Archive of Our Own

In your dreams, Danny Rand has wings.

(You dream about him almost every night.)

I. They‘re bird wings when you find him.

(A child. Touched by fire. Delivered from heaven. Destined for victory. You don‘t know what that means. Neither does Lei-Kung, it turns out.)

***

The nights are always cold in the monastery, even in the sweltering heat of summer. You pull the blankets over you and curl up around the black, black nothingness inside your chest like it‘s a bonfire.

This winter, you will be six years old.

Your dreams are as empty as you are.

***

The other young warriors don‘t like you much. They‘re envious. Of course they are. You‘re Shifu‘s son. Becoming the next Iron Fist is a foregone conclusion.

And that‘s good, really. As the future Immortal Weapon, you don‘t need worldly attachments. You watch the others get distracted from their lessons by games or arguments or gossip, and you don‘t need that. You need to focus on your training.

It‘s just ... it‘s quiet sometimes, is all.

***

You hear a loud squawk beside you, and turn on your heel with a surprised gasp, instinctively going into the fighting stance that‘s been drilled into you since before you started forming concrete memories.

The pail of water you‘ve been carrying clatters to the ground, dissolving the already thawing spring snow into wet, muddy nothingness, and making your trip for naught.

You spot a young hawk, fallen from the nest, crooked wings dragging uselessly behind him, leaving parallel lines in the snow.

You hear his pained shrieks and mewls, and your heart breaks for him.

Without thinking, you take off your cloak, unmindful of the bitter cold, and approach the broken bird.

He tries to skitter away, wings beating frantically against the white snow, but you‘re faster. You wrap your cloak around the struggling animal and gather the bundle up in your arms.

Your triumph is short-lived. As you try to adjust the cloak, to make sure the bird can breathe, he manages to tear his beak free and pecks at you in desperation. The hawk may be young, and much lighter than you thought he would be, but he‘s strong - strong enough to almost knock you over.

You scream as pain sets your face afire, but it‘s no use - the hawk, in his mindless fear, knows no mercy. His long talons slash your skin while his sharp beak tears at your flesh, and for a moment, the winged creature seems less like a juvenile bird of prey and more like the dragon you‘ve been preparing to face since you took your first steps.

Panic seizes your throat and crushes your chest from the inside out.

Your eyes! Your eyes! He‘s going to tear out your eyes!

With the same primal instinct that has the bird swipe and peck at you, you lash out at him - blindly, too afraid to open your eyes and leave them vulnerable to those vicious talons.

Your hand curls into an open fist of its own volition, the way Lei-Kung has shown you, and with a shout, you aim it at your attacker, hoping to convince him to let go of you.

A sickening crack fills your ears.

It is followed by a soft thud.

Then, quiet.

Tentatively, you open your eyes. Dark red blood drips from your brow down your lashes and onto the blindingly white snow. The young hawk lies at your bare feet, motionless. Slain by his rescuer. A living thing, reduced to nothing more than dead eyes and a mess of black and brown feathers.

The blood mingles with tears, turning the world into an ugly red smear of anger and betrayal.

*

You expect to be beaten for the tears, but Mother only sighs when she sees you with your torn cloak and torn skin and torn heart. She motions for you to sit while she pours water into a bowl and fetches a needle and thread.

„What did you do this time?“

„I‘m sorry, Mother“, you manage to choke out through suppressed sobs. „I - I found a bird, a hawk. He was injured. I tried to help him, but he - he thought I was attacking him, and he ... fought back.“

Mother eyes you sceptically, searching for any hint of a lie in your bloody face. Eventually, her expression softens, albeit not by much. „Of course it did.“ She doesn‘t look at you as she cleans your knuckles with the same cold efficiency with which she canes them when you stumble in your training. „Animals do not think like we do. In its eyes, you were a predator, trying to take advantage of its predicament to kill it.“

You feel your face fall as you guiltily stare down at your bloodied hands. „I did kill him.“

„Good.“ The word catches you off guard. It‘s not praise, not really. But it‘s as close to forgiveness as you are going to get. „You should have killed it right away. Crushed its head with a rock. Put it out of its misery.“

You stare at her. She doesn‘t return your gaze.

„But - Shifu says compassion is a virtue“, you try to explain yourself. „Would killing the creature have been kinder?“

„It would have been safer.“ Mother pushes the needle into your skin. You know better than to flinch.

„Remember that you are a weapon, Davos“, she says as she meticulously puts you back together, stitch by agonising stitch. „Compassion is a virtue, but it is a virtue a weapon cannot afford.“

***

K‘un-Lun is a place of harsh beauty and even harsher justice.

You attend public whippings and executions. You follow the scent of blood to spy on peasants slaughtering donkeys and chickens. You climb down the ravine where traitors and oath breakers are left to die, their bodies broken on the rocks.

(Oath breakers are the lowest of the low, Father told you once, when you took your first vows. A man who goes back on his word is a man without honour, a traitor to his people.)

You force yourself to dip your bare toes into the blood of the animals, and snap the bones of the traitors with your tiny hands.

You force yourself to listen.

You force yourself to watch.

You force yourself not to feel anything.

You try.

You try.

You try.

In your dreams, you still see black, black feathers and red, red blood upon the white, white snow.

***

The way to the outside world will open soon. The elders calculate that it will happen in the winter, shortly after your tenth birthday.

Sometimes, on the rare occasions you have time to yourself, you treck up the mountain path to observe the current Iron Fist in his vigil. He‘s getting up there in age, worn down by wind, snow, and isolation. This will be the third time during his time carrying the Fist that the world beyond will be within his reach, and it will also be his last.

The time after that, you will be the one guarding the pass in his stead.

You watch him do his rounds, his robe leaving parallel lines in the white, white snow, and try to picture what it will be like.

Cold, you imagine.

***

Almost a year to the day after the path opens, the mountain shakes.

It‘s not an avalanche. The Iron Fist reports flashing lights in the sky, and smoke on the wind.

Father sends Chodak and Tashi to investigate. You beg to be allowed to go with them. „If I am to be the Iron Fist, I can‘t be afraid of the outside world, can I?“

„But you are not supposed to yearn for it, either“, Father tells you sternly, and that is that.

