#pretty hand drawing by rune brandt bennicke

[needtherapy]

this is when you decide

A story for Xichen and a-Yao For when love and hurt both linger. And there’s nothing you can do about it in the end.

Read more Kristina Writes Tiny Stories

In the end, you push him away with every bit of power that still lingers in your body. You know it’s a bruise that will never fade.

You make him live with your selflessness. You know it will be worse than dying.

When did you decide to make him suffer?

Was it when the circle of jade stopped glowing with the light of his favor? 

All these years, you thought one thing was constant, that he would always call you his friend, that you would always have access to this place that held his true heart. After all, he was the one to hand you the token in thanks, he said, for all you’d done to protect him. A token, he said, that would open the gates at any time. He touched your hand, so long ago, a brush as light as silk, but the flush on his neck told you he intended the words as you hoped he did.

And when the light faded, you didn’t at first know what it meant. Until you did, and then you had to hide it in your pocket so no one else would see that you were no longer beloved.

But that wasn’t when you decided.

It might have been the first time his smile didn’t reach his eyes and you realized his trust was shaken by the poisonous words those bastards had said. Of course, you couldn’t call them bastards, not his brother and not the man wearing your brother’s face. You could only insinuate and imply, and you knew he wasn’t entirely convinced.

Even before that, though, you hated the shattered look on his face the day you told him your son was dead. How could his grief for your son be so great, the son you always knew you had to sacrifice, a victim before he’d even drawn his first breath? You should never have let him know the boy, but he was there when the child was born, and you couldn’t resist the light in his eyes.

He clung to you with tears, so you soothed him, comforted him, pretended you had no idea what happened, and in a way, it brought you closer together, because he didn’t bat an eye when you slaughtered your son’s killers. You thought maybe, maybe he could forgive you anything.

But then he told you no for the first time, turning away your love, holding on to grief instead of letting it fuel him. He said he feared you’d held back from more children because of him, and he could no longer bear to be an impediment to your legacy. And how could you argue with that? That first no made the next no easier until you could no longer even ask the question and had to be satisfied with his hand on yours, the gentle press of lips on your forehead, and eventually, nothing at all.

No, it wasn’t even that he chose to care for his brother’s injuries, though you wanted him to watch you ascend every step and take the position you’d worked so hard to achieve. True, he came to the ceremony and told you he was proud, so proud, but it wasn’t quite enough, because you knew from his distracted smiles that he’d rather be home, holding his brother’s hand instead of yours.

Be honest. You know when it was.

It was the day Mingjue died.

Don’t you remember?

You’d planned for this moment because he’d hurt you again and again with his suspicious eyes, with his arrogant righteousness, with his words, with his boot. But you won, didn’t you, and it felt exactly as you expected. 

Powerful (not weak). 

Satisfied (not hollow). 

Victorious (not remorseful).

You stared at Mingjue’s body, watching his brother weep. You never told him, of course, but you did this for Huaisang too, to give him peace and freedom. The halls of Bujing Shi were always full of their anger at each other, and now, they would be quiet. Huaisang could have everything he wanted: art, music, beauty. He was a practical boy. In time, you knew he’d forget.

It was the moment you heard Xichen scream.

Did you know he could sound like that? 

When he came outside and saw Mingjue laying in a pool of blood, you watched his face change, drained of life as completely as Mingjue’s, and you reminded your own face to be heartbroken in case he saw some of the triumph you felt.

He never even looked at you, never even saw you. He dropped your lists, your important papers, and collapsed, falling down next to Huaisang. His hands trembled on Mingjue’s face, dipping his beautiful fingers in the bloody trails as though he could not believe what he was seeing and then fiercely swiping at them as though the inevitable could be stopped.

His voice was a howl of agony, and you knew you had made a mistake. He could love you forever, but he could never love you first. He could love you forever, but he would always remember this loss as too young, too tragic, too soon. He could love you forever, but it would turn common over time, and Mingjue would always be a knife in his heart.

But even that you could have forgiven. It was understandable.

Was there a flutter of breath? You’ll never be sure, but you ran to his side to grasp da-ge’s wrist, checking to make sure your work was done. And Xichen pushed you, fury and panic in his touch.

He pushed you and screamed.

Don’t TOUCH him!

He pushed you away, his hand to your chest, filled with the light of his power. It left a bruise that has never faded in your mind.

