Chapter Text
Jun Wu slowly said, “If you know what you did was wrong, then you are already in the right.”
However, Xie Lian shook his head. “Just knowing is not enough. If I make a mistake, I should be punished. However, even though I committed the wrong, the one who took the punishment for me was…” he trailed off, expression heavy with regret. Then he raised his head. “So as punishment, I pray my lord will grant me a cursed shackle. No—two cursed shackles. One to seal away my spiritual powers, and another to disperse all my luck and fortune.”
- From Heaven's Official Blessing, book four.
There was a long, poignant silence as Jun Wu considered this. Mind and body aching, Xie Lian wearily waited for the verdict.
“If that’s really what you want, the punishment should fit the crime,” Jun Wu said at last, expression unreadable.
Xie Lian’s brow furrowed; he’d expected for Jun Wu to either agree outright, or continue to argue with his request. Suggesting an alternative was certainly unanticipated, but…even if he’d had the will, he was in no position to argue. “Please enlighten me, my lord.”
Rather than reply, Jun Wu stepped toward Xie Lian, hand raised. Skin crawling at even the mere idea of being touched (a reaction which had developed after that night in the temple), Xie Lian fought against the instinctive urge to shy away. This was Jun Wu after all, whom he’d looked up to and trusted for so many years, who’d just rescued him from Bai Wuxiang. Surely Jun Wu would never do anything to harm him.
The pads of Jun Wu’s fingertips gently came to rest on Xie Lian’s forehead, just beneath the brim of his bamboo hat. For a moment nothing happened, and Xie Lian stared into the unfathomable depths of Jun Wu’s dark eyes, feeling uncomfortably as though they were peering directly into the ruin of his soul.
And then: as sudden and shocking as a bolt of lightning, a tearing sensation ripped through him, stealing the air right out of his chest. Mouth gaping desperately for a breath that refused to come, he sank to his knees, clutching at the empty vacuum between his ribs.
Though Jun Wu’s expression was drawn with sympathy, his eyes were apathetic as he watched Xie Lian thrash in the dirt. “What a monstrous thing you tried to do, Xianle,” he murmured, letting his hand drop to his side. “What a terrible, monstrous thing.”
Xie Lian’s mouth silently shaped around a desperate plea for answers—but then there was a resounding crack as his ribcage shuddered ominously in his chest, and all coherency fled, overwhelmed by the sudden agony of transformation. His limbs twisted and popped in their sockets, the joints crunching painfully as they warped into something new and strange and terrible to behold.
Even as Xie Lian’s bones burst through the surface of his skin, even as the thick, metallic scent of blood filled the air, Jun Wu remained utterly unaffected. It was only when blood spattered the ground just before his feet that he finally reacted, taking a few lazy steps backward to prevent his robes from being stained.
There were two resounding pops, twin arcs of blood spraying in either direction—and then finally, mercifully, it was over. Only the rasping, heaving breaths of the massive heap of sinew and bone and flesh collapsed on the ground broke through the oppressive blanket of silence.
Jun Wu walked forward, maneuvering neatly around the drying pools of blood, which looked like so many blots of ink on a blank page. When he at last reached Xie Lian’s side he knelt, examining the details of the new form the way an artist would a newly finished sculpture: half-assessing, half proud.
Once he’d looked his fill, Jun Wu reached out, resting his hand against the thick mat of dark fur. A single honey-brown eye opened wide, rolling wildly with sheer terror, and then another, and another, their placement seemingly random. The wings that stretched high overhead like spindly, skeletal branches began to rattle, filling the air with an eerie chatter as the hollow bones clicked against each other.
“Isn’t this more fitting?” Jun Wu asked in a low, gentle tone, hand growing slick with blood as it stroked Xie Lian’s side. “Isn’t this what you deserve?”
A mournful keen grew from somewhere deep within the indistinguishable mass, the mere sound of it so ghastly that it scraped against the inside of the skull like a migraine.
“Enough,” Jun Wu said, although there was no bite to the rebuke. “I only did as you asked, Xianle. You have no right to complain about how I chose to fulfill that request.”
In this new form, it was difficult to tell whether or not Xie Lian understood. A shame, Jun Wu thought, with the faintest pang of regret. One of the most enjoyable parts of Xie Lian’s tutelage was watching the way his expression transformed from defiance to resignation, from determination to despair.
Oh well. Xie Lian shouldn’t have tested his patience so badly, shouldn’t have pushed him so hard.
“Don’t worry. It’s not permanent,” Jun Wu soothed. “If someone can recognize and accept you despite your monstrosity, then you’ll return to the way you were.”
