when she remembered it--sick for both her brothers. She couldn’t think about it too long, or….

But she was, indeed, glad that Qing-mei had stoutly refused her delirious babble. Her core, weak and pitiful as it was, was going to have to support her and this child through her pregnancy. At least it was finally good for something.

With a start, Yanli blinked out of her hazy, sunwarmed ruminations of the past few weeks and back into the garden, now shaded a brilliant blue from the after images her orange eyelids had left. She couldn’t have been dozing long, for she could hear footsteps returning back down the path. But something in the back of her mind perked up at their familiarity and the knowledge that it wasn’t He Si’s stride. Delighted, she levered herself back entirely upright in the chair and twisted around to see her husband emerging from around the dwarf maple whose leaf edges flirted with gold. “A-Yao!”

“I’ve brought you something, Jiang-furen,” he announced with a twinkle of humor in his dimples, presenting her favorite scalloped, lavender parasol, dotted with intricate plum blossoms on a branch. “He Si was very keen that you have it.”

She laughed and shook her head, reaching out to him for a greeting kiss, which he warmly bestowed on her. He smelled and tasted lovely, like he had been walking around out in the fresh air all day. “She frets so much. It couldn’t have anything to do with you fretting so much, could it? Is she coming back?”

“I dismissed her for other duties, as I assumed you might wish to spend time together.”

Delights up on delights! “Oh, always!”

He helped her up from her chair and walked pressed to her side, his arm sure and firm around her, his fingertips brushing her belly beneath her sleeve, out of sight from passing eyes. Oh, A-Yao; her beloved, tangled up A-Yao.

Despite his calm outward face, was so clearly terrified by everything about this, including the prospect of not being by her side at every moment. He was constantly on the move, organizing and advising and assisting and whatever else his clever mind decided that they needed--but in between all this, he would appear anxiously at her side at all hours, asking what he could do, if He Si was attending to her properly, if she needed something. Come to think of it…perhaps she had better make sure her husband had no overt hand in her maid’s currently overly fretful state.

She was fairly certain he was more scared than she was about the prospect of becoming a parent, which was endearing, considering she was the one that would have to give birth and not him. He hid it quite admirably, even for him, buried underneath the more typical worry for her--and now, the baby’s--health. And he clearly planned to “burden” her with none of it. But she could see it in his eyes, could feel it in the way he held her.

When they had discovered she was with child, that night, he had asked to make love to her, and had done so exquisitely sweetly. Well, every time they had made love so far had been sweet, but that night, he had been even more tender, more warm and attentive than ever before. Every press of his skin had been gentle enough that she could barely feel where he began and she ended. Ever since then, he had been treating her as if she were made of precious glass. From him, her husband, she happily accepted the attention. The way that he doted on her never made her feel lessened, like he thought she was some incapable child or weak, silly girl. It only made her feel wanted and precious.

He had been appalled that he had let her go on the arduous trip to find Wei Wuxian, and when she had asked with her expression, smiling softly; Let me?, he had amended that he should have begged her to come back with him to Lotus Pier. She had had to remind her that she couldn’t have. A-Yao had simply sighed deeply and said that he knew. Running her hands over his jaw, where the yellow-brown ghosts of the bruises on his jaw from Zixun were finally no longer visible, she had said, “I’ll be careful now. And so should you, yes?”

He had kissed her slowly into sleep.

Now, together, they agreed to try some cooking in the smaller kitchen, so as not to get in the way of the cooks. It was the most activity than she had attempted in days, but there was no tremble to her hands and her muscles felt like actual muscles today, instead of some wet, quivering mud. Standing felt good instead of arduous. And she would never get her strength back if she lived in a chair for the next 9 months. This kitchen was more cluttered than the main one, and a little darker for the smaller windows, but by no means dirty--it also gave them the added benefit of privacy. It was because of this, she was certain, that A-Yao felt comfortable enough to press up behind her as she stood at the counter and sliced up figs. His arms rested comfortably about her waist, palms pressed to her belly and chin resting on her shoulder as he observed her work. Though his whole front pressed warmly against her back, there was no lascivious invitation in it, only closeness and trust. In public, he was not overtly performative with his affection; a supporting arm while walking here, laying a hand atop hers there. It was when they were alone he felt he could cautiously touch her more freely, as if the eyes of others made his love something lewd. Well…she supposed that might in fact be a concern for him. No matter. Whether a peck in private, a brush of her cheek in public and everything in between--and sometimes more--she adored it all.

“I’m not going to fall over, A-Yao,” she teased. “I’ll let you know if I need to sit down.”

“Of course,” he answered easily, but did not move away, instead nuzzling his face into the crook of her neck.

Contended, she hummed and paused in her knife strokes, laying her cheek atop his shoulder. A golden glow, at once fierce and tender, had a permanent place in her chest nowadays. It had nothing to do with her fading illness and everything to do with this bright new future she had been gifted. She was so lucky.

Outside the widow, across the courtyard, someone screamed.

A-Yao spun her back from the window as the bright afternoon outside was split with a crash, an inhuman roar, and more screams, one right after the other. Yanli stumbled, pressed herself against the far wall, her heart pounding wildly against her ribs. Icy gooseflesh cascaded over skin, her stomach knotted in fear. A-Yao, a dagger suddenly in hand, was peering out the window, motionless. She couldn’t see anything from her angle and the leaves outside, but the wild screaming, the roaring continued. The sound of running feet. “What is it?” she whispered, voice pressed thin.

He only wordlessly shook his head, scanning back and forth. A tree stood in front of the window, she knew, obscuring most of the view of the outside.

What on earth could it be? Lotus Pier was protected, there were talismans and wards and--

A-Cheng bellowed something, voice harsh with fear.

A-Cheng.

“A-Li, no--!” A-Yao’s shout followed her out the door, but she couldn’t stop.

Her brother was in trouble. I won’t be left behind again, I can’t, I can’t--

The courtyard stones flew beneath her feet, then the bridge and she could see, flashing into her mind like blinding light off of waves. A-Cheng, across the walkway, Sandu flashing in the sun, Zidian crackling. Still bellowing, pointing. Disciples running to him as quickly as the servants flooded away, wailing in terror. A towering black figure on the other side of the ornamental pond, wreathed in writhing smoke. It ripped out another unearthly snarl as it flung something big away from itself. A body, a person, flailing in midair, screaming. A snap as they crashed through a carved banister and landed in a sickening, motionless heap, a loose pink ribbon fluttering to earth behind them. “He Si!”

A hand clamped on her arm as she started forward. A-Yao had caught up. “A-Li!”

“We can’t! A-Si!” She struggled forward, clutching his sleeve, dragging him along.

Shouts and screams bled into the pounding in her ears, pulse a frantic bird in her head that shrieked. She was only across the walkway, only a dozen steps away. Clangs, a thump, a grunt--oh gods! Then she heard A-Cheng’s voice still shouting orders--not him. A-Yao’s face was sharp and hard. His other hand rose to her shoulder. He was going to pick her up and carry her away, saw his thoughts written like script across his face and she couldn’t, she clutched at him and pleaded, “No, please! A-Yao, please, please!” They couldn’t just leave her here, bleeding, in danger!