So you make him live with your selflessness. You hope it will be worse than dying.

[needtherapy]

Living With Being Dead

It's hard being a rogue cultivator when you're dead. Especially when you can't speak. Especially when your heart is broken.

A few months after Yi City, Song Lan finds his voice and a new way of living with himself.

Read more Kristina Writes Tiny Stories

There are notes at the end. Song Lan’s clever hands drawings by Rune Brandt Bennicke

He is sleeping.

He is dead.

It’s hard to tell the difference anymore.

No, that’s not true. He knows the difference. He just doesn’t care.

***

The first few months of his new life were easy. The world was made of two colors and he moved through them without thought.

He killed evil. He saved good. It was what he had always done.

It was by a cold mountain spring where he found a dying deer that he realized, fully realized, how he had changed. The deer was laying on its side, panting, the broken leg obvious. He had touched it, intending to heal it, and of course, he could not. Instead, he’d slit its throat, making the end swift and painless at least.

Unlike his own had been.

He considered trying. Surely there was some way to die. Die more. But in the end, he couldn’t.

So he went home.

Not his home. His home had been destroyed, one more casualty in a long string of death behind him. But every temple was a little like home, and he needed the familiar sounds, a schedule he understood, and people who would not speak to him.

He goes to the first one he finds. Truthfully, he does not even know where he is. Somewhere near Gusu, he assumes, given all the rivers and trees. There is something crisp and salty about the air in Gusu. He does not need to breathe, but he likes the smell of it anyway.

As he had hoped, they invited him in and left him alone. They had heard of the distant snow and the cold frost and were honored by his visit. They gave him a hut in the woods behind the temple and let him join meditation when he wished, rituals when he wished, meals when he wished.

***

He sleeps.

He wakes.

He is still dead.

Perhaps he will stay here forever. He has the time.

It is a surprise to find a priest sitting on the path one morning. She is drinking tea from a small table. She does not move when he walks past her, nor does she invite him to join her. She is there when he returns, but the tea has been put away and she is deep in meditation. He is many things he despises, but none of them is rude. He sits before her, legs crossed, and waits.

When her eyes open, she smiles, pure and unencumbered, and that, more than her robes of rank, makes him wary.

“Daozhang, has your visit been peaceful?” Her voice is like music, and he is suddenly infuriated that he can not respond as he wishes.

He nods once.

“Daozhang, the shifu has asked me to see to your comfort.”

For one horrifying moment he is afraid this woman, old enough to be his mother, possibly his grandmother, means a jing and qi ritual, but she pulls a sheaf of paper from her sleeve.

“Would you speak with me, Song-daozhang?” she asks gently.

No.

He stands and leaves, walking back inside his room without a backward look. He adds the guilt of inhospitality to all the rest.

The next day she is there. He stays inside.

He gives in the next day. It is not in his nature to be unkind, even now. This time, when he sits before her, she sets the paper, a brush, and a box he knows will have ink on the low table.

“What have you seen, Song-daozhang?”

What has he seen? He has seen death. He has seen evil. He has seen and done things he can not erase from his mind.

He writes. Birds. So many birds. 

She laughs. “What kinds of birds did you like seeing?”

He writes. Tall silent birds, stalking through shady water. Flashes of color in the trees. Brave brown sparrows.

To his surprise, she stands. “I will return tomorrow, Song-daozhang. I hope we will speak again.”

For the first time since he can remember, he looks forward to tomorrow.

When he sleeps, he does not dream. It is awake that the memories come, always unwelcome. They are fragmented, at least. The taste of blood in his mouth. The last time he saw Xingchen. Cruel, ringing laughter. The sound of his name. Zichen.

The next day, the priest asks him to describe the oldest person he has ever seen, and he writes the memory of the toothless monk who taught him to read when he was eight. He’d been surprised the man could see past the wrinkles that covered his eyes, as deep as those on the shar peis that guarded the temple. It almost makes him smile.

The next day she asks him how he died.

He did not think he would care that anyone knew, but he is somehow ashamed that it is common knowledge. He sits without answering, hoping she will ask another question, but she waits. He considers a flippant answer and decides against it. She will just wait for him to answer truthfully.

I was proud. I underestimated my foe. I was too eager. I was too angry. 

He does not write, an evil man destroyed my life. He can’t blame it entirely on Xue Yang. He does not write, my love killed me and then killed himself. He blames none of it on Xingchen.