***

You look at the boy, pale, save for where the fever colours his cheeks, as he drifts in and out of consciousness.

Your brother, you have been informed.

He doesn‘t look like your brother.

And it‘s not because you don‘t resemble each other at all. Family is more than flesh. There are people with pale skin and straight, sharp noses in K‘un-Lun, even a few with golden hair and blue eyes, just like him. Except that you‘ve never looked into someone‘s eyes and felt like you‘re drowning in the sky.

He doesn‘t look like your brother.

He looks like something else entirely.

II. They‘re paper wings when you fall in love with him.

(Brothers. You chant the word in your head like a mantra, when you‘re bathing together, when you wrestle him to the ground during training, when he lies in your arms after a bad dream, both of your hearts racing for completely different reasons. The word never means what you want it to mean.)

***

Every night, the boy sleeps fitfully on the futon next to yours. Every morning before you head of to train, you ask him his name.

You ask in Mandarin, Japanese, Hindi, Greek, Arabic, English, along with the other languages spoken in K‘un-Lun that you know at least a couple of snippets of.

No matter the language, you never get a response.

*

On the twelfth night, you wake up to the sound of him screaming.

„Mom! No! No, no, no, no, no -“

You‘re up and out of your bed in an instant, heart pounding in your chest. Frantically, you look around, ready to fend off whatever intruder is attacking the boy who fell from the sky, only to realize that you‘re alone, save for the shadows cast by the crescent moon.

A nightmare, then.

(You used to get them, too, of bones cracking, of donkeys screaming, of people moaning, of scales that are hard like diamonds and eyes that glow like hot irons and wings that can turn day into night, of red, red blood and black, black feathers upon the white, white snow -)

Cautiously, you approach the other boy, unsure of what to do. If you‘ve ever called out in your sleep, no one has responded to your cries.

He whimpers and moans like the dying men in the ravine, and for a brief moment, you wonder why the monks decided to take him in. If killing is a kindness and leaving someone to suffer the pain of their injuries is a punishment, was rescuing him truly a mercy? Wouldn‘t it have been better to put him out of his misery?

Overcome with morbid fascination, you reach out for him, gently stroking his shaggy, sun-coloured hair as your thumb traces phantom cracks in the skull underneath. The bone feels so hard, much harder than a bird skull, harder even than the limbs of the corpses you‘ve been practising on. How much force would it take to break it? Could you do it if you had to? You comb your fingers through his curls and imagine them caked in blood and brain matter.

You‘re so entranced by the feeling of his wiry hair against the pads of your fingers, you don‘t notice he has stilled completely in his sleep until you try to rake your gaze over the rest of his body, and are stopped in your tracks by two blue, blue eyes boring into yours.

Guilt boils in your stomach. You‘re not sure why.

„Hey, it‘s alright“, you say softly. In English, because that‘s what he spoke earlier. „It‘s alright, I‘m here.“

You‘re not sure why the presence of a complete stranger would be of any comfort to the boy, but you think you see him nod.

You‘re not sure what makes you crawl into his futon, either, but as you curl around him, he doesn‘t pull away.

For the first time in your life, you feel warm inside.

*

„It‘s Danny. Danny Rand“, he whispers against your neck as the first light of dawn creeps over the horizon on the thirteenth day.

***

Danny disappears sometimes. He‘s there one moment, then gone the next.

Every time, you‘re scared he won‘t come back. Every time, he returns, frozen to the bone, with ice in his hair and a haunted look in his eyes.

Every time, you wrap him up in blankets. Make hot tea. Hold the cup to his lips as he drinks. Ask him where he went.

He never gives you an answer.

***

„I was travelling with my parents, when - when our plane crashed.“ Danny‘s voice is rough. He‘s not crying, but he‘s shaking, and his eyes are glassy and red. „They didn‘t - ... I was the only survivor.“

You want to comfort him, but you don‘t know how. Instead, you, stupidly, say the first thing that pops into your head. „Your plane?“

He looks at you, his trembling subsiding ever so slightly. „Yeah. It‘s, uh, a big metal machine that can fly?“

Despite the heaviness of the conversation, your eyes grow wide with wonder. „Oh, you mean an aeroplane? I‘ve heard about those.“

„Wait, you have?“, Danny asks, his grief-stricken panic temporarily forgotten in favour of surprise.

You feel some of the tension drain from your own body. Maybe you don‘t know how to comfort your new brother, but maybe you can distract him, just for a little while. „You‘re not the only outsider in K‘un-Lun, Danny“, you explain to him, as gently as possible. However little you know about Danny‘s home, he knows even less about yours. „This city may be hidden from the world, but it‘s not a prison. Every time the pass opens, some people come, some people leave, and some people return. And the ones who enter the city bring tales and trinkets from the outside. We know about the strange machines your people have invented.“

„Oh.“ Danny blinks a couple of times, trying to process that information. Something about his expression reminds you of the collared owlets you sometimes spot sitting in the trees when you fetch water in the morning. „So is the lack of technology here, like, a religious thing? Like the Amish?“

„I don‘t know what this ‚Amish‘ is“, you say, „but no, we‘re not opposed to it on principle. We just don‘t have any means of generating our own electricity here.“ You playfully knock your shoulder against the other boy‘s. „But Shifu says that it‘s better that way. Honest labour steels both the body and the mind. It‘s dangerous to rely on anything but yourself.“

A dark shadow falls over Danny‘s face. „It‘s definitely dangerous to rely on planes.“

You swallow around the lump in your throat. „I‘m sorry“, you whisper. Your hand finds his on the cold stone floor between the two of you. His skin is soft, like down feathers and polished jade and the sun in mid spring. „About your parents. About - about everything.“

He squeezes your hand and gives you a small smile, sad and crooked like a broken wing.

***

As the weeks pass, one thing becomes increasingly clear: You are sorry about Danny‘s parents.

You‘re not sorry that their tragic fate brought him to you.

***

Danny recovers fast. „A fighting spirit“, Shifu says, fondly, and can‘t wait to take him under his wing. Mother frowns, but if she protests, it‘s not for your ears to hear.

The training is good for Danny, you think. His lanky frame fills out a little. The pallor from his face vanishes, replaced by a healthy flush and a sun-kissed tan. He laughs and smiles, easily and often, at everything and nothing - and for the first time in your life, so do you.