His eyes darted, then his pull changed, urging her forward, running with her instead of pulling her back. Her movements were loose with fear, jerky and wild and she nearly fell up the steps onto the walkway. Blood covered the girl's face, pooling crimson rapidly onto the shining wood around her. They bent, dragging her back to get better purchase on her limp body. Her feet dragged pitifully. Yanli’s hands were shaking so badly she couldn’t close them around her arms properly. One still held the knife from the kitchen. She had forgotten she still had it.

The girl wasn’t moving. A-Yao hefted her torso up in his arms, turned to her, opened his mouth--

A fresh wave of screams.

“Jiejie!” A-Cheng’s voice cracked from across the second bridge as she heard a shuffle of wind, a thump behind them and suddenly, the roots of her teeth ached, and that smell--the sharp, burning metal-blood smell that clung to A-Xian--flooded her.

Looking up, the sun blinded her for a split second before vicious smoke--resentful energy stung her eyes, flooded her throat--white hand filled her vision. Then, something canoned into her side, knocking her away to sprawl away from He Si. Blood and sky spun around her. Battlefield gore, fear, death choked her throat. Gasping, coughing, she scrambled, to her hands and knees, head whirling. When she looked up, her entire body went ice cold and all she could hear in the world was screaming.

It was Wen Ning, black veins sprawling across his face, the empty white holes of his eyes fixed on who he now held by the throat. A-Yao, who had knocked her aside.

No!

Even though the foul resentful energy wreathing them both, her husband’s eyes were alight with more rage than fear, teeth bared. He had already buried his dagger hilt deep in Wen Ning’s chest, right in his heart. The fierce corpse vented another noise human throats should not be able to make and lifted A-Yao, like he was light as a rag, off his feet. Thrashing, choking, A-Yao brought up a leg to kick the dagger hilt deeper, another already in his other hand.

Wen Ning’s other hand shot out, latched around his wrist. Yanli felt the snap in her chest more than heard it. His dagger clanged to the ground. She could see those fingers closing further, like a vise, crushing. A-Yao made no sound--couldn’t, his throat was squeezed, he couldn’t--he couldn’t--

Screaming--she was screaming, that noise was her--she stumbled up, forward, swinging the kitchen knife up to hack at Wen Ning’s arms, wrists, anything to free her husband. She was close enough that the writhing mist stung like nettles over her skin when something collided with her again, knocking her back from them, sending the knife clattering away from her grip. Qing-mei clung to her, dragged her back, shouting something into her ear. She fought against her, still screaming. He had A-Yao!

It had been only moments since Wen Ning had landed behind them, but time was boiling, stretching, bursting around them. No no no no no--

Crackling, blinding purple wrapped around Wen Ning’s pale throat, pulled tight and he at least dropped A-Yao’s arm, snarling, clawing at it. Zidian. A-Cheng was there, yanking back on Zidian hard enough to bow Wen Ning’s spine back. But he still had A-Yao’s throat clenched in his grip, still held him up entirely as he kicked at him, hands locked on Wen Ning’s wrist.

“A-Ning, stop! Stop!” Wen Qing cried, arms still knotted around Yanli, still dragging her back as she struggled.

The disciples clamored nearer, shouting, flinging talismans that sizzled into ash as soon as they met the corona of energy spilling from Wen Ning. Some were already limping, bleeding, and A-Cheng shouted at them to stay back. A piercing, chilling note shrieked above the clamor, freezing Wen Ning still as stone.

A-Xian.

Frantically, Yanli searched for him, found him pelting around the corner of the Banquet Hall, Chenqing at his lips. “Wei Wuxian!” A-Cheng roared over at him. “Make him stop!”

A-Xian was pale and wide eyed as his fingers flew over the black lacquer of his flute. He skidded to a halt to suck in a huge breath and trill a complicated, twisting melody that raised all the hairs on Yanli’s body. A shudder went through Wen Ning like a wave across the pond and he began to shake. A quiet, abrupt gasp broke from A-Yao’s lips, as if the fingers around his throat had loosened fractionally. But his face was almost blue, eyes rolling back--and black veins were snaking from under the fierce corpse’s palm.

“A-YAO!”

In that instant of brief stillness, like a shadow, A-Cheng rose up from behind Wen Ning, Zidian pulled taut in his hand, Sandu raised--his face was dark as a thundercloud, death in his eyes. “Zongzhu!” Qing-mei’s gasped, “Husband, please! Don’t hurt him!”

A-Cheng’s hesitated, eyes flickered, his killing intent cracked. “A-Cheng!” Yanli shrieked, fighting and thrashing, throat raw.

She didn’t even know what she was begging him to do. All she knew was that A-Yao was now just twitching instead of kicking and she could not get free.

A-Cheng’s face hardened as Chenqing’s tone shrilled up and down a haunting scale, and, with a huge heave, he wrenched Zidian back. The frozen Wen Ning toppled down sideways with the force of it, collapsing both he and A-Yao over into the ornamental lotus pond beside them with a splash. Yanli no longer had to break free of Wen Qing’s grip, for they were both racing to the pond as fast as they could.

But A-Cheng slid in front of them, flinging out his arms to block them both with his chest as Chenqing’s notes cut off, A-Xian’s panicked voice instead yelling out a warning; Wen Ning reared up from the water behind him, roaring, thrashing, and splashing.

A-Yao did not.

#Yaoli #jgy #jin guangyao #jiang yanli #jyl #peony to lotus #my stuff #rarepair #mdzs #the untamed #my fic #the untamed fanfic #Well hellooooo there :3 (said while showing up a year later with the update)#I HOPE YOU ALL ENJOY I TRIED TO GIVE YOU A NICE BREAK BEFORE ACTION AND ANGST AGAIN 😬 But don't worry every little thing's gonna be alright #The next chapter will be from Xichen's POV!#I may come back and do some editing of grammar things because I've rearranged it a few times

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voidbeau · 2 months ago

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"Hey. Come here often?" I posted the wip for this a couple months back i think and im only just now finishing it orz Being that i feel like im in an art slump im just going back and finishing old stuff for now i guess. This was part of an au i had where Thorn and Mr. Flower get to meet much earlier in life. So Thorn is probably like 17-18 here or sumthin. Still a smoker. And jus a baby. Anyway, enjoy this short fic to go with it:

-+-+-+- Mr. Flower passed through the cemetery gates like he did every week, though this time was a little bit different. With a lily clutched in one hand and the strap of his backpack gripped in the other, Mr. Flower tread along the uneven cobblestone path with a vacant stare. He was behind schedule sadly, and the creature felt a tinge of guilt for having to switch up his weekly visit from Sunday to Wednesday. Aside from preferring to stick to things as scheduled, Mr. Flower was more distraught at the fact that he had left his poor dad to have to wait on him. Though Mr. Flower's mother, Maddie assured him it made no real difference.