Normally, she only asks one question before she leaves, but today, she asks a second, moving her hands strangely as she speaks.

“What is it like?”

Lonely. It is the first word he thinks, and it comes as a surprise. He’s never been lonely. When he was a child, he wanted nothing more than to get away from his parents and their fists. When he lived in the temple, he was surrounded by people day and night. When he found Xingchen, his heart was full. And when he died, he thinks, choking a little on the memory, he didn’t care.

It is nothing, he writes, and she considers his answer.

“But you are not nothing,” she replies, moving her hands again as she speaks. She gets up, brushes her robes off, and walks back down the path to the temple.

He realizes that she is somehow using her hands to express the words she is saying, and he’s curious. When was the last time he was curious?

The memories are kinder sometimes. He remembers smiles and gentle hands. He remembers the shifu on the mountain, the girl who helped him find Xingchen, the men who saved him.

She does not come the next day or the next, and he begins to worry. He goes to the temple for the first time in days and watches the youngest students train. He can’t bear to watch the teenagers, full of their newly-formed golden cores, unaware of how quickly that gift can be taken.

One of the teachers meets his eyes and tips his head in question, but he shakes his head. He does not want to be involved. He does not want to hurt anyone, and he doesn’t trust that he won’t.

He runs into the woman as he is leaving the training yard. He hands her the paper he had prepared.

I did not know who you were to ask if you were well. May I know your name?

“I am Liu-kundao. I will return tomorrow.” she responds with a bow and he smiles, as much at the generic name as the pleasure in knowing she will return. It is only a quick shift of muscle, but it surprises him.

He is glad when she returns and sorry when she asks her first question.

“You know who I am, Song-daozhang. Who are you?”

He can’t possibly answer that. It is not as simple as the names he has been given. He wants only to remember who he was.

I was a cultivator. I was a friend. I was a man.

She nods when she reads his writing. The part of him that thought she would accept his answer is disappointed.

“And now?”

I am a monster. I am a shell. I am no more than an instrument of death.

“No,” she disagrees. “That is what you are. I asked who you are.”

She leaves before he can tell her that there is no distinction anymore.

The next day there is a boy with her. He is around 10, thin and brown from the sun. His eyes are full of energy and light.

“Song-daozhang, this is Yongqi. He can’t hear or speak.” 

As she always does now, Liu-kundao uses her hands, but he understands the purpose better now, watching the boy watch her. The boy’s name is a motion that looks like two determined fists. His own is two fingers from both hands steepled and swept down in what looks like a drawing of a house or mountain. It makes his mouth twitch, almost in a smile, this unique expression of his name. The boy responds, using the sign she has given him.

“Song-daozhang, I am pleased to meet you,” the woman says, translating as the boy moves his hands slowly.

He realizes he is staring when the woman makes a soft chuckle in the back of her throat. 

“Would you like to learn to speak this way? Yongqi is learning as well and needs someone to practice with.”

It is something to do that is not remembering. He nods.

This new way of speaking is easier than he expects. Some of the signs make sense, their shapes accurate representations of their meaning. House. Sun. Tree. Food. Some just feel right. Please. Thank you. Love. Star. Others are based on signs he knows from night hunts. And his hands have always been clever.

The hardest part for him is learning that he must occasionally touch people to use this language. To catch their attention. To draw characters on their hands for words they can’t determine through context. It is one of the things that has followed him from life to death, this burning clench through his mind and body from unfamiliar contact. It gets easier with Yongqi and Liu-kundao, at least, as he gets to know them better.

Yongqi convinces him to come meet a traveling cultivator who has stopped at the temple. She doesn’t look like a cultivator, standing next to a tall, adoring man and holding the hand of a little girl, but she laughingly agrees to spar with one of the daoshi. As soon as she releases the child’s hand, he sees the change sweep over her, her pretty face hardening and her muscles, hidden under properly feminine layers, flexing through every shift, parry, and strike. She is fierce and determined, and the fight is swiftly won. It makes his fingers itch, and the unfamiliar feeling of want is not as painful as he expected.

He does not meet her, going back to his hut when Yongqi runs to congratulate her.

Yongqi does not come the next day, but the rogue cultivator does. She pops out from behind a tree as he exits the hut, startling him.