Internally Jun Wu smirked; considering those ridiculous conditions, the curse may as well have been permanent. There was a reason Jun Wu constantly wore a disguise, after all.
No. In a few hundred years, once Xie Lian’s insolent pride was finally, thoroughly broken, Bai Wuxiang would sweep in and prove that he really was the only one who would forever stay by Xie Lian’s side. And then, everything would be as it should be.
At last, Xie Lian unfurled and unsteadily got to his feet—the limbs ending in either talons or cloven hooves—revealing deep, oozing rents in his flesh, and swathes of exposed viscera. A jagged half-skull lifted into the air, finally providing some point of anatomical reference amidst the indistinguishable menagerie of eyes and limbs and fur.
Clumsy as a newborn foal, Xie Lian stumbled away from Jun Wu’s touch, withered wings rattling with every unsteady movement. He tripped, fell—and the resulting shriek seemed to pierce right into the fight-or-flight part of the brain, so viscerally that even Jun Wu couldn’t prevent himself from tensing—before lumbering upright once more. Painfully slow, Xie Lian dragged himself away, into the relative safety of the treeline.
Jun Wu watched his retreat for a moment longer, considering the long smear of blood drawn through the dirt. Then he let out a sigh and waved his hand, dissipating the trail into nothingness; after all, it wouldn’t do for one of Xie Lian’s worthless assistants to find it and get suspicious.
Only then did he finally ascend. There was nothing left for him to do, except wait.
The blood hadn’t stopped.
(impossible, impossible, Jun Wu wouldn’t do this to him, he couldn’t, this was surely a nightmare, wasn’t it the same nightmare he’d been having since Xianle fell—?)
Terrified and disoriented, he dragged himself away from that clearing, desperate to be anywhere else, desperate for some way to make sense of what had just happened. But from beginning to end, there was no making sense of any of it.
It was as though someone had buried their hands into his chest and rummaged his insides around without his consent (I only did as you asked, Xianle) —except it hadn’t been just anyone. It had been Jun Wu, whom he’d looked up to and trusted implicitly (You have no right to complain about how I chose to fulfill that request).
And now he had too many limbs and eyes, and he was dizzy and confused and in pain, and…
Eventually he forced himself to halt his blind, thoughtless flight, wavering unsteadily on his feet (many feet? How— don’t think about it). He was exhausted and numb, and his thoughts were disconnected; everything felt so very distant.
What was he supposed to do now?
Feng Xin and Mu Qing, gone (his fault). His parents, dead (his fault). Wu Ming, dispersed into nothing (his fault). His body, strange and unfamiliar.
(His fault.)
(Wasn’t it?)
(Jun Wu wouldn’t have done this if he hadn’t deserved it, right? Right? Jun Wu wouldn’t—)
(Don’t think about it.)
Blood dripped onto the ground beneath him, steady and unrelenting, like rain slipping through the cracks of a leaky ceiling. The thought, making a mess, emerged from the mire of his mind.
He should…
A realization smashed through his stupor, abruptly bringing him to cold clarity: he was leaving a trail right to him. It didn’t matter that to his knowledge he wasn’t currently being pursued; even the idea of some nameless, faceless adversary was enough to spur him into action.
He pushed onward through the trees, leaving smears of thick blood every time his clumsy, unfamiliar body ran into some obstacle. Thanks to his strangely keen hearing (don’t think about it, don’t think about it), he eventually managed to find a thin river winding its way through the forest. Without delay he waded into the shallows and half-submerged himself in the water, dazedly watching the ribbons of blood drift away from him, dissolving into the current.
Why wasn’t the blood stopping?
If it had just been pain, Xie Lian could’ve handled it; he was good at ignoring pain. But everything was wrong, so wrong. His arms and legs weren’t responding like they were supposed to; the orientation of his world had shifted forward, and his viewpoint had new dimensions and colors he didn’t have names for. And everything smelled so much sharper, and sounds were louder, and…
His breath rasped sharply in his throat, and a shiver rolled down his spine—and he flinched as once more that odd, hollow rattling echoed through the air. What—?
Searching for the source, he twisted around, almost unbalancing himself in the process—
No.
Two withered structures composed entirely of delicate bones rose above his shoulders, the haphazard latticework framing the outline of skeletal wings. At first glance the bones appeared normal enough, albeit with strange knobs attached to either side, but closer examination revealed them for what they were.