"The dead don't get lonely, honey. You're wasting valuable study time!" He recalled her saying, shaking her head at him as if visiting his father's grave was some sort of inconvenience to her. Though Mr. Flower supposed it would be like her to see things that way.

It had been years since his father's passing and it seemed like everyone was ready to move on except for Mr. Flower.

The young floral creature sighed, the sound of autumn winds whirling across the open graveyard, passing over the now bare trees that shook and scraped against the sides of the grave sites and the various monuments to the dead.

Crows gathered and cawed as Mr. Flower ventured down the familiar cemetery path. There seemed to be more around than usual today. It was a little unnerving in a way, not that being in a cemetery alone ever spooked Mr. Flower, he was long past the idea of ghosts and ghouls. Still there was always something unsettling about how empty and quiet it always was. Not that the floral creature would expect a graveyard to be a popular gathering spot for anyone, though he did see other creatures coming to visit lost loved ones from time to time.

Mr. Flower expected no more and no less. Today however, there was a bizarre chill in the air and a pit in his stomach that he felt would be much alleviated by the presence of another. Mr. Flower glanced at the setting sun in the distance, the way it glowed an almost ominous crimson as it reflected off the clouds above.

The creature wasn't far off from his father now.

Mr. Flower continued on, clutching the front of his navy jacket- something that was proving to be not enough for the chilly bite of the season. The young man would have to remember to dress a little heavier next time to combat the chill in his body.

As the young floral creature approached his destination amidst the various burial sites, he knelt down and cleared off the old white lilies that had remained from previous visits. He set his backpack aside and retrieved an old cloth from it, quietly working away at the built up dirt and debris on his dad's resting place. Once Mr. Flower had dusted off the marble and gave the plate a quick polish, Mr. Flower quietly placed the fresh flower on the stone cover of his father's gave.

For a moment Mr. Flower just sat quietly, kneeling as he considered the past few years without his dad around.

It had been tough on him, naturally. Especially when it seemed like he was the only one who seemed affected by the sudden loss of such an important figure in the family. His siblings seemed unphased and their mother went about her business as usual.

They had all recovered so fast.

Mr. Flower's dad had always been the one source of calm and comfort in the midst of his family's chaotic ways, and the one person who stood up for him against his mother's tendency for hostile behaviour.

Now it was just Mr. Flower. His siblings were around sure, but they had a way of quietly falling in line and staying out of the way that left Mr. Flower feeling alone.

"Sorry I'm late." Mr. Flower apologized quietly, "Everyone's been busy as usual so it's just me again." He went on, ending his words with a sigh. The young man glanced down at the white lily on his dad's grave. Madonna lilies, something specifically picked out by his mother and the only kind of flower she would accept anywhere near her husband's grave. Not that she was ever around to oversee its upkeep, especially lately. The only thing keeping Mr. Flower from changing up her request was the fact she insisted they were her husband's favourite.

Mr. Flower often rolled his eyes at the idea, considering his mother both resembled and shared a name with that particular lily, he usually assumed it her was prioritizing herself in his dad's life the way she often did.

However, Mr. Flower himself regretfully couldn't confirm how true that claim his mother made was, as the topic never really came up between him and his dad, but if that was the case, then it was for Mr. Flower's dad that he'd keep up his mother Maddie's silly rule.

As Mr. Flower stood, the winds picked up and with it the gust had kicked up loose leaves and debris. Shielding his eyes, Mr. Flower yelped as bits of dirt and leaves collided rather roughly with his face. It took a moment, but the boy waited for the sudden burst of wind to die down. When it did, Mr. Flower had looked down to see that his father's lily had been carried off by the current.

Mr. Flower's shoulders dropped in dismay, as did his petals as he searched the nearby headstones to see where the little memento had ended up.

Down the long path at the foot of another grave site, Mr. Flower spotted the bright white petals of lily resting against the cold stone. The floral creature rushed down the path towards it, hoping to get there before another gust of wind carried it off. He ran along the lineup of headstones, statues and monuments to the dead, all growing more elaborate the further the creature travelled. Stopping where two different rows intersected, Mr. Flower leaned forward to pick up his father's lily, and as he stood again, the smell of cigarette smoke caught his attention.

Clutching the flower in hand, the Mr. Flower glanced around him curiously until his gaze fell upon a black clad, rose headed figure laying far too casually on the top of an above ground grave off to his right. He was a little further down the intersecting path that crossed over the one that Mr. Flower had come from, and the rose seemed completely unaware Mr. Flower was even there. The mysterious boy was obviously very relaxed, one hand draped over his chest while the other held a lit cigarette between two fingers. His eyes were closed but the young man was clearly awake, noted by the way his odd shoes tapped rhythmically as they lay propped up on the headstone at his feet. He seemed to be humming to himself.

Mr. Flower frowned, finding this guy's choice of resting place to be a rather rude gesture to whoever was actually resting there. While Mr. flower himself had no clue whose grave this person was irreverently laying on, it still irked Mr. Flower knowing that person no doubt meant something to somebody. "Uhm, hello?" Mr. Flower spoke up, watching as the rose boy's eyes popped open- wide and spiralling and though it wasn't unusual for any resident of the void to be sporting unique eyes, Mr. Flower had never personally seen any like that before. And even though they were new to him personally, there was still something uncomfortably familiar about them. The rose boy seemed to smile at Mr. Flower, which only caused Mr. Flower's frown to deepen. That pit in his stomach he had felt from earlier seemed to deepen as well, and the floral creature found himself clutching his arm with his other hand. Regardless, the creature stood his ground. "Oh, hello!" The rose responded, taking a long drag from his cigarette before unhooking his legs from the head stone to roll over on his stomach. "Can I help you?" He asked with a grin, baring two rows of unnervingly sharp teeth as he did so.

Mr. Flower's petals tightened in alarm, just like his grip on his arm did.

A monster..?

Mr. Flower shook the apprehension from his mind, deciding it didn't matter in the moment if he was a monster or a creature. This guy was still being disrespectful and so Mr. Flower was going to voice it. "I don't think you should be lounging around on someone else' grave." The creature spoke up, his voice much steadier than his hand was at that moment. The fan-like petals on the sides of his head were stiff and tightly held together, pressed firmly into the sides of his head.

The rose boy looked confused for a second, but he seemed to get the picture quick enough as he examined his spot. He shrugged and his grin returned to him. "What's the big deal? Cemetery's are resting spots after a fashion, right?" He said with something of a shrug, trying to make light of the situation.

Mr. Flower was not amused. "Yeah. For the dead." He said flatly.

The rose chuckled, lifting himself off the stone slab enough to slide off of it and onto his feet. An action that highlighted the very obvious but expected height difference there was between him and Mr. Flower, even at the distance they were at. Regardless of size, this rose boy looked to be around Mr. Flower's age, but the uncertain creature had never seen this guy around school before. He had to have been from one of the neighbouring voids.