***

Danny‘s nightmares continue waking you. You don‘t mind. Not when they give you an excuse to curl up beside him, your ear pressed against his chest as he holds you close, one hand on your waist, the other running through the short bristles of your hair.

His own hair is gone now, shaved off as befits a monk, and you can‘t help but mourn the loss of it a little. Day by day, his skin loses more and more of its softness. You like the way it feels against your own anyway.

***

„There is joy in duty“, Shifu told you back when you were just beginning your training, but you didn‘t understand what joy truly was until you were given a brother to share it with.

Danny is light and lightness, chasing away the shadows in your heart and filling your belly with feathers when your training makes you feel like your every limb has been turned into lead.

You no longer attend executions. You can‘t stomach the thought of making Danny sit through them. He is twice the age you were when you first watched a man die, and yet he feels so much younger than you were then.

Instead, you take him to the market, and you show him the intricately woven tapestries and colourful ink drawings and engraved amulets, and you explain their magicks to him.

He lets you listen to music with him until his device runs out of power, and he tells you about the radio, the television, the internet. You read scrolls from the library with him to help him practice his Mandarin, and you tell him about the tales they contain, epic stories of warriors and dragons and ancient conflict.

You fold a sheet of paper into an origami crane and tell him about the Crane Mother, and the long legacy of your order. He folds a sheet of paper into a paper plane and tells you about aeroplanes, and his parents‘ riches.

He shows you how to build a man out of snow, and tells you about his friends, Joy and Ward. (You can't help but notice that even the stories about Ward‘s cruelty are tinged with wistful nostalgia.) You show you how to build a fighter kite out of bamboo and paper, and don‘t know how to tell him that he‘s the only friend you‘ve ever had.

***

Shifu‘s teachings on sexual desires are cold and perfunctory. He tells the two of you just enough about the technicalities of carnal indulgences for you to know what not to do, lest you break the vows you took. You‘re given tools to cope with temptation - cold water, running, meditation, breathing techniques. Reluctantly, he also explains how to find release using your own hand, should those other methods fail you. It‘s meant to be a last resort, but his tone of voice implies that he already knows it to be inevitable.

You are determined to prove him wrong.

***

As far as you are concerned, adolescence is nothing but a nuisance, the price you have to pay to gain the full strength of your body. You could do without the ache in your bones as your limbs grow long and gangly, the itching all over your skin as hair grows where there didn‘t use to be any, and the empty feeling in your belly, this never-ending, ravenous appetite - for food, for mischief, and, worst of all, for sex.

Lust is a base desire, a distraction, something you‘re meant to purge yourself off, and you desperately wish that you could. Especially when your thoughts keep straying to your brother‘s lanky frame and his blue, blue eyes and the freckles that the spring sun sprinkles across his nose -

The shame coils up inside you, hot and bitter, and refuses to go away. You don‘t know how to make it all stop. It‘s not like you can talk to anyone about it. They‘d all look at you with disgust. They might even take Danny away, separate the two of you, and the mere idea of not having him by your side makes your heart seize with panic.

You‘ve been drowning in white, white snow and black, black nothingness for too long, and ever since you've met him, he's been the breath in your lungs. You need him. You need him. You need his hand on your back and his head on your shoulder and his voice in your ear. Outside of training, he‘s the only one who ever touches you, and if there‘s an uncomfortable twinge in your belly every time he does, that‘s your problem to deal with.

***

It‘s your own dreams that keep you up at night now. Your sleep is haunted by visions of painted paper wings that fold around you like a cocoon, by the sensation of skin that still feels soft as silk, like it‘s never been exposed to punches and canings and the elements.

You hate it, you hate being betrayed by both your body and your mind, you hate the sticky sheets you wake up on, you hate the images in your head that make it impossible for you to look at Danny‘s bright, innocent smile without imagining it pressed against every inch of your body, and most of all, you hate yourself for wanting.

Why are you like this? Of all the people that could have caught your eye, why did it have to be your own brother - not by blood, perhaps, but still bound to you by law and duty? Why did it have to be someone so close to you, someone who sleeps in the very room where you dream of him, who sits beside you at every meal, who makes you laugh the way no one else ever has?

He‘s not someone you can admire from a distance, and ignore until this stupid, puerile longing passes. Instead, he‘s right there, familiar and warm and unfairly beautiful, stoking the fire in your belly with each lovely smile, each tender touch, each graceful motion.

He slips under the covers with you on cold nights, whispering to you about his old life, the country he was born into, the people who loved him the way you should love him, and all you can think of are the movements of his lips and tongue, and how much you long to silence them with your own. To kill his desire to return to his world by sating your own desire to make him yours.

You try to swallow the feelings that get stuck in your throat like a burning lump of charcoal. You try to focus on your training, your studies, your vows, your birthright. You try to love your home as fiercely as you love him.

You try.

You try.

You try.

The first time you spill over your own fist to the thought of your fingers tangled in short, blond curls, you cry. It feels like defeat.

***

As you spend the days dreading your dreams, Danny seems to be living in his. There‘s this distant quality to him, like his nightmares are the only thing that‘s real to him, and he‘s merely sleepwalking through his waking hours. It gives him incredible mental resilience, but it also makes him prone to impulsive decisions, consequences be damned.

Danny is all heart, and it‘s awe-inspiring in a way that reminds you that the word awe also contains terror within its definition.

When Danny‘s not there to talk you into breaking the rules, you follow the warrior‘s code you‘ve been given to the latter, afraid of who you‘d become without it. Danny has no such qualms. He follows nothing but his own internal sense of justice and duty, and where you see laws, he sees suggestions.

You resent his carefree nature, his lack of discipline, his shameless self-indulgence, and you envy it. It‘s intoxicating, and infuriating. It scares you to death, and you can‘t stop going along with whatever trouble he drags you into.

Heart of the Dragon, you would do anything for him.

***

You‘re not supposed to earn money or eat meat, but that doesn‘t stop Danny from doing chores for the citizens of K‘un-Lun in exchange for a couple of coins, which he saves up to buy the two of you a portion of roasted donkey to share.