Even connected by formless lumps of cartilage, each bone bore a striking resemblance to a sword. Not just any sword, but the one that featured so frequently in his nightmares, that had killed him, over and over again—
Something in his mind snapped— and without thinking, he hooked one of his new, sinuous limbs through the skeletal lattice and yanked. The sharp edges of the sword-like bones cut through his skin, and the joint at the base of his wing jolted in its socket, but he kept pulling until he tumbled over himself, disturbing the peaceful current with his senseless thrashing. But not matter how hard he tried, it wouldn’t come out, it wouldn’t come out—
At last he collapsed in the middle of the river, heaving with dry sobs—but even the mournful, grieving keen that reverberated through the air was alien, and that only made him more miserable. This wasn’t his body. These weren’t his many eyes, those wings weren’t attached to his shoulders, that wasn’t his voice .
This wasn’t real. This couldn’t be real.
The warm, honey-gold eyes rippling across his massive form blinked, and blinked, and blinked, weeping a dark, tar-like liquid.
And then, they all turned red at once.
The beast lay in the river for a moment, his long, bony tail occasionally breaking the surface of the water as it flicked agitatedly. Something was wrong, he knew that something was wrong, but…
He was tired, and cold, and hungry. His focus on immaterial concepts like betrayal and the horror of his transformation quickly slipped away as the more pressing concerns took precedence.
He got to his feet and trotted to the riverbank, shaking the water from his thick fur once he reached dry land. Blood continued to ooze from the exposed viscera, dripping down his many-jointed legs and staining the ground where he walked, but he ignored it.
The half-skull crowned with enormous, swirling horns tilted idly to one side as he listened, taking in the quiet. Every animal in the vicinity must’ve been scared off by the racket he’d made, and he clacked his bony teeth in annoyance. He would’ve much preferred fresh meat, but it was unlikely he’d be able to find any nearby.
Some instinct guiding him to remain in the shadows, he began walking through the trees, occasionally lifting his head to scent the air. New as he was, his first few steps were clumsy and uncertain, but the more time passed the more confident he became, until he was gliding swiftly and soundlessly through the underbrush. And then he realized that he was far more dexterous than his bulky appearance would suggest, and that it was a simple thing to corkscrew smoothly from the ground to a tree trunk to a branch, and back down again.
We are strong, some instinct whispered. Who dares challenge us?
He reared his head and plunged onward.
The first things he found to sate his hunger were a few scattered mushrooms hiding amidst decaying leaves. He lunged forward and snapped the caps off with his sharp front teeth, before grinding them to a paste with his blunt molars. He circled the little clearing a few times to make sure he’d gotten them all, before turning away to continue his hunt.
Next he found a bush dotted with clusters of sweet berries, and he found that to be very agreeable indeed. He picked it clean, parting the leaves with his bony tail and searching the ground to ensure he’d gotten every last one.
That completed, he slithered up a tall tree to get a better vantage point of the forest floor, trying to ascertain which direction would prove most fruitful. Eventually he decided to turn right of the sinking sun, deftly navigating through the growing shadows. Hardly anything was disturbed as he went; the only sign of his passage were the bright specks of blood drying on the greenery.
He continued to travel even as the sun sank below the horizon, plunging the world into darkness, except for the stars that glittered brightly overhead. The further he went from the epicenter of his becoming, the more signs of life began to reveal themselves. Birds cooed softly in the trees overhead; leaves rustled as squirrels (unfortunately too small to make much of a meal) sped around.
And then, in the distance: the sound of voices.
The beast paused, raising the half-skull of his head, his long, fluid ears coiling this way and that as he listened. It was more than just a couple of voices; there were many, overlapping and blending in a way that could only mean the presence of a human settlement.
He hesitated, suddenly uncertain.
A human settlement meant: food (domesticated livestock, trash to dig through. Humans are so messy).
But human settlements were…dangerous? No, that wasn’t right. Who dared challenge him? He’d destroy anyone who got in his way.
No. No, humans were not to come to harm. He would never. He would never.
But why ever not? There was no reason for self-restraint, was there?
But there was. The thought was like a misshapen puzzle piece which didn’t quite fit into his simplistic worldview, fighting to be heard. He shook his head, flicking his ears like he was trying to get rid of an irritating gnat.
Why? He asked himself, turning in circles, his bony tail punching frustrated holes through the air. It didn’t make any sense.
Because we’re—
Oh.
Xie Lian slammed back into awareness as violently as if he’d just been kicked solidly in the chest by a horse. Gods, he’d just—it was like the part of him controlled by animal instinct had seized control of the reins when his mind had become overwhelmed by panic.