"Fair enough." The rose said as he slid his hands into his pockets. His cigarette sat between his lips. The rose monster seemed to look Mr. Flower over, an action that made the creature shuffle uncomfortably where he stood. Mr. Flower returned with his own scrutinizing gaze of sorts, unsure of what to make of this guy. He had a very interesting manner of dressing, a style he knew his mother would absolutely despise. But Mr. Flower was always careful not to make judgments based on anything his mother thought.

At least he tried not to.

"Does this dusty old rock slab mean something to you then?" The rose monster spoke up, motioning towards the stone memorial now behind him. Mr. Flower shook his head. "No." He said simply, which seemed to earn an eye roll from the monster. "Then what's the big deal?" He replied, unphased by the stern glare he was consistently earning for himself from Mr. Flower. "Just because it means nothing to you doesn't mean that's the case for other people." The creature responded, the usual gentle tone of his voice slowly being replaced by the clear irritation he was feeling for this rose guy. But it seemed as though Mr. Flower's biting remark had hit something of a nerve in the rose, and his annoying grin had quickly faded.

The rose took another long drag of his cigarette, moving it from his lips to his fingers again as he exhaled. The crows in the area seemed to be caught up in the exchange, cawing noisily as they flapped around in the sky above, watching the events unfold below them. It wasn't long before the rose smiled again however, though he seemed a little more tense now from what Mr. Flower could see. "I promise you, there's not a soul left in this void or the next who gives two shits about the people buried here." The rose seemed to say with full confidence, allowing himself to sit back down on the edge of the stone slab. When he did, the monster looked almost solemnly at the headstone that he had been resting his feet on just moments before. There, Mr. Flower could make out a faded insignia of some sort, an elaborate crest with rose shapes carved into the stone. A pattern similar to the ones that were neighbour to it, and at the centre was some sort of crescent moon bordering an eye.

Much like the symbol that hung from the rosary beads that hung from the rose boy's wrist.

And interesting choice of accessory.

Still, with all that in mind it dawned on Mr. Flower that he may have jumped to some conclusions in the moment, and he felt his face flush slightly with embarrassment.

A silence hung in the air as the winds picked up to fill the quiet void.

"Uhm-... I'm sorry. I didn't realize-"

"Don't worry about it." The rose quickly replied, cutting Mr. Flower off before he could finish. A sigh escaped the young creature. "Truth be told, I wouldn't be here either if it wasn't expected of me." The rose admitted, leaning back on his arms as they held him up. It was then that the creature noted the intricate patterns across the other boy's skin. Like thorns and roses, marking that seemed to crawl up his arms and disappear underneath his loose sleeves. Mr. Flower watched as the monster tossed the last of his cigarette onto the cobblestone path before him, putting the butt out with his shoe. As he did, the monster's words seemed to sink in and Mr. Flower found himself a little irked by his statement. "So is desecration a typical pass time for you then?" Mr. Flower asked with a frown. The rose scoffed and shrugged. "Desecration is kind of a strong word, don't you think?" He replied with a chuckle. "I'm just resting my feet. Besides, ol uncle Bourdon here doesn't mind. Hasn't for at least three years!" The monster said with a grin, slapping his hand atop the marble cover of the grave.

Mr. Flower quirked a brow at the monster, unsure of what to make of him. He seemed not to care in the least bit, and it reminded Mr. Flower of his siblings. How nonchalant they had been throughout the entire funeral process.

Three years did he say? That was about how long it had been since Mr. Flower's dad had passed too. Though clearly this guy's uncle and Mr. Flower's dad meant very different things to each of them.

Mr. Flower's stomach twisted. He thought it was best just to start heading home now. "Right well, sorry to bother you." Said the creature, about ready to turn and leave, but the rose took it upon himself to speak again, much to Mr. Flower's shock and immediate regret. "You're lucky you're cute or I might have had to kick your ass for not minding your own business." The monster said, and though the comment seemed lighthearted, Mr. Flower couldn't help but grimace all the same. Not because of any sort of perceived threat, but because Mr. Flower was certain that was this guy's attempt at being some kind of... charming.

"Right. Bye then." Mr. Flower said, wanting to end the interaction as fast as he could before things got anymore painful than they were already turning out to be. The rose boy seemed to have no more to say thankfully and Mr. Flower quickly made for the nearest cemetery exit, sprinting home before things got too dark out.

Mr. Flower expected his mother would have an earful for him once he returned home.

And he was right. As soon as Mr. Flower was back at his void and through the front door of his house, he found his mother there waiting expectantly, arms folded across her chest. "And where have you been?" She asked, brows furrowed while the corners of her mouth pulled downwards. Mr. Flower made no visible reaction, just stood quietly at the doorway with his arms at his sides. "I was at the cemetery. Visiting dad." He explained quietly. His mother tsked. "Do you have any idea what time it is? School was over hours ago!" She exclaimed and Mr. Flower bit his lip. "I'm sorry. I had stuff to do after class today." The floral creature said, entirely truthfully. Mr. Flower had two clubs he helped oversee and a few students who often went to him for help with their studies. Something Mr. Flower didn't mind doing at all so long as it didn't cut into the schedule his mother had set out for him. Today Mr. Flower made some exceptions though and even though he skipped out on a few of his extra curricular activities, it seemed like Mr. Flower spent more time out than he realized. "I didn't mean to take so long, I promise. There was this rose boy up by the old mausoleums, he-" "Rose boy? A monster?" Mr. Flower's mother cut him off. She quirked a brow and moved to rest her arms on her hips. Her jaw was tight. "Uh, I didn't say that..?" Mr. Flower replied in slight confusion. Maddie stepped closer to the young creature and Mr. Flower stiffened, grasping at his arm as she drew near. She seemed to look him over, as if checking for something. She seemed, concerned? "What did he say? Did he do anything? Was he alone?" She asked, one question after another and Mr. Flower had no idea how to respond or what to make of his mother's reaction. "What? No. He- it was just me and him. We just talked, that's all." Mr. Flower replied, brows knitted together in bewilderment. All the while Maddie seemed to look down at her son with a narrowed scrutinizing gaze. Somehow Mr. Flower regretted ever bringing him up. "Alright then, go on." Maddie sighed, waving her son aside. She relaxed just enough to let her shoulders drop, though the stern look never left her face as she glanced to the side. "Don't let it happen again." She added on, her final message for the night. A warning Mr. Flower would take to heart, as he ordinarily did. Mr. Flower opted not to press the matter further and turned to make his way up the stairs that were nearby the front door. When he made it into his room, Mr. Flower took a deep breath, shutting his door tight behind him while being careful not to slam it, lest he give his mother more things to be on edge about. The tense creature made his way over to his desk just across from his bed, pulling the chair out and sighing as he threw all of his weight down onto it. Mr. Flower had questions swirling around in his mind now. While it wasn't out of character for Maddie to be strict about the kinds of people Mr. Flower associated with, he had never known her to react so intensely before. It was odd. Mr. Flower rested his chin on his hands, his mind wandering to the interaction he had with the rose boy from earlier. While irritating at most, there was nothing about him that seemed off or suspicious. He seemed like any other kid that Mr. Flower would have bumped into at school. Self absorbed and overly confident. At least the was the air around him from Mr. Flower's perspective.