„It‘s not bacon, but it‘ll do“, he says brightly, and you force a smile and try not to snap your chopsticks in half as you pick up a piece of blackened meat.

Reluctantly, you push it into your mouth and chew, struggling to swallow around the screams of animals having their throats slit that still echo in your mind.

***

„That is why you will never face Shou-Lao“, Mother says to Danny, with absolute certainty in her icy voice. „Compassion is your weakness. A deficiency of character.“

A flash of irritation washes over you, a feeling of wrongness that itches under your skin. Danny‘s not the one who showed weakness here. He just asked a question. You‘re the one who can‘t stand the thought of killing him, even if he were an enemy of K‘un-Lun.

But Mother never saw the potential in Danny. To her, everything he does is simply further proof of his insufficiency as a contender for the title he‘s being trained for.

Not even deigning him worthy of her advice, she turns to you. „The Iron Fist must remain above all others. Chaste. Pure. Without wife, family, or friends.“

She raises her bamboo cane. You hold out your hands and welcome the pain.

You know it means she still believes in you.

***

It‘s the height of summer when you wake up tangled up so tightly in your sweat-dampened blanket, it feels like a giant python attempting to strangle you.

You‘re in the middle of trying to summon the willpower to push past your drowsiness and wrestle yourself free, when a low moan reaches your ear, not unlike the many others you‘ve overheard through the years. You turn onto your side, ready to reach out to Danny and gently shake him from his slumber, the way you always do when you wake to find him in the clutches of a nightmare.

However, as your eyes blink open, sluggish with sleep, Danny‘s long fingers aren‘t clutching at the futon, trying to hold on to the seat of a plane that was rent asunder four years ago. Instead, they‘re hidden beneath the blanket, moving, stroking -

Wow.

A wave of heat that has nothing to do with the humid night air surges through you, making your skin prickle and bringing a flush to your cheeks. You know you shouldn‘t be looking, but no matter how hard you try, you can‘t tear your eyes away from the sight in front of you.

The blanket is bunched around Danny‘s hips, barely protecting his modesty. He‘s naked from the waist up, lean torso rising and falling with each laboured breath, strong arms flexing with each stroke, the newly prominent apple of his throat bobbing with each gasp.

Against your will, your own traitorous manhood springs to life, and you curse the flesh you live in for being so weak, so susceptible to your desires. You shouldn‘t be looking. You should be pretending to be asleep, sparing both of you the humiliation of catching him in such an undignified act.

You shouldn‘t be looking, you shouldn‘t be looking, you shouldn‘t -

Danny and you both freeze as his eyes, colourless in the moonlit dark, suddenly stare into yours, wide open and clearly awake.

„Oh, shit.“ He sits up abruptly. A drop of sweat glides down the hard planes of his chest. „Sorry, I didn‘t mean to wake you.“

He seems embarrassed, but nowhere near as mortified as you are, and you can‘t help but resent him a little for it. And not just because you know, deep in your bones, that he wasn‘t thinking about you.

„I-it‘s -“ Alright, you want to say, but the word won‘t come out. None of this is alright. Not his lack of guilt, not his concern for you, and certainly not the lust that stirs in your loins at the sight of him.

„Sorry“, he says again, with that sheepish smile that lets him get away with almost anything. Hurriedly, he fixes his trousers beneath the blanket, and moves to stand up. „I‘ll, uh, go to the laundry room or something to finish -“

Without thinking, your fingers curl around his wrist to keep him from leaving. „No!“ Your voice is too loud, too sharp. Ancestors preserve you, you‘re making a fool of yourself. „I mean -“ You don‘t know how to finish the sentence. You don‘t know what you‘re doing. You don‘t know what you want.

Danny looks at you expectantly, but settles back down on top of the futon. „What is it?“

You swallow, struggling for an explanation that just isn‘t there. You want to apologise, to take it all back and let him go, but -

„Stay.“ A single word, spoken under your breath. A plea.

„You want me to be a good monk and meditate my boner away?“ Danny gives you an indulgent smile. „I mean, if it‘ll make you happy, I‘ll try, but Lei-Kung said this was okay.“

If it‘ll make you happy.

The phrase seeps into your flesh the purr of one of the monastery‘s mousers. You‘d do pretty much anything to make Danny happy. What would he do for you? If you asked, would he -? No. No, don‘t even think about it. You‘ll only end up saying something stupid.

„No, I mean -“ You take a deep breath, remembering your father‘s words. „It is okay, isn‘t it? You‘re just fulfilling a need, like eating or sleeping. You don‘t have to hide it. Not from me.“

Danny hums thoughtfully. His gaze falls down to your lap, where, to your great shame, the blanket is visibly tented. He grins. „Maybe. Might be less awkward if you joined in, though.“

Your stomach lurches like the floor just dropped out from under you. „What?“

He merely shrugs. „Ward said it‘s something boys do together. At least where I‘m from. It‘s a bonding thing.“

„Your people are weird.“

„Your people have dragons.“

You feel it then, the way you haven‘t felt it in years - that gaping abyss that separates the two of you. Both of you have a flame in your heart, but only yours burns for K‘un-Lun. His still burns for New York.

Cold fear seizes your insides, fear that one day, when the path opens again, the other city might steal him away, and you‘ll have to stay behind. A solitary guardian, going days, weeks at a time without speaking to anyone, and months without touch. Perhaps if you could - ... if there were a way to - ... if Danny ...

„Bonding“, you repeat, keeping your voice flat. You untangle yourself from your blanket and, with all of your courage, untie the knot that holds up your trousers. „Yeah. We - we can.“

„Nice.“ There‘s a blush on his face, much more subtle than the shame that burns you inside out, all the way from your chest to your eyes. Even in your lust-addled state you know it doesn‘t mean what you want it to mean.

In your head, you chant Mother‘s words to yourself: Chaste. Pure. Without wife, family, or friends.

This is a mistake. It was a mistake to open your eyes, it was a mistake to beg Danny to stay, it‘s a mistake to reach past your waistband and touch yourself under his curious gaze. It‘s a mistake to look right back at him, proud and beautiful and unabashed in a way you could never be. It‘s a mistake to stare at his right fist at work and wish it were yours instead. It‘s a mistake to breathe in his smell, salt and musk and copper, and it‘s a mistake to listen to every little sigh that falls from his parted lips.