“They told me you were here,” she says, her face animated with delight. “I’ve heard of you.” He’s never sure what this means. Heard of the famous cultivation partners, the bright moon and cool breeze and the distant snow and cold frost? Heard of the fierce corpse who haunted Yi City? Or heard of whatever he is now? He would rather not be heard of.

“Would you do me the honor of a bout?” she asks.

He shakes his head, backing away, and she looks confused. “Are you unable?”

It is one thing to hunt monsters, demons, the worst of all that is evil. It is another to lift Fuxue against a person. He’s killed too many people already.

She doesn’t leave, though. “We have a mutual friend, I think,” she tells him. “Hanguang-Jun mentioned once that he knew you, that you were a rogue cultivator like me. May I tell him you are well next time I see him?”

To this, at least, he can nod assent, although he’s not sure he can be called a rogue cultivator anymore.

Without warning, she draws her sword and swings it at him. His reflexes don’t fail him. If anything, they are sharper now. He ducks, instinctively reaching out a hand for Fuxue before he remembers it won’t come for him anymore. He steps back as she attacks, arm still out and feels something deep inside him. A tug. Different than he remembers, but it is...something. And then his fingers close around the hilt of Shuanghua, not what he had asked for, but such a welcome feeling he wants to cry. It is like having Xingchen next to him again, and he blocks the next strike, turning it into a slashing parry that does not kill the woman, does not even knock her back. He can control this.

She is just as skilled as she had appeared the day before, and although he knows his physical strength could overwhelm her, he does not. She is smiling when she flips over his head, laughing when he spins to strike at her legs when she lands, jubilant when he ends the fight by pressing down, swinging Shuanghua up and back to set her off balance and tapping her on the back with the flat jianri.

“They’ve all wondered why you don’t fight anymore, but everyone else was too afraid to find out,” she grins at him, the mischief in her eyes making her look ten years younger. “Song-daozhang, it is a pleasure to meet you. I am Luo Qingyang. Thank you for the fight.”

Liu-kundao and Yongqi come for lessons in the morning, and he can tell by their faces that Luo Qingyang must have told the story. Yongqi, especially, keeps looking at him in wonder, until he wants to laugh. He wants to say that it’s nothing, that he’s still nothing, but it doesn’t feel as quite as honest anymore.

When they leave, Yongqi runs ahead, but Liu-kundao lingers. Her usually-kind eyes stop him from bowing, an uncomfortably perceptive intensity in her gaze.

“Who are you, Song-daozhang?”

He is tired of this question. He doesn’t know. He returns it to her, his hands agitated. 

“Who do you think I am?”

Liu-kundao smiles broadly, her entire face taking part in the expression. “You are not a monster, you are Song Lan, known as Zichen. You are not a shell, you have weathered difficulties, persevered through hardships, and you are still a soul who does good in the world. You are not an instrument of death, you are a man who deserves to give and receive love. You are a life worth living.”

She grasps both of his arms and pulls him forward, resting her forehead against his and the touch no longer stings. “It is time for you to leave, Song Zichen. Your path does not end here.”

He does not argue. He does not tell her she is wrong.

He smiles, slow and full. His true smile.

His hands move, choosing a sign for his name that combines the tented fingers with a flick, like brushing water off of skin. “Thank you. Please call me Song Lan.”

Hey! If you got this far, here are some notes:

Kundao is just "female daoist." It's probably a more modern term than would have been used in fictional magical ancient China, but I like it.

There wasn’t really organized sign language this long ago, but if as long as there have been people, they have wanted to communicate. If anyone was to create an organized system, it seems like it would have been temples.

Song Lan's moniker, the distant snow and cold frost, is from an idiom about plum blossoms, 红梅傲雪凌霜开, that refers to weathering hardship and persevering through adversity.

Xiao Xingchen's moniker, 明月清风, the bright moon and the cool breeze, is also an idiom. It has more layers, but can refer to the peace of a solitary and clear life.

There are some very interesting sexual practices associated with daoism. Jing and qi is a ritual by which a man absorbs the jing energy a woman emits during orgasm and adds it to his qi during sex (this used to be a mutually beneficial experience, but it's fallen out of favor because it is sometimes used in a predatory way). Hence Song Lan's horror.

Fun Wangxian side note: some kinds of sexual qi ceremonies were performed in a jingshi. So...make of that as you will. ;)