Though to be certain, none of the kids at Mr. Flower's school were monster citizens. Not that he knew of anyway, but would it have mattered either way? Was that the reason his mother was so on edge? Or was there something else? The insignia on the graves behind the rose boy flashed across Mr. Flower's mind now, as well as the strange rosary draped around the monster's wrist. He couldn't help but wonder if they bore any sort of significance. Mr. Flower reached into the drawer of his desk, pulling out a piece of paper and a pencil. He jotted his thoughts down, reminding himself to look into it later. For the time being, he needed to get started on his homework- Mr. Flower shot out of his seat, eyes wide as he realized something crucial. "I forgot my backpack by dad's grave!" He said aloud. Mr. Flower was just about to exit his bedroom, though the view from his window told him he'd be better off waiting until the following day to go looking for it, as not only was it dark out but it was raining too.

Mr. Flower just hoped and prayed his things would not only be present the next day but also salvageable.

The floral creature groaned, his petals drooping as he fell into his bed.

-+-+-+-

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pillowenvelopchair · 1 year ago

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Cutie patootie

#my habd may be in hell but at least he is here #first time using ibispaint btw (found a nice brush)#impulse drew him and i come back after 2 hours with a rendered drawing #hate his little fadingle dong earring though… might edit later #elden ring #rogier #sorcerer rogier #envelop art

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dryeyed · 9 months ago

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god ok so this was a post that was a long time coming that i just. never actually sat and wrote so i'm chucking this anyway. divergence info.

shouta is psychotic. he lives with bouts of psychosis and has learned to live with the episodes that comes along with it.

there is a baseline sort of deal with his hallucinations. the visual ones never really seem to cease, but they slow down. they're also the most common, most often in the form of oboro just. standing there. after the twins' disappearance, he would occasionally see their faces. after aksha's disappearance, he began to see her right next to them sometimes. hauntings, he feels they are, a reminder. ghosts of the past he knows only exist in his head - but that's simply after years of the impossibility of discernment.

he also does see blood frequently, and this was most often when he began teaching. blood on his hands, a jarring thing so real he has to actually look at them to realize they're clean. he'd gone through multiple scrubbing hand washes only to realize they were never bloody in the first place, most typically when he's swinging real high in a symptom cluster. he'd be reaching out to help someone up, maybe a student, and only seeing a bloodied and beaten arm instead. maybe his. maybe the other's. he would take a look at someone for a second and see a beaten victim. in the corner of his eye, someone would look dark and only until he registered it as red and possibly blood, he'd look at them and they would be fine.

then there are the delusions. he's learned to curb this through extreme self discipline, methods he keeps to himself to keep him grounded in reality and at baseline-shouta. these really only occurred when he became heavenbreaker, a solidification that everyone was going to die and the world was going to end and everything was doomed. why try. started like a paranoia, not in the way that all eyes were on him but a paranoia about just that : doom. he would become almost obsessed with it, and almost end up destroying himself in his attempt to embrace yet avoid that notion.

'enhanced' tactile/bodily feeling. this is the worst for him, and is usually second in line to the hallucinations when he starts swinging into an episode. he can start to feel himself, feel all the intricacies of existence itself. he can feel air on his skin, his arm hair moving with the current of the air. he can feel his own heart beating, moving the blood from his chest. he can feel his lungs expand and deflate, how sweaty his palms seem to get. this can send him fairly quickly into complete detachment, as it's so easy it's almost painful for him to get so lost in thought during this sort of symptom. so easy to locked in on those feeling and panic, almost becoming a feedback loop of sorts.

these hallucinations and symptoms tend to stay on the milder side, but they can become a major problem if stress and trauma compound enough for him to lose grip on reality again. tldr; he visually hallucinates practically all the time. but when things are really rough for his mental state, he can begin to experience the full range of those (visual, auditory, tactile, somatic). his speech can become somewhat erratic. he has trouble discerning the waking world from what's in his head, either ranging somewhat catatonic or crazed and hyper. this can be called shouta's 'zoomies.'

i don't believe he tells anyone about this. or atleast, extensively. perhaps hizashi and nemuri know that he sometimes sees things. this is open for discussion/plotting, but know that this is a closely guarded secret.

#headcanon.#oopsie projection hc #i may come back tothis post and edit/add things. i may just swipe and rewrite later on when ideas solidify better. but for now <3 #i've thought about hallucinations the most because. those are the ones that i struggle with more than the others #but they affect him just as much when things get bad and so. ill probably end up writing this again #lmfao

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fancy-rock-dove · 2 years ago

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Thoughts on why the main relationship in TGCF manages to be full of tropes that are trash-associated but is also deeply compelling:

There are SO MANY nuances of the complicated power dynamics and self-sacrifice in Hualian’s relationship that could’ve been cringily unhealthy at so many points and THEN they just WEREN’T. Not ever. Not once

Every time I revisit this novel, I remain so impressed with MXTX’s capacity for nuance. These two are so gone on each other. Hua Cheng literally worships Xie Lian like a god. They would commit atrocities for each other. There are literally characters in the novel who worry about the sheer, unconditional trust Xie Lian gives to Hua Cheng no matter how many secrets he has. In a lesser writer’s hands, this exact dynamic is unhealthy to the point of atrocity: one becoming an unmoored monster and the other both enabler and victim. The shadow of this dynamic is hinted at in the book 4 flashback but it is specifically not allowed to actually become that. Never do we see even a shade of that relationship slip into the book itself, because that’s not how it really is for these two, not even in the darkest flashback moments.

Many narratives in which this level of devotion is present, it would be accurate to call it blind devotion, which becomes uncomfortable for the sake of the follower and unhealthy for the development of their love interest, but here the devotion is so continuously and unfailingly anchored not in looking the other way (the damaging nature of doing so being one of the core themes of the novel) but is conversely about seeing clearly and understanding fully.

So when Hua Cheng does things like offering to take the plague sword and release the disease on Yong’an himself, it actually has the effect of letting Xie Lian see the effect these choices are having on himself more clearly. It was absolutely necessary that Wu Ming not say “let me do this because you want it done” but instead say “I would do this if you needed me to and you didn’t want to because I independently understand why you want this”, because then, refusing him is a real reflection for Xie Lian on himself. There is self-sacrificing devotion in the relationship, but only for the sake of their actual wellbeing, never just while following a blind desire to do what they say.