It‘s a mistake to think about leaning across that unfathomably wide abyss to drink those sounds straight from the source.

*

The morning after, you watch your brother get dressed with a spring in his step while you barely resist the urge to punch your pillow. It‘s not fair. You‘re choking on guilt and Danny is breathing fine.

The next time you‘re awoken by soft moans and the rustling of fabric, you pretend to be asleep.

***

Danny always grows his hair out as much as the other monks will let him. You always watch in fascination as it grows into curls that the sun turns from a warm gold into the colour of ripe broomcorn millet.

You wonder whether your own hair would curl if it got long enough. You never dare to try and find out.

***

People wouldn‘t expect it of Danny, with his sunny smile and gentle disposition, but both of you are short-tempered and prone to anger.

You deal with your anger in stillness, meditating until the storm inside you simmers down. Danny deals with his anger in motion, keeping busy, working himself to the bone until he keels over and you have to haul him back to your chambers like a sack of yams.

When you‘re angry, you‘re angry at yourself, for not living up to your own expectations. Every time your body fails you, every time you mess up during training or fall ill or cry out while you‘re being beaten, every time your emotions get the better of you, every time you lie, steal, or covet, you hate yourself so much, you want to destroy something just to feel in control of yourself again.

Danny seems to be angry at the world at large, and his fits often happen out of the blue, without any discernable reason. It‘s always there, bubbling under the surface, if you know how to look. There‘s a certain restlessness to him that never goes away. He reminds you of a trapped animal sometimes, like the live ducks and chickens in the too small bamboo cages being sold at the market.

Shifu tells his students to break rocks when they‘re angry. It seems to help Danny - putting all that focus into his body, into his fist. Using it to shape the world to his will, if only in a small way. It‘s enough, usually. (There are times you are convinced he‘d smash the entire mountain if he could.)

Today, however, hitting things isn‘t an option for Danny, who has been taken out of commission by an unfortunate encounter with a practice sword that has left him with a broken arm and several cracked ribs.

Injuries are common among the students, but this is the first time Danny has been forced to rest for more than a day or two before getting back on his feet. And for someone as uncomfortable with staying still as him, that‘s devastating.

So when you return from morning practice to bring him lunch, and you find him in your chambers, sitting on top of his futon in the lotus position, a singing bowl humming at his feet, you‘re not the least bit surprised by the sourness on his face. He‘s supposed to be meditating, to aid the healing process and halt the deterioration of his body and mind during recovery, but even though he‘s got his eyes closed, you can tell that‘s not what he‘s doing.

He‘s not meditating. He‘s sulking.

„I brought you food“, you say, more gently than you usually would. „Rice, sweet and sour mushrooms, tofu, and steamed aubergines.“

„I‘m not hungry“, Danny insists without opening his eyes.

Carefully, you place the bowls on the stone floor and sit down beside him. „You‘re turning down sweet and sour mushrooms? Wow, things must be dire.“

He sighs and shifts positions, stretching out his long legs in front of him, curling and uncurling his toes over and over again. „Guess I‘m not used to burning so few calories.“

„Maybe“, you say, „but you‘ll heal more quickly if you aren‘t malnourished.“ It‘s what you tell yourself when you‘re ill and feel like you haven‘t earned your food.

For a moment, he looks like he‘s about to say no again, but then he just shakes his head and grabs the chopsticks and the bowl of rice, much more aggressively than necessary. „Fine.“

Pleased, you pull your knees up to your chest, but not before stealing a piece of aubergine for yourself, mostly because you know how awkward it is to be the only person eating. You chew slowly while Danny ferociously shovels rice and vegetables into his mouth, clearly a lot hungrier than he let on.

„For what it‘s worth, you haven‘t missed much today“, you say in an effort to cheer him up. „It‘s raining, so we had to do laps around the hall for warm-up. The biggest challenge was trying not to trip over each other‘s feet.“

„I hate being stuck indoors“, Danny agrees around a mouthful of rice.

The truth is that he hates being stuck anywhere. Something about being confined to a burning metal tube as it falls from the sky will do that to you, you suppose.

Suddenly, an idea strikes you. „Let‘s take a walk outside, then.“

He stares at you. „Davos, we‘re in the middle of a rainstorm.“

You shrug. „So? It‘s just water. You think the Iron Fist gets a day off when the weather is bad?“

That seems to do the trick. Danny swallows the last of his mushrooms and the empty dish aside. „You sure?“

You‘re not. It‘s miserable outside, and if Mother catches you getting mud all over your robes instead of studying, Danny won‘t be the only one with broken ribs.

„I am.“ You jump to your feet and hold out your hand to help him up as well.

He entwines his fingers with yours, and doesn‘t let go as you lead him through the darkness of the monastery into the murky grey outside.

*

You‘re both soaked to the bone in seconds. The wind whips you the way drunkards are whipped in the market square, and the sky above is the colour of steel, but none of that matters when you see the way Danny‘s face lights up as soon as he steps into the open air, breathing in the sweet, flowery scents of spring and freedom.

He looks at you, raindrops pearling in his lashes and his hair, rolling down his cheeks and lips as they stretch into a big, boyish grin. He‘s still holding your hand, thick callouses rubbing against yours as he squeezes it. You don‘t know what‘s louder - the relentless downpour, or your heart?

Before you have a chance to recover, Danny grips your hand tighter and runs, out into the rain and down the muddy mountain path, giving you no choice but to follow.

„Your ribs, Danny!“, you remind him, yelling so your voice will carry over the sound of the storm. „Take it easy!“

„I‘m fine!“, he calls back, laughing like a lunatic as he splashes through a big puddle. It‘s silly, and childish, and entirely unbecoming of a warrior, but it‘s infectious, and before you know it, you find yourself laughing along, so giddy, your head is spinning.

You race each other down the path (as much as two people can race while holding hands, anyway), both of you fighting to take the lead. Being tall and long-limbed compared to you, Danny has a natural advantage, but he‘s also got one of his arms in a sling and a busted ribcage turning breathing into a chore, and you aren‘t above exploiting your opponent‘s weakness.

You make it all the way to the lake, which is frothing with rain, making it look white as snow from afar.