Stumbling backward, he lumbered back into the trees—although his awkwardness was now due to his distress rather than any lingering discomfort with his new body. Only once he could no longer hear the human settlement did he finally stop, collapsing to the ground, shaking so hard that his horrifying skeletal wings clacked ominously.
He could still… feel that mindset, those instincts, simmering just beneath the surface of his awareness. And that was the most terrifying thing in the entire world, even more than his strange new body.
Because yes, the physical changes were awful. The rivulets of blood constantly running down his sides, the many limbs, all of it made him want to curl up into a ball and remain that way until things returned to the way they should be.
But the idea of losing his sense of self? Of turning into some mindless, thoughtless beast that cared nothing for things like responsibility and obligation and the pain of others? It was…untenable. More than that, it didn’t make any fucking sense. This was meant to be punishment for what he’d almost done in Yong’an, and what he had done to Wu Ming, and the beast hadn’t cared about that at all. How was that penance? How was he atoning?
Slowly Xie Lian’s shaking began to subside, the hollow thunk, thunk of his wings tapering into silence.
It didn’t make sense. Unless…
What a monstrous thing you tried to do, Xianle. What a terrible, monstrous thing.
What if Jun Wu was testing his willpower and resolve? Testing his ability to resist his potential for monstrosity?
It seemed cruel to do such a thing without telling him, but…Jun Wu wouldn’t have done this without a good reason. And there had to be a good reason. The implications if there wasn’t—
He let out another migraine-inducing keen and buried his long, bone-white snout into his paws. Don’t think about it.
There was a long silence where he simply laid there in the earth, breathing in the newfound sharpness of the damp air, slowly resigning himself to the confines of his form. Then he exhaled and got to his feet, trekking further away from the settlement, his tail dragging a deep furrow through the mud.
He could think about this for an age and a half, driving himself half-mad coming up with explanations and excuses for what had just happened. In the end though, what would that accomplish? It wouldn’t improve his situation, let alone change him back.
If someone can recognize and accept you despite your monstrosity, then you’ll return to the way you were.
Feng Xin and Mu Qing, gone (his fault). His parents, dead (his fault). Wu Ming, dispersed into nothing (his fault).
In this strange, horrific form, who could recognize him? And even if they did, after everything he’d done, what chance did he have of being accepted?
…gods, he was so tired. (Don’t think about it.)
He soldiered mechanically onward until he found a clearing surrounded on all sides by a wall of shrubs and trees, giving the illusion of some semblance of privacy. He circled a few times, pushing away rocks and smoothing the ground until it was mostly flat, before finally curling his enormous, unwieldy form into as tight a ball as possible right there on the forest floor.
Only then, completely alone in the cover of night, did he finally let his tears fall.
He’d been so, so sure that he’d had nothing left to lose: neither meaningful connections, nor dignity, nor pride. That night in the temple had shattered what was left of his spirit, and then the events that’d followed had robbed him of everything else.
Stupid. Stupid. He should’ve known better. There was always farther to fall.
A pheasant wandered through the cool shade of the forest, hardly making a sound as it bobbed and weaved. Every once in a while it paused and lifted its head, checking its surroundings, before going back to rummaging for food.
Xie Lian breathed out slowly, belly pressed into the earth, bone-white tail coiled against his side. Unfortunately due to his sleek fur, so dark it seemed to absorb all light that touched it, and his partially exposed skeleton, he stuck out like a sore thumb. As he couldn’t use a bow or traps, his only option was to rely on strategy and speed; luckily his newfound form seemed to have the latter in spades.
Unfortunately, applying that was easier said than done. The first time he’d tried hunting, he’d forgotten about the iron stench of blood that accompanied him always and thoughtlessly settled upwind. The second time, he hadn’t quite been able to coordinate his multiple sets of limbs and had wiped out spectacularly when he’d tried to lunge forward. He was sure if his prey hadn’t been too busy fleeing, it would’ve laughed at him.
But he was securely downwind, and his muscles were coiled powerfully beneath him, and he felt good about this. Especially since…
At first he’d been determined to ignore his animal instincts, terrified that if he gave in even a little, he’d begin to lose pieces of his humanity. But the truth of the matter was this: Xie Lian the human thought too much, was hesitant and constantly second-guessing himself. The beast knew how to survive in this kind of environment far better than he did.
And…he and the beast were the same now, weren’t they? Much as he’d like to bury his head in the dirt and hide from this new reality, there was only so long he could live in denial.
So Xie Lian closed his eyes. Desperately tried to soothe his jangling nerves.
And then he mentally took a tiny step back. He didn’t pull away as completely as he had that first night when panic had overwhelmed his mind, but…just enough to let those instincts guide him.