Like, Hua Cheng can refuse Xie Lian. That’s a pretty foundational thing that happened. He does refuse him things from the beginning, even in the most basic, relationship-defining things. Xie Lian asked him to forget him after the burning of his temples and he refused, and here we are now. It’s a devotion to each other’s wellbeing, that also manages to be so without either of them assuming they know better than the other what that person needs or wants. The only time Hua Cheng actively sacrifices himself (which Xie Lian definitely wouldn’t want if asked) it’s in pursuit of the goal/outcome that XL wanted/needed to happen.

There manages to be complete devotion to each other, and also deep respect for each other’s choices and judgement, and those things…. often don’t coexist in fiction. Like, Hua Cheng introduced nothing if not agency to Xie Lian’s life. In the grand majority of the side arcs, often the “twist” in the mystery we’re exploring is some variation on “was someone forced to do something? No, they had agency!” And whether what they did with it was bad is also very much up for debate. The backstories and current stories of our protags were often journeys in recognizing that they’re not absolved of personal responsibility for lack of easy options, and show them winning by choosing to wrest back agency instead, even to their own detriment. “Take the third path”, “no paths are bound” etc. are catchphrases of our main character for a reason. Sometimes the best option still ended in tragedy, but it didn’t compromise their integrity. I LOVE “no paths are bound” as a tagline for this book and a catchphrase for Xie Lian, because it ALSO ties the good things about the main relationship into the main themes of the book. Hua Cheng’s goal is not just to be able to protect, which he probably could have done as an ordinary super ghost, but to be powerful enough to put every single possibility on the table for Xie Lian. Hua Cheng needed to be the Most Powerful, because he decided that if Xie Lian wants to do something, Hua Cheng needs to be strong enough to make it happen, needs to make it so that that every option, every path, is always under serious consideration. He literally made it so that any roll of the dice was an equally good outcome (Which is the best rationale for designing an OP character I’ve ever heard in my life). He’s not preventing danger, but instead increasing his agency in the face of it. Essentially “If what you end up choosing is MORE DANGER then I’ll be unhappy about it but I won’t stop you, I will work to make that path walkable too. I’m not here to keep you on a path, I’m here to open and smooth the one you most want to use.”

And, moreover, both people are able to be insanely cool and insanely powerful and be looked up to by the other, because while the power dynamics between them, perceived or real, could’ve been uncomfortable at many points, they WEREN’T. The people involved are on even footing even when they think they’re not. There was never a time when their presence wasn’t good for each other, even before Xie Lian knew to pay attention. Even in Hua Cheng’s very earliest appearances in the book 2 flashbacks, it’s really notable that he had enough effect on Xie Lian and his well-being that he appears multiple times in Xie Lian’s memory of those events, even though he had no idea who he was, or even that all his appearances were the same person.

MXTX really seems to grasp what’s attractive about these protective/super-powerful-boyfriend dynamics in fiction, why they often go badly wrong/make fiction bad rep of healthy relationships, and then SHOWS THEM IN THEIR HEALTHY FUNCTIONAL FORM INSTEAD so we’re free to love what we love about them. At the end of the day, we’re shown the way the best of these things all ideally point to love and concern for the other person as they are, before any considerations of their role in your own life or what they do for you. BUT with the expectation of reciprocal respect and latitude to do what you need to do as well.

I’ve never seen another story do this quite so well with such so-often-abused tropes and dynamics, and it’s one of the reasons that the romance in particular makes this work so near and dear to me.

It kinda reaffirmed my ability to see these things I naturally love seeing in love stories as healthy, reasonable forms of affection and devotion when based in an actual healthy relationship. When much, much fiction that treats similar dynamics badly makes me want to feel bad for enjoying aspects of them.

So seeing THIS relationship be what it is was a validating, freeing, and clarifying experience.It basically explained for me why I like these things, and elucidated why, for me, they fit into my paradigm of ideal romance and devotion, even (especially) when they can be problematic if treated wrong.

In essence, seeing these tropes done well is also an exercise in seeing what was missing in cases where they were damagingly removed from context, and thus understanding their key aspects and the core behind their impact. This book actually literally kinda reframed the way I conceptualize romance by helping me put together how many of the tropes I love in romances actually fit into an ideal relationship.

A spring cleaning of my thoughts if you will.

An ordering of my conceptions.

And I bonded with it deeply for that.

And yet it is also trash, who would’ve thought.

(it is self-aware, culture-savvy, meta-commentary trash for the most part, that clearly leans into it with fond intention, so I really do not mind it. It manages to be genre bending while expressing only love for its own genre and why it is the way it is. No disdain here. Only love for things as they are.)

#wow you can tell I originally wrote this ramble at like 3am RIGHT after my very first reread of the novel way back when #sharing it anyway #I stand by the observations #though I may come back and edit this with more receipts later #during my 5th reread perhaps #tgcf #hua cheng #xie lian #hualian #my pre volume 7 tgcf opinions #tossing my thoughts into the void #long post #tgcf spoilers #just to be safe

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skydigiblogs · 11 months ago

Text

I Kind of Wanna Talk About the Translation of Digimon Liberator

So change of plans, I'm gonna pause before reading chapter 2 and talk about the translation so far. Full disclosure: I have a BFA in English and a lengthy background in Creative Writing. I only have like, a child's level of conversational Japanese under my belt, meanwhile. But our system is really fascinated with translation theory.

This isn't the first time I've talked about translation theory in Digimon on this blog, either (see this post), so if you're a regular, some of this might be familiar territory.

I'll only be talking about official profiles and chapter 1 for now, because I can't keep the thoughts quiet enough to read chapter 2 lmao.

[REALLY REALLY LONG POST BELOW THE CUT, I'M SERIOUS]

Defining Translation Theory

Before I can talk about the translation of Digimon Liberator, I want to briefly explain the concept of translation theory, as it's something I'm fairly interested in exploring through the Digimon franchise.

Translation theory is, essentially, the drive behind how a text is translated from one language to the next. Kind of self explanatory on the surface, it's complicated by the medium of a text, as well as whether certain elements can be cleanly translated from one language to another.

In this conversation, "original language" will refer to the language a text was in prior to translation. For Digimon, that's Japanese. "Host language" will refer to the language a text was translated into. For what I can read, that's English.

Certain mediums lend themselves well to translator's notes. If you've ever picked up a work in translation, this may be a foreword from the translator in books. Those of you familiar with fan subs will know these as those notes that show up on the top of the screen whenever something needs more context to fully convey (such as a linguistic joke or cultural reference).

I'm going to use an example from Charles Baudelaire's Les Fleur du Mal, my go-to on this topic thanks to how many translations there are and the fact that Les Fleur du Mal is a poetry collection. Specifically, i want you to look at "L'Albatross," (literally "The Albatross" in English). These two sites have a lot of translations (and the first site has the original French text available to read as well).

I'm not going to make you read all of the translations, but I do want them to help you understand the different ways translation theory can affect a text in its host language. Scan through a few and it becomes clear that every translator did something at least a little different. With poetry, this is quick to spot, because how a line reads can drastically change how the poem itself lands with an audience.