„Whoever touches that big rock by the shore first wins!“, you shout and gear up for the final sprint.

The ground is even muddier here, soft enough that your feet sink in a couple of inches with each step. You skid and stumble through the slick mire, determined not to be beaten by someone with five broken bones, when all of a sudden, your stomach flips as the ground beneath you gives way and the world turns onto its axis.

You have no idea which one of you lost his footing, dragging the other down with him, all that you know is that your back hits the mud first, and that Danny ends up sprawled across your chest, his elbow digging painfully into your sternum.

„Danny, are you alright?“, you ask, alarmed, the moment you regain your breath.

„Shit“, he groans. „That‘s probably going to add another week to my recovery time.“ He smiles down at you, surprisingly soft despite the pain he must be in. „Worth it, though.“

„You‘re an idiot“, you chide him. „And so am I.“

„Yep“, Danny says brightly. „That‘s why we make such a good team.“ He shifts into a more comfortable position on top of you, but makes no moves to get off. Obviously. He‘s not the one lying in the cold mud.

You raise your arms to (gently) shove him off of you so he can share in your wet, grimy misery, but lose heart halfway through and merely wrap them around the back of his neck instead.

You open your mouth to say - something funny, perhaps, but you‘re distracted by a drop of rain that‘s glittering on his top lip, wobbling under its own weight for a few moments before it finally breaks free and falls straight onto your own parted lips.

Your tongue darts out by instinct to lick it up. You really hope he doesn‘t notice the way the mere ghost of his taste makes you shiver. (You really hope he does.)

„It‘s my birthday today“, he says, out of nowhere. „I think. Your calender is different from ours. I still haven‘t figured out how to convert specific dates.“

„Do you do anything special on someone‘s birthday where you‘re from?“, you ask, in an effort to distract yourself from how close he is. „I know some faiths have ceremonies or blessings for birthdays or name days.“

„We usually throw the person a party“, he explains. „There‘s cake, covered in burning candles. The person whose birthday it is gets to blow them out and make a wish. They also get presents.“

„Presents ...“, you repeat quietly. If you‘re not mistaken, this is Danny‘s fifth birthday since he came to K‘un-Lun, and no one has ever given him anything other than food and clothing.

„If you want a present, I will get you one“, you promise, even though you have no idea how you would accomplish the task of procuring one for him. „Is there anything you‘d like?“

He shakes his head and cups the side of your face in his palm, his thumb leaving a cool smear of mud on your cheek. „Don‘t need anything.“ He leans in closer. „Just this.“

Your heart stops. For a moment, you are completely, utterly certain that he is going to kiss you.

Your noses brush. His breath caresses your lips, so close that you can taste the sweet and sour sauce from earlier.

And then, he simply presses his forehead to yours, and laughs. „Thank you. For getting me out of the monastery for a while. I really needed this.“

Shakily, you nod. You don‘t trust yourself to speak. Not when you‘re this out of breath, and your heart is thundering like a war drum.

It‘s so much worse than you thought.

You‘re not just lusting after your brother.

You‘re in love with him.

*

Two days later, you break your wrist trying to break a piece of slate. Danny jokingly accuses you of doing it on purpose so you can keep him company.

He‘s not entirely wrong.

***

Most of the mischief you get into starts with Danny, but you can hold your own when it comes to bad ideas.

Collecting frogs to let them loose in Tashi‘s chambers. Racing your donkey carts down the mountain road on the way to the market. Stealing apples from Master Q‘on.

The plum wine was your idea, too, the first time around. That one‘s your favourite. Perhaps it‘s because there‘s a low likelihood that you‘ll get caught. Perhaps you just like the floating sensation of being drunk.

Tonight, however, it was Danny‘s idea. An apology, of sorts.

„Man, I don‘t think either of us needed to see that“, he says, as if having seen your father naked was worse than the beating both of you took for breaking Brother Kuo‘s cart. (Maybe he‘s right. You‘re used to the beatings.)

You take a swig of the pilfered wine before passing it back to Danny so you can lie down in the cool grass of the monastery garden, surrounded by the fragrant jasmine bushes and osmanthus trees, and look up at the crystal clear night sky. Your eyes follow the pale band that Danny calls the Milky Way and you call the Breath of Shou-Lao, easily visible thanks to the new moon.

„To be honest, I don‘t think I would have needed to see the village girls, either“, you hear yourself say, your tongue loosened by the seductive sweetness of the plum wine.

„What do you mean?“, Danny asks. Out of your peripheral vision, you see his eyes grow wide with realisation. „Oh! You don‘t like girls?“

You shrug. You‘re fairly certain that you don‘t. Girls are pretty enough, you suppose, but they‘re pretty in the same way that flowers are pretty. You have no desire to make love to a flower.

„That‘s okay“, Danny assures you, for some reason. Of course it‘s okay. Why wouldn‘t it be? „What about boys?“

You feel yourself flush. This part - this part is harder to admit to. Boys, girls, it doesn‘t matter. If it were up to you, you wouldn‘t have these urges at all, and the idea of them being directed at other people ... it unsettles you. It feels wrong. Violating. You don‘t want to look at anyone like that. And you don‘t want anyone else looking at you like that, either. (No one but Danny.)

Carefully, you sit up and reclaim the flask from Danny. You take a long pull, mostly to stall for time while you think of an answer that won‘t give too much away. „I‘m not sure“, is what you settle on. „What does it matter anyway? We both took vows of chastity.“

Danny hums. „Sure, but you never know what will happen. Maybe you won‘t become the Iron Fist and follow in your dad‘s footsteps instead. Maybe you will become the Iron Fist, but the rules change. Or maybe one day, there won‘t be a need for the Iron Fist to exist at all, and you‘ll be free to do whatever you want. Don‘t you want to figure it out, just in case?“

„You really are an outsider, to think that these ancient traditions might change within your lifetime“, you huff.

Danny doesn‘t take the bait. „And you‘re avoiding the question.“

You drink some more plum wine and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. As the heat of the alcohol fills your stomach, you can‘t help but think of the summer before this one, that sweltering night when you watched Danny come undone in front of you. It hasn‘t happened again (there are times you wonder whether it happened at all), but you‘ve never forgotten it. You‘ve been replaying it in your head every time dousing yourself in ice water isn‘t enough to smother the fire in your veins.

