Chapter Text
In the dark, one loses track of time.
The stake in his heart keeps him from drawing in a full breath. Breathing at all is excruciating, but so is not breathing, and sheer reflex always wins out in the end. He chokes on shallow gulps of stale air and sobs with energy he doesn't have.
He runs out of oxygen first.
He loses his voice after a while.
His organs shut down after too long. They keep sparking, like glowing tinder that never lights into a flame. They slip in and out of motion. His muscles magically keep twitching and producing warmth, but less and less.
He stops bleeding after a while. He can't tell how long. He doesn't try to tell.
Of course the agony and terror feel interminable, but enduring them for any length of time would have felt longer than it had been in reality, distorted by suffering—too long, all his nerves scream. It's been happening for too long.
But it has been so long. It has been so inconceivably long.
One afternoon in a secluded temple so many centuries ago? Just an hour or so of blood loss and a few dozen punctures? It was nothing to this.
At least the sword had been sharp. At least the sword had been removed from his body after it pierced him. At least the blood he had choked on had been fresh. Even as he had lain on the altar, an unrecognizable heap of gore, his wounds had had the mercy of fresh air against them.
Let me die, he had wanted to scream then. Kill me.
They buried him this time. They thought he was dead already.
But he can't die.
He can't rot.
He can't move.
He is sealed inside three coffins. Even the worms can't find their way in.
Every spasm of his limbs strikes against the sides of his innermost coffin. He can barely even cross his arms, but he scratches the lid above him. He doesn't remember how it felt to walk, but he breaks his knees against his prison walls.
He has removed himself from the coffin.
He is in a big, featureless room. It is silent through a muffled sensation in his ears. It is dark, because he doesn't remember what sight felt like.
He can't concentrate on recalling images. That would take too much attunement to his senses, and he can't afford that. He has blunted his nerve endings from his soundless throat to his broken toes, and feeling would be bad.
He distances himself from why it would be bad. He doesn't have to think about that. It would just be bad.
No need to think. Just the smooth, empty room.
He wakes up anyway.
He gags on ash. His fingers grow back just to be ground down again. He has long since run out of tears.
He doesn't deserve this.
He is disappointed in himself, and he is ashamed of himself for many things. Sometimes he even hates himself. But this?
This could not be justified.
No one could ever possibly deserve this.
Jun Wu. He prays voicelessly to Jun Wu.
Get me out. Help me. Save me.
I'm sorry for everything. I take back my request for banishment. Can I take it back?
What about the shackles? Can you take one off?
Give me just enough power to get myself out of here.
Give me just enough luck for someone to dig me out.
No? Then have mercy on me and let me die.
If he lies very, very still, he can convince himself that he's dead. That would have been reassuring. He would have belonged in a coffin if he were dead, and this wouldn't be so wrong.
At least his body doesn't try to convulse anymore. His reflexes have worn away.
He circles around like the sun rising and falling. He dies as deeply as he can, splutters in stasis for a little while, and is then pulled back to the surface with the barest level of functionality.
He doesn't have time to die of hunger or suffocation. It's always the stake. It's always his heart. He thinks it used to beat.
And then he comes back to life. His eyes move aimlessly, but he keeps them closed. He pretends to be dead until he fades away again.
He doesn't know how long it has been. He has stopped hoping that it will end.
It has been so long that it has left behind any memory of a beginning.
It never began, and it will never end. This must be what death is.
He thinks, maybe, that there used to be other people.
He thinks he used to be a person.
He thinks that people used to speak. They used to have words just for him—a series of sounds that referred to him. He can't imagine it. He can't make sense of sounds anymore.
There are no longer defined edges to the pain. There are no shapes, no real form. There is no consciousness to sort it out. There is just a mass of pain.
It's hot. Pain is hot. Pain is splintery.
Can't breathe.
What was breathing?
Movement. Hurts. Not new. Just more hurt.
Time slips away.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
Chunk.
Chunk.
Chunk.
Movement. Hurts. New.
Different.
Hurts. Hurts so much. A lot of movement. Rattle, rattle. Jostle, jostle. Splinter, gag.
CRACK.
Sounds. Not muffled. Tingling, pinpricks. The mass of pain is making room for sounds. The mass thinks that sounds like this existed, back when there was a world.
CREAK.
CRACK.
CREAK.
CRACK.
CREEEEEEEAK.