Generally, a few questions should come to mind when you're reading a translated work. This list isn't every question you should (or could) ask, of course, but these are some of the ones I think of:

Is this translation intended to be a literal (as close to 1:1) translation?

Additionally, is a literal translation even possible, linguistically?

If not, what form of writing is the translator engaging in?

(For example: if the original work has references to culturally distinct idioms, does the translator literally translate those idioms, or do they look for the closest idiom in the host language that conveys a similar meaning?)

The same can be asked of figurative language. What similes, metaphors, and so on are changed to make more sense in the host language, if at all?

What linguistic bias is on display in translation?

(A good example for understanding this would be the translation theory of Emily Wilson, who was the first woman to translate The Odyssey into English. She noticed a bias in the interpretation of language by her male predecessors in the field. More on that in the many articles she's been interviewed for, but I'll highlight the one she wrote for TIME back in 2017.)

And, perhaps, what is lost in the oral quality of a translation?

(Turning back to Baudelaire for a moment, French sounds different from English, on a fundamental level. Will a translator attempt to preserve the meterical qualities of an original work? Oral qualities refer to anything that can be heard when read aloud. Assonance, consonance, rhyme, slant rhyme, etc.. I think this is the easiest example to ponder over what is lost in translation, because it is fundamentally tied to the language itself.)

Okay, We Can Talk About Digimon Again

So, Digimon Liberator (in both forms) is a work in translation from its original language of Japanese. I think I'm not alone in saying that, regarding the comic's translation, everything looked pretty clean, showing an intent on Bandai's part to make sure the comic was legible to a Western audience.

I didn't notice any weird linguistic artifacts in the comic, and I haven't seen anyone complaining about its translation here on tumblr. I'm not talking about the comic, because I think the translation method applied is extremely effective!

Similarly, there are "lore" articles that explain the mechanics of the fictional universe from an in-universe perspective. They're written like promotional guides for players, and I think the style employed there works quite well. Any stiffness in the writing feels expected, because it's an in-universe article, where formality and a bit of reservation should be used.

What I want to talk about specifically is Chapter 1 of the novel. I just got done reading it (about an hour ago at this point since I've been working on this post so long lmfao).

It's obvious to me that a lot of thought is going into how this series is being translated. Similarly, it's obvious that it's not being machine-translated. My biggest examples for this come from two things I've noticed so far:

[ID: A screenshot of the Digimon Liberator official thumbnail for Winr's profile. Winr is a boy with pentagonal, green-framed glasses over his brown eyes. He has a neutral expression on his face. He wears a short sleeved blue and red hoodie with gold honeycomb patterns over a long sleeved yellow dress shirt. On a lanyard around his neck is a black and gold Digimon v-pet.]

This is Winr. Or, for those of you who can read Katakana, this is "Saikyo." I think it's actually "Saikiyo?" My point stands either way. If it's just "Saikyo," it's literally the superlative for "strongest." If it is "Saikiyo," I'm fairly certain it's still meant to evoke the word.

Why am I certain of that? Well, because his name in the host language is "Winr!" Which is a play on the word... well, "winner!"

I doubt a machine translation would be able to make this kind of wordplay, and it evidences to me that there is thought going on behind this translation and its legibility in its host language.

My other example is...

[ID: A screenshot of text that reads: "Please, I'll buy you some cute accessories next time, so please forgive me, Impmon!" "Ha! No way! I won't forgive you until you reflect on what you did!" "But what if it's like…mad cayuute?" "I don't need no darn cute accessories! And what do you mean by mad cayuute? Just say it's 'really cute'!"]

[ID: A screenshot of Japanese text that reads: 「お願い、こんどかわちいアクセサリー買ってあげるからゆるして、インプモン！」「やーだーねー！　今日ばっかりはユウキが反省するまでゆるさねーからな！」「でも“エグい”くらい“かわちい”よ……？」「カワチイアクセサリーなんていらねンだよ！　っていうかなーにがエグいだ！　なにがカワチイだ！　ちゃんと“スゴく”“可愛い”って言え！」]

Okay. Bear with me on this one. My Japanese isn't good enough to be able to read a literal translation on the whole section here, but I was curious about the "mad cayuute?" line in English. That struck me as a "this is something translated from a joke I might not get otherwise" line, especially with that phonetic drawing out of "cute."

Someone who's more fluent in Japanese might be able to help me out, because Impmon's speaking above my expertise LMAO.

In the third line of dialogue in the Japanese version, Yuuki says this word "かわちい" (phonetically, "kawachii"). I think it's interesting to see that it's even couched by quotation marks. I'm not as familiar with Japanese formatting, but it wouldn't surprise me if the use of quotation marks here is to bring attention to the way Yuuki speaks. The same formatting is used with "エグい" (phonetically, "egui") earlier in the line, which does have a literal translation as an adjective (I'm not listing out all the definitions I'm finding because I don't want to get too into the weeds with a language I have very minimal experience with though).

So What Does This Mean?

Like I said, the way the translation is being done suggests to me that there is at least one actual person working on the translation work. I don't know how many people are working on the translation team, as I can't find any credits on the site itself.

That said, I find it refreshing that there is evidence of some thought being put into the translation of the web novel. Now, I don't know what the deal was with Seekers, because I genuinely could not get myself interested in it. As much as I would love to do some comparative analysis of the translation in Liberators versus the translation in Seekers, you cannot convince me to read Seekers. I just don't have the patience.

Now, why do I bring this up?

Well, while I can't compare Liberators to Seekers, I do know some people had issues with the way Seekers was written. I think, reading Liberators, I want to talk about my criticisms with, strictly, the formatting and prose in the host language.

As we saw in the second example above, Japanese and English prose are formatted very differently. Those of you who also read through the Liberator chapters may have noticed that a lot of the dialogue is paragraphed in a way that groups them together. This is my first issue with the translation so far. I don't think Bandai will change the format (and I admit, it's helpful for doing comparative analysis like I did above), but separating out dialogue in English is important for legibility.

So too are dialogue tags, which aren't present in the original language in the same section I highlighted. In the section I used as an example, this isn't an issue, as both Yuuki and Impmon use each other's names in dialogue, marking the back and forth for the reader. But there was an example in chapter 1 that I needed to go back and reread after the paragraph.

(From Chapter 1.2)

[ID: Screenshot of text that reads:

"Anyway, it’s been bothering me. We could chalk it up to a bug, but there's something fishy about the new ability item and cards." “Ah, I agree. It’s kinda bothering me, too. Maybe we should consult Altea next time?" "Eh, I don't really like that Altea."

　The Altea that Yuuki mentioned is a member of the debugging team who supports them behind the scenes. Typically, she works alongside the Digimon Espimon to assist the GMs. Undoubtedly, Altea is the most knowledgeable about the system within their team and a reliable figure indeed.]

I'm not going to dig for the quote in Japanese, if only because I want to focus on the English translation here. If it's a matter of character voice, there's some argument that maybe the translation could have done something to differentiate Yuuki and Impmon here. However, while it would be an additive change, I think that the inclusion of dialogue tags would be the least intrusive means of preventing the kind of confusion I experienced with this section.