„You don‘t have to tell me“, Danny says quietly, nudging your knee with his. Your skin is prickling with so much longing that even that little point of contact sends a shock of lightning through your entire body. „I just thought -“

„Thought what?“

„It‘s just that, uh ... I - I like both. Boys and girls. And it‘s -“ He shakes his head sadly. „It‘s different back home. I thought here in K‘un-Lun - I thought that it wasn‘t a big deal here.“

„It‘s not.“ Your throat suddenly feels dry. You reach out and put your hand on his shoulder reassuringly. Even through the faded yellow linen, he feels scorchingly hot. „It doesn‘t matter who it is, Danny. But as monks, we‘re not supposed to -“

Your eyes meet his, bright and rebellious and defiant, and the words die in your throat. Heart of the Dragon, he is beautiful.

You think of the past five years. You think of the soft caress of paper wings in your dreams. You think of every rule you‘ve already broken for him. What‘s one more?

You barely have time to blink, and the next thing you know, your mouth is pressed against Danny‘s, and your hand fisted in the fabric of his robe.

For a long, heart-stopping moment, Danny is completely frozen, not responding to your advances one way or another, keeping you in this agonising limbo of uncertainty.

Then, he kisses you back.

It‘s a clumsy thing, too hard, too wet, too impatient, too drunk, and it‘s better than everything you‘ve ever dreamed of. Your tongue slips into his mouth, and you taste plum wine and stolen apples and donkey meat and blood from when Father slapped you hard enough to split your lip, and it all blends together into what you can only describe as freedom.

Dangerous, you think to yourself, a little too late, because you‘re already addicted.

It‘s a battle, like everything you do. Danny gives as good as he gets, pushing back against you as if he refuses to be upstaged by your eagerness, and you need to slide both of your shaking hands into his hair just to keep your balance.

You inadvertently tug on his hair a little, and the responding moan has you hard as granite in less than a frantic heartbeat. Greedily, you lick into his mouth to chase that sound, and it still isn‘t enough. Trying to get closer, you crawl into his lap, press your body against his, and wish you could claw your way inside his skin, to live among the bones and viscera that make him him.

You tear at his robe, try to push it off of his bony shoulders, but you keep getting distracted by the wanderings of your own hands as they roam his skin, saying everything you wish your lips could - want you, need you, love you, stay. Stay stay staystaystaystaystay -

„Wait“, he gasps into the kiss. His palms press against your chest, gently, but firmly pushing you away. „Davos, stop.“

It takes several tries and all of your willpower, but eventually, you manage to break away, despite the sinking feeling in your stomach that this is it. This is your only chance. The only time you‘ll ever be able to taste those lips, to touch Danny the way you‘ve always wanted to touch him.

Your desperate panic must show on your face, because Danny shushes you while you‘re still waiting for the power of speech to return to you. „Hey, hey - it‘s okay“, he says, in a voice so kind, it tears your heart in two. „It‘s okay, I promise. It‘s just - Davos, we can‘t. We can‘t.“ Are you imagining it, or does he look stricken as he says it? „If you want to - to, I don‘t know, explore stuff, experiment and all that, that‘s cool and all, but ... it can‘t be me.“

Experiment?, you want to shout. You‘re not an experiment to me. I love you!

(Because you do. You do love him. You do.)

„You‘re drunk“, Danny says, kindly offering you an out, and part of you wants to slap him for it. „We both are. That‘s the only reason - ...“ He swallows. „It can‘t be me, Davos. It can‘t be me.“

It has to be you, you want to whisper, to scream, to beg. There‘s no one else. It‘s always been you.

You nod anyway, silently, and climb off of him to vomit into the jasmine bushes.

*

You don‘t talk about it after. You convince yourself it was a dream.

When you pass through the garden the next day, you ignore the sour stench of vomit mingling with the overpowering smell of the jasmine blossoms as the sun beats down from above.

***

Danny no longer seeks refuge in your arms after a nightmare. You‘re grateful for that. You think.

III. They‘re dragon wings when he beats you.

(When Father breaks the rules to let him win, even though you didn‘t yield, you never did, you would have died before you did -)

***

You think of yourself in the second person, always watched, always scrutinized. Sometimes, the voice in your head is that of the Thunderer, hard, but reasonable, comforting. Sometimes, it‘s Danny, warm and kind and gentle, always gentle.

Usually, it‘s your mother‘s voice, cold, hard, and precise, like steel.

***

„Doubt leads to death.“ Shifu looks at Danny as he says the words, but you‘re the one who takes them to heart.

***

There‘s always been a spirit of competitiveness between the two of you - whether you‘re sparring, studying, fighting kites, or arguing.

It‘s there when you train with Lei-Kung. It‘s there when you prank the other monks. It was there when you kissed him beneath the new moon, hard enough that you could still feel the bruising on your lips the next day.

However, there‘s a new dimension to it now. The closer you come to the Trial, the less playful your rivalry becomes.

The truth is, you never expected Danny to be an actual challenger to the title that‘s the only reason you were born at all - the reason the Thunderer chose to break his vows and take a wife who would give him a son. The perfect child to groom for the task when no other promising young warriors could be found among the thinning populace.

K‘un-Lun is dying, slowly but surely, the outside world an ever growing threat, changing at a rate your own people can‘t keep up with. The secret of its existence is guarded ever more carefully, and less and less fresh blood trickles in each time the path opens.

Perhaps that is why Father was so keen to train Danny, and perhaps that is why Mother resents the boy so much. She gave life to you so K‘un-Lun could have a champion born of the city itself, and now an outsider might usurp her son‘s position?

Back during the first months of training by Danny‘s side, you‘d actually thought Mother was giving the newcomer preferential treatment. Danny was never chastised and disciplined by her the way you were. Oh, she doled out the expected punishment for the obvious infractions, but ignored the kinds of doubts and backtalk that would have earned you a set of bloodied knuckles.

You thought it was her liking him more than you, or maybe merely thinking him worthy of a softer touch, but you know better now. She demands so much of you because she‘s setting you up to win. She won‘t do the same for Danny.