More than sounds. Another sensation—not sounds, not pain, not ashy taste or smell. Hot, but not pain. Just…hot. Too much something.
Eyes.
The mass of pain has ears for sounds and eyes for this hot thing.
Light. That must be it. Light exists now.
The eyes flutter and move. There's just light. The light moves around and the eyes can't make any sense of it.
The ears hear new sounds. There's something warm to this new family of sound, something dynamic and harrowing. The sounds rise and fall in a pattern. A language.
Sound. Light. Temperature.
It has been so…one temperature, and now there is a new one, a rush of sensation over the mass of pain. There is a freshness.
Smell. The scent of…something cleaner than the box.
The language-sound is twisting and sharpening. It peaks and breaks, and it makes the mass of pain inexplicably sad.
Touch.
Something touches the mass of pain. Something cruelly reestablishes its edges.
The mass is given shape. It is no longer an undefined mass of pain, but a defined mass experiencing pain, and the shift is merciless.
The mass with the eyes and ears shivers. All the defined edges and features of it creak and, impossibly, try to stretch. The dynamic sounds coming from above falter, then break again urgently.
The eyes are given a burst of light then, a cloud of blinding, fluttery silver synchronized with a pleasant chiming sound. Abruptly, the mass is lined with the cloud.
It hurts. Everything hurts, and then some of it…doesn't hurt.
Feel. That's the concept. It feels like something without hurting.
Then the cloud shifts and converges on the middle of the mass, where it has always hurt the worst. There is a moment of panic—will it hurt even more? Will something bad happen if it stops hurting?
More sensation. Something touches the mass around the center, and before the mass can try to orient itself, there is a sharp but clean tear.
The mass is hollow. Fresh, clean temperature is introduced to the hole in the center.
The silvery cloud descends upon it. It keeps the mass warm. Slowly, the mass feels the worst of the pain fading. It is frightening, the thought of having to redefine itself without pain to hold it together.
Still that sound, pitching and shaking. There is something familiar in some of the patterns. The cadence feels like a home.
The mass is still aware, somehow. It hasn't faded back into oblivion yet in its interminable cycle, but its center is so dense and choked that it will be stifled to death again soon.
But then there is a wave of something, not quite temperature nor light, but something between. The silvery cloud swarms around the mass and seems to inject that strange vitality into the surface.
The chasm in the core of the mass seems to close. The defined edges start to make a little more sense, and the mass minds them curiously.
More of its edges are mercilessly clarified, something close to the eyes and ears—the bottom half of that uppermost region. There is a seam that leads into the mass's insides, and something brushes over it, scraping the sensitive, raw outer layer. The seam is opened with a horrible creak from the structure bearing it.
Something cool and smooth lands over the seam. Another feature of the uppermost region is held shut, somewhere between and below the eyes, and then cool temperature is pushed into the open seam.
Temperature rushes in. The core of the mass swells.
It is agony. The mass doesn't know how to react, but it quivers.
The smooth shape lifts away, and then a rhythmic pressure is introduced to the mass's center. It strikes the very center of the mass with precision in a consistent beat. There is a calculated intention behind it, but even so, it inconsiderately makes the framework of the mass creak and ache. Under the weight, the fullness of temperature is pushed out through the mass’s seam. The smooth shape returns, fitting firmly in place over the seam, and urges in more temperature. Again, pressure on the mass pushes the volume of the temperature back out.
This continues. It is a new form of pain.
The mass shouldn’t be aware enough to feel this. It’s unjustifiable. Oblivion was merciful, and all of this stimulation and activity is offensive. Indignation is a complicated feeling, but the mass manages to conjure it.
Then there is a sudden rush in the center of the mass.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Then there is circulation. There is an incredibly agonizing, involuntary motion in the core of the mass, a thump all on its own. The mass wants to express displeasure; it has come to terms with stasis, and the sudden movement is exhausting. The waking up throughout its whole sense-experiencing shape is anguish.
The smooth shape and the timed pressure continue. With each round of fullness sent into the mass’s core, its insides crackle and stretch a little more. Gradually, the mass becomes malleable. The shivering is less flakey and stiff. The involuntary, independent beating in the center of the mass is nauseating.
Abruptly, another involuntary demand comes over the mass. Its core spasms, and the temperature becomes a craving. All at once, the mass wants more of that volume in its chest.
Chest. That feels right.
The source of the broken sounds and the touches and the light, the shape belonging to the smooth, life-giving surface, jolts back. The mass finds itself shifting, and a downward force adjusts, pressing on the mass from a different angle. Its chest spasms again. Its seam—mouth—opens wide and gasps for more temperature.
Air.
Breath.
It coughs for breath. It heaves for breath insatiably.
After an eternity, the mass is breathing. The chest moves erratically, and the mass can only breathe through the mouth, but it is breathing independently.
Something about that makes the chest jolt again. A sound leaves it. The eyes sting with moisture they shouldn't have.
The sound above the mass rattles with a similar miserable noise. Something takes hold of the mass's… There is a limb. The end of a limb.
Hand.
The mass has a hand, and it's engulfed in another hand.
There is another sense-experiencing shape beginning at that hand.
Person.
Another person.
The mass itself is a person.
One loses track of time.
The Person fades in and out. Sometimes the breathing stops, but always, the Other Person fits their mouths together and breathes for both of them until the Person remembers how.
There is still pain, but ever since the Person's chest was healed, any discomfort is bearable. Moving at all is excruciating, but it's wonderful. The Person can't move by themself, but any sort of dynamic experience is a glorious, agonizing revelation. The Other Person moves them. There is motion and touch. Surroundings and sensations change.
There is temperature. There is moisture. There are new smells, some sharp and clean, some softer and soothing. It is all fascinating and ruinous.
The Person must acclimate to having a body. They are introduced to things like skin and fingers, and they learn that being warm feels better than being cold. They feel textures—warm and soft and damp, slowly wiping away some sort of crust on their skin. They feel warm, fluid weight run over their head, and for a long time, they feel the Other Person easing the crust out of their hair. They soak for a long time in that delicious, clean-smelling warmth.
The Person fades out again.
The Person is lying down.
They jolt, terrified that they will strike the tight walls of their prison and struggle to breathe around the spike in their heart, but that doesn't happen; they just thrash weakly and end up tangled and disoriented in something soft.
Warm and soft. It smells nice.
A broken, rattling noise makes its way out of the Person's throat. They cough.
The Other Person is already there, placing a hand on the Person's cheek. They are an unknown, but their hands and lips have been gentle and they seem to have more agency than the Person. The Person knows that the Other Person is the reason they are not in the box. They must be the reason for all the soft, clean warmth.
The Person should probably feel more gratitude, or maybe suspicion. All they can pull together, though, is shock.
The Other Person makes another structured sound. A word. Speech. They must be speaking.
The Person finally makes something out:
Your Highness.
That is familiar. The Person breathes shakily and turns their head toward the Other Person's voice, cheek pressing into their hand.
The Other Person gasps. Their hand vanishes from the Person's face, and they start speaking faster. Some of the words sound right.
Your Highness.
I'm sorry.
I'm so—
—you hear me? Please, can you—
—Highness, Xie Lian.
Xie Lian.
That's right. That's an identity.
That's his name.
Xie Lian tries to fit his mouth around the syllables and can't form the sounds correctly. He tries again, harder, and it hurts when he fails. His mouth twitches but he can't get it right.
The light still doesn't make sense against his eyes, but he thinks he remembers something like color. There is a lot of color around him, and he is able to discern white and black and a great deal of something else. It's a breathtaking splash of vivacity on a new canvas, where there had been no canvas at all for so many eternities. It is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.
Red, Xie Lian finally names it.
He gets the impression that Red is saying his name again. Red has a pretty voice that curls around him like silk. He closes his eyes, comforted, but then he misses the color and opens them again.
He is not in pain—at least, not in the way he was before. There is still something bone-deep and gnawing in him, but he can breathe, and that by itself is a miracle. What he wants now is the color red and for that gentle voice to keep talking. He wants Red's hand to come back and ground him.
Xie Lian doesn't know how to communicate this, but he tries. He sends his will to his own hand.
It twitches.
He tries for his whole arm. It jerks a little, strange and uncoordinated.
Red's hand settles over his. Xie Lian relaxes. He twitches his fingers again and tries to grip the cool hand resting against his own.
He succeeds, marginally.
Red is quiet for a second. They carefully fold their hand around Xie Lian's and whisper Your Highness again, and then something else. More words that he doesn't understand.
Xie Lian just likes the sound of Red's voice and the vivid color they bring to his eyes. These things are shocking, but they prove that he isn't in the box. He sighs and finally lets his eyes close.
It's good not to be alone.