Xie Lian opened his eyes, closely tracking the pheasant’s movements. Not yet. Not yet.
The pheasant bobbed a little, lifted its head. Once ascertaining that the coast was clear it dipped into a low bow, picking at the earth with its beak.
Now.
He hadn’t realized how precarious it was to stand on two legs all the time until he was balanced horizontally on many. But as he surged forward, he was able to find purchase on footholds at strange angles, like trees or off-kilter rocks; there was no need to worry about falling over, because there was always another set of limbs to keep him upright. His bone-white tail was even dexterous enough to wrap around branches like a hand.
He felt quick, and powerful, and unstoppable.
The pheasant noticed him and spread its wings, but it was a split-second too late. Xie Lian’s tail, sharpened to an arrow-head point at the end, shot ahead and skewered the bird’s breast, ending its life instantly.
In the part of his mind that was still human, he was relieved for how quick and painless the death had been. The other part which was eager to sate his hunger didn’t hesitate to sink his teeth into the meal.
It was only as he was snapping one of the remaining leg bones between his teeth did he realize that he’d unthinkingly just consumed the entire thing raw. He went perfectly still, revulsion and nausea washing through him—gods, he hadn’t even paused—
Xie Lian shoved the remaining bits of the pheasant’s carcass away and stumbled backward, movements clumsy and awkward once more. He hadn’t meant to—he’d had vague ideas of starting a fire to roast the meat over—but he’d gotten so caught up in the chase…
Even worse, he’d enjoyed the rich iron tang of fresh blood, the sharp crunch of bone, the tear of soft flesh. He had half a mind to bring everything back up, never mind that he wasn’t sure how to activate his gag reflex anymore.
Gods, he could still taste it.
He whined softly and began scraping at his muzzle with his talons, trying to clean away any remnants of blood. Even though his form was different, he was still a human. Even if it was difficult sometimes, he couldn’t forget that.
But at the same time…
He promised himself that he’d stop being in denial about his new situation; after all, nothing would change, no matter how hard he willed it. The quicker he got used to everything, the quicker he’d adapt. That had been the whole point of relying on those underlying instincts in the first place.
His frantic scrubbing slowed.
He had to think pragmatically: in this form, could he really build a fire? Probably not; he no longer had opposable thumbs, nor did he have any spiritual energy. His only options would be to borrow fire from a human encampment or to wait for lightning to strike, neither of which were convenient.
Big predators ate their meat raw all the time. It wasn’t a big deal.
He felt a sudden pang of longing for his mother’s cooking, so strong that it almost stole his breath away. It may have been absolutely foul, practically unfit for human consumption, but she’d made everything with such love. What he wouldn’t give to taste a meal made by her hands just one more time.
Instead here he was, cursed to inhabit this grotesque form for his sins, eating raw meat like an animal. Morbid as the thought was, there was one silver lining of his parent’s death: they weren’t here to witness this complete, utter humiliation.
He wondered what they would say, if they could see him. His father would be disappointed and ashamed of his only son, no doubt—it seemed as though those were the only emotions Xie Lian had been able to elicit from him, toward the end. And his mother…she’d probably have been very upset.
Feng Xin would have shouted a lot, screaming something like, how the fuck did you get yourself in this situation? And Mu Qing…
Xie Lian briefly buried his nose into his front paws and closed his eyes, shying away from the thought.
His parents, dead (his fault).
(Hanging from the ceiling, the wooden beam creaking as they swayed. Proof that his failure, his descent into depravity, had become too much for them to handle, and that he wasn’t worth living for any longer.)
Feng Xin and Mu Qing, gone (his fault).
(“I’m really leaving,” Mu Qing said, setting the bags of rice aside. There was a hesitant expression on his face, as though there was something he wanted to say—but one look at Xie Lian’s expression made him swallow and turn away.
“I said, don’t follow me anymore,” Xie Lian snapped in response to Feng Xin’s disbelieving exclamations, and then slammed the door on their relationship forever.)
What a rotten, monstrous creature he was, for having hurt his loved ones so. Yet despite the fact that he knew that they were far better off without them, he missed them deeply. If only they could all return to those golden days…
…no. Even those golden days had been a lie, hadn’t they? Just a gilded prelude to the main act, where the country and its royal family had been broken open wide, exposing the rot for all to witness.
Xie Lian heaved a sigh so deep that his entire body deflated with it, before rising to his feet and slipping back into the trees. Despite his size, he vanished completely between one beat and the next; the only sign of his passing was a few scattered pieces of bone, and the smears of blood staining the earth.