Chapter Text
It's dark.
That's the only way to describe his situation.
Dark, and cold; lifeless as a rotting corpse. Nothing to distract from the overwhelming pain and chaos in his mind.
The muscles in his foot twitched, striking out to hit his wooden confines. Pain lanced up his leg, sliding past his bloodied knees - broken from his attempts to escape - and climbing its way up his body to dig its claws into where the stake was buried in his heart.
The stake.
A slab of wood that pins him to this cursed coffin, like an insect on display.
He doesn't blame the person who put him here, making him go through an unending torment.
Lang Qianqiu didn't know that he was unable to die when he put him in here.
Death would've been a sweet release. But alas, these black carvings on his skin would prevent even his deepest desires from coming true.
He started gasping for breath.
Ah. The air was once again running out. He'd spent too much time caught in his own thoughts that he hadn't been trying to escape.
He arduously brought his fingers up to the lid, scratching above him with growing urgency.
He scratched and raked his fingers in the minuscule grooves of the wood for what felt like eons before he passed out.
He doesn't want to wake up.
—
“A-Lian! Your mother has some flowers for you!”
“Really?!”
“Slow down, my son. You'll ruin your robes like that.”
“Hehe. Mama, can I braid these into your hair?”
“Of course you can. But don't take too long, your father wants me present for a meeting later.”
“Your A-Lian will make you the prettiest woman in the three realms for the meeting! Everyone is going to be jealous of baba for having such a pretty wife.”
Tears leaked down his face.
He was so absorbed in the memory that he forgot where he truly was.
He had been in the gardens of Xianle palace, a delicate butterfly wandering on his finger when his mother called.
He had gently waved it away when she had mentioned flowers. A huge grin had broken across his face, and he quickly ran over.
He was hoping that she would have some of his favorite kind. He didn't know the name, but he knew that they were small and white.
There was nothing tying his favoritism towards that specific flower, but he had always liked how pretty and how good they smelled.
Now... all he could smell was blood and rot.
He doesn't want to be able to smell his own body rotting, deteriorating 6 feet under in a 3 layered coffin.
He wants to be able to enjoy the sun, and open up the gates of his prison.
He wants to feel the grass under his feet, and enjoy the pittering of the rain on the leaves.
Most of all, even if it's not possible, he wants to see his mom smiling again, laughing as she calls out to him for a hug.
Not cold, or stiff, but warm and welcoming. Like a fluffy bunny instead of a hanging corpse.
He wants to see that memory again. He clawed at the stake, to further the process of dying and hopefully start to wiggle it out.
Feeling increased pain for a brief second doesn't matter if he can just fall asleep right after.
—
Screams echoed around the parade, as a small child fell from one of Xianle's walls.
Xie Lian's gaze snapped up, and he immediately launched himself into the air, catching the poor thing.
The boy looked up at him in wonder, dirty fists clenched in his robes.
His mask fell off his face, revealing the comforting smile gracing his features.
He landed back on the parade float, continuing the elaborate display of swordsmanship in front of his people.
“Why did you do that?” Mu Qing hissed. “It would've been fine if he had died!”
Xie Lina dodged a kick to his side. “Wouldn't that just be a bad omen for the years to come? Besides, he's just a kid, how could I let him die?”
Mu Qing scoffed. “Whatever.”
They fell silent, resuming their well practiced dance, until Xie Lian blocked Mu Qing's saber a bit too close to his body.
The child in his arms whimpered, tightening his grip on Xie Lian's robes.
He immediately cooed, using the thumb resting on the kid's knee to rub comforting circles.
“Don't worry, it'll all be okay.”
This time, he awoke slower than he had in the past.
Thankfully, it meant that he couldn't feel the pain for a little bit.
He doesn't know how many times he's died and then dreamed of his past. He's dreamed of everything, from his years as a young child to saving a 12 year old Lang Qianqiu.
Surely he's been here for years. It would explain why the blood soaked wood around him is beginning to give under his fingers.
When he had just gotten in the coffin, he had analyzed the type of wood it was so he could figure out a way to get out faster.
In true Xie Lian fashion, the wood was one of the toughest ones out there, so that was why he had been unable to break out.
If the wood was finally giving, he had to have been here for at least 100 years.
He laughed, choking up blood as he laughed, and laughed, and laughed.
He's never going to escape.
“Feng Xin. Mu Qing. Jun Wu. Anyone. Get me out. I beg of you. I can't take this anymore.” he prayed wordlessly in his head. He had long lost the ability to speak.
He had prayed in the past, to no avail. Why not try one last time? Then he can be disappointed for the last time in his life.
A vague memory popped up in his mind about something a servant had said while he was still serving as Fangxin.
“You can pray to Crimson Rain. He's known for helping those who are in real need of help.”
If he recalls correctly, the servant had been a girl comforting one of her fellow servants, who was being abused by one of the nobles because she was of Xianle origin.
He had walked away before hearing the rest of the conversation.
Why not try praying to this mysterious “Crimson Rain”? It's not like his situation could get any worse if his prayer was ignored because he doesn't have an offering.
He would just stay here for the rest of his immortal life. Not too bad.
“Crimson Rain,” he thought. “This lowly one doesn't presume to gain your help but I'm in a bit of a pickle. I don't enjoy being buried alive with a stake embedded in my chest, so if there's any way you can save me from this 3 layered monstrosity, I would greatly appreciate it.”
He gasped for air. He was unsure if it made its way into the prayer or not. The next words he thought were small and broken.
“I can't take it anymore.”
He could no longer move his hands, so he just waited for the lack of oxygen to kill him.