Anyone familiar with English prose will know that it's common in the beginning of a dialogue section to denote who's speaking within the first line or two of dialogue, especially with dialogue that does not communicate character on its own. Since it's just two people talking, you only need to show who one of the speakers is.

Ultimately, this is kind of an editing nitpick, and I'm really only bringing it up because I noticed it as an artifact of translation, rather than a sign of bad writing. Honestly, I'd love to learn more about formatting in Japanese novel writing, but that's a deep dive I'm not ready to embark on for a silly little tumblr post I'm writing about my initial thoughts about translation quality in Digimon Liberator. I do want to encourage everyone reading to consider translation theory when they're reading Liberator though, because it plays into the limitations of the medium.

The bigger issues I had with the translation are twofold: tense and syntax.

Tense is going to be easier to discuss here. The easiest way to explain it is thus: tense denotes temporality. "I ate a bagel" means that there is no longer a bagel in my bread box; "I am eating a bagel" means there's not a bagel in my bread box, it's in my hand; "I will eat a bagel" means there's a bagel in my bread box, not in my hand. Really simple explanation, but I want to give the explanation up front so we can look at Liberator's prose.

Let's look at Impmon's introduction.

"Impmon sighed deeply without turning its small, deep purple body toward her. A level 3 Evil Digimon, Impmon is characterized by its two long, clown-like horns, red gloves, and scarf." (1.1)

Notice how between sentences, we shift from "Impmon sighed," to "Impmon is." If the tense was consistent here, it might look like this (editing by me):

"Impmon sighs deeply without turning its small, deep purple body toward her. A level 3 Evil Digimon, Impmon is characterized by its two long, clown-like horns, red gloves, and scarf."

"Impmon sighed deeply without turning its small, deep purple body toward her. A level 3 Evil Digimon, Impmon was characterized by its two long, clown-like horns, red gloves, and scarf."

Tense in a piece generally needs to stay consistent, in the English language. A novel may bend this rule sometimes, but those tend to be in cases where it serves a narrative purpose. Flashbacks are an easy example of using tense to your advantage. Tense denotes time, and determines the forms of words used in a piece. Tense shifting can also be used in other creative applications, but the use in Liberator seems less a creative choice and more, well...

See the next section.

I also want to talk about syntax in the Liberator webnovel. Syntax refers to the way sentences are structured. It's a very broad subject, and the English language allows for some very diverse sentence structures.

I'll use the last example for illustration here, so that you can see what syntax can do to your experience of a piece:

"Impmon sighed deeply without turning its small, deep purple body toward her. A level 3 Evil Digimon, Impmon is characterized by its two long, clown-like horns, red gloves, and scarf." (1.1, original)

"Without turning its small, deep purple body toward her, Impmon sighed deeply. Two long, clown-like horns, red gloves, and scarf characterized the level 3 Evil Digimon, Impmon." (different syntax)

This is an exaggerated edit, but I want to get across how flexible English sentence structures are. Japanese, however, is a highly structured language by comparison, and if you aren't familiar with the syntax of Japanese, it might make you trip a little bit. When translating to English, the order of Japanese sentences is generally Subject-Object-Verb, as opposed to Subject-Verb-Object.

So in Japanese, the sentence "I / eat / a bagel" would be structured "I / a bagel / eat." "I" being the subject (what's doing the action), "a bagel" being the object (the thing being subjected to the action), and "eat" being the verb (the action being done).

(Technically Japanese doesn't have the same kind of particles as English but like. I don't have the technical knowledge of Japanese linguistics to go into it. The structure of Japanese is incredibly cool though, especially from the perspective of someone speaking a language that is a chaotic whirlwind of rules and exceptions.)

I bring this up because, when translating from Japanese to English, this means you have to restructure the sentence you are reading in order to fit general English syntax. That's work! And as we've been trying to illustrate, someone is definitely doing the translation work for Digimon Liberator!

However, one of the pitfalls of literal translations (which Liberator appears to primarily be, regarding its translation theory) is that you sometimes end up with a very dry text in the host language. Let's look at the very next line after Impmon's introduction, for an example.

"Having been with Yuuki since the beta-testing days, Impmon has been communicating with her like this for over half a year. There is no longer any reserve between them, and they're close to inseparable." (1.1)

Compared to later in chapter 1:

"There was no defending such recklessness. What had she been thinking, launching into battle without doing the necessary groundwork? It was her fault. There was no doubt about it." (1.1)

Okay. These two paragraphs have a very different rhythm to them. Do you see it? Diversity in syntax is crucial to momentum in a text, as it acts like grease on the wheels for a reader. The first of these two examples is comprised of two long, "rambly" sentences (for lack of a better word). The second example, in my opinion, shows a better use of syntax (though improvements could be made). It's broken into varied sentence lengths to help maintain movement.

If you want another example, let's circle back to Baudelaire for a second (you remember him from the beginning of this essay?). Poetry is heavily tied to its structure, like we discussed. That structure, like in the Liberator webnovel, is key to the movement of a piece.

I'm unsure to what length the syntax in the webnovel can be attributed to the translator, but distracting, stale syntax can be difficult for some readers to maintain interest in. I'm pushing along because I really like Impmon (and the new line looks sick as hell), but a less-invested reader may find Liberator difficult to follow because of these flaws.

Compared to the comic, which benefits from its visual storytelling (which serves as momentum on its own), the novel has only its prose to fall back on when maintaining readership.

TL;DR Digimon Liberator Needs an English Editor

Hire me Bandai /j

Joking aside, Digimon Liberator's webnovel, in its English translation, reminds me of the kind of shaky prose that a newer writer might produce. As I said in the last section, I'm not sure what role overhead has in maintaining the structure of the translation.

However, I think Digimon Liberator could benefit from an English language editor. Between oddities regarding dialogue tags, tense, and syntax, some readers may not have the patience to sit through this one otherwise. I find that a shame, too, considering the evidence someone is working hard on this translation!

It's not awful. Please don't take this big long essay to mean that's what I'm saying. But I have a BFA in English, like I said at the start, so I'm pretty good at sniffing out the kinds of writing pitfalls that make retaining readership difficult. Hell, it's the same instinct I use when I'm trying to determine what to read (whether that be professionally or unprofessionally published).

Writers tend to struggle with self-editing because they're so familiar with their own work. I'm uncertain if Bandai has an editing team on call for the Liberator novel, but if not, that needs to change. Putting the work of translation (a form of writing in itself) and editing on one person is too much. And if it's a team of translators, they should make sure at least someone is looking out to edit for English style.

#sky talks #digimon #digimon liberator #trying so hard to type with proper capitalization for once because this isn't just a silly little post like my usual #also ironically i am ending this with a conversation about editing but do not have the brain power to edit this whole thing #i may come back to this later to clean up any weird bits but at the end of the day this is a fan blog

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