And still, Danny‘s resolve hasn‘t faltered. It‘s not the fact that the two of you are fairly evenly matched when it comes to your fighting skills that surprises you - after all, you do everything together. You may not be blood, but you know each other like you shared the same womb. Of course you‘d be well-attuned to one another on the battlefield.

No, it‘s how hungry Danny is for the Fist that makes you question everything you ever thought about him. Danny who always questions, always wavers in his beliefs. Danny, who has never committed to anything, least of all his vows. Danny, who loves K‘un-Lun, but still doesn‘t call it home.

Now, he throws himself into practice with vicious abandon, determined to surpass you at any cost. To do whatever it takes to win the Fist.

Well, he‘s not going to get it without a fight. You‘re hungry, too.

***

Your dreams change, too. Soft kisses turn into bites, caresses as delicate as mulberry paper turn into scratches, hair pulling, choking.

Every time, you wake up feeling worse than you ever did. Fighting is what you know, what you‘ve known all your life, but there used to be a time when your unconscious mind knew tenderness, too.

You miss it. You miss the sweetness, the closeness, the love. This - this violence isn‘t who you are.

At least not yet.

***

As the tournament approaches, Danny stops sparring with you. It makes sense, you suppose. After all, he is training to surpass you, not match you. And you‘re doing the same. It‘s just - it‘s the way things are.

Still, you can‘t get used to the absence of all the things that got you through hours upon hours of gruelling training. His playful taunts. His easy smile. His hand on your back when he congratulates you for winning. His arm slung around your shoulders to take the sting out of a loss.

Now, he‘s quiet. Withdrawn. Serious.

He‘s turning into you.

***

The tournament proves Lei-Kung‘s worries - the very ones that brought you into this world - true. You overhear him talking with the elder monks about how this one has the lowest number of contenders in the history of K‘un-Lun, and how only two of them show real promise - Danny, the outsider brought here by a stroke of luck, and you, literally born and bred for the role.

You need to win. If nothing else, then to allow Danny to rejuvenate the blood of the city the way Father hoped he would. He was never cut out for the life of a monk anyway. Really, you‘re doing him a favour by giving him the opportunity to lay down that burden and find his joy in duties more suited to his character. A teacher, maybe even a husband and father. (The thought may or may not make you quake with jealousy, but you‘re willing to grit your teeth and bear it. For his sake.)

Danny, unfortunately, doesn‘t seem to agree. He barely talks any more, so intent on winning the Fist, it seems to have sucked all of the life out of him. There‘s a frown that seems permanently etched onto his face, and it gets deeper and deeper with every opponent you defeat.

He‘s worried, you realise. He doesn‘t want to face you. You don‘t want to face him, either, for more reason than one.

He‘s always been a gracious winner, but a bit of a sore loser. You can only hope he won‘t take this particular loss too hard.

*

The fight is brutal, and it stretches on for what seems like forever. You‘re covered in sweat and bruises. Red, red blood staining your robes and dripping into the mosaic floor below. These are the movements you know so well from over a decade of sparring with him, almost every day, but this ferocity, you don‘t recognise. With the masks on, you can almost trick yourself into believing you are fighting a stranger.

Perhaps he is doing the same. So when you can feel yourself reaching your limit, you do what your gut tells you to do - you rip off the cloth that covers your head.

It does the trick. Danny is startled by the sight of you, taken aback long enough for you to strike. He loses his own mask as he goes down, but it doesn‘t matter - you‘ve got him where you want him. On his back. Panting. Your hands cradling his throat.

„Yield“, you demand. You dig your fingertips into his flesh. „Yield.“

He looks up at you, bruised and broken and beautiful, and says nothing.

„Why won‘t you yield?“, you whisper, desperately, almost tenderly, as you cut off his air supply. „It‘s over, Danny. Why won‘t you yield?“

You could end it here. Strangle him. Snap his neck. Crush his skull against the stone. You hear your mother‘s voice in your head, urging you on, two thoughts at conflict, yet advocating for the same outcome:

Compassion is a virtue a weapon cannot afford.

Maybe sparing his pride would be a mercy.

But you can‘t. It‘s Danny.

You release his throat and drive your fist into his jaw instead, over and over again, punching him the way you kissed him that summer night, needily, urgently, painfully, each blow a silent plea: Let me have this. I can‘t lose this fight, but I can‘t lose you.

His eyes grow wide, and before hope has the chance to take root in your heart, his fist connects with your chest, throwing you off of him.

The fight begins anew. He can barely keep himself upright, let alone dodge the punches you throw his way, and yet, he ignores your calls for his surrender.

„Danny, it‘s over. You can‘t run forever.“

„I‘m not running“, he says. „I‘m leading.“

Instead of listening to the words, processing them, you rush in ... like a fool. He steps aside, just a few inches, and the setting sun hits your eyes like a closed fist, blinding you.

That is all the opening Danny needs to get to you. He‘s vicious, reckless in his attacks, knocking you to the ground and grabbing you by the collar of your robe in a reversal of your earlier positions.

„Will you yield?“, he shouts. „Yield!“

Never, you try to say, but you can‘t get the word out, choking on your own blood. Yielding is not an option. He‘ll have to kill you. And maybe ... maybe that‘s not such a bad fate.

His hand - broken, from where you stepped on it earlier, hastily wrapped with cloth - hovers by his temple, ready to strike, but trembling with indecision. You can see him agonising over it, the conflict in his blue, blue eyes, pleading for you to take this burden off of him by yielding.

You try to steady your breathing, to make peace with your defeat, to give Danny a reassuring nod. You can‘t yield, but you can accept death with dignity. Make it a little easier on him. Let him know that to die by his hand is not a betrayal - it‘d be a mercy.

But, then - „Daniel Rand-K‘ai“, Lei-Kung‘s voice rings out calm and clear, „will face the dragon.“

Your entire world shatters into pieces.

*

You‘re in agony, more than you have ever been after a fight. One eye swollen shut, at least six bones broken, two teeth missing, congealed blood in your mouth, on your clothes, coating every inch of your skin.

Mother comes to tend your wounds, the way she always does, but something‘s different. There‘s never been any warmth in her care, but now? Now, she can barely stand to touch you.

„I know what you‘re thinking“, she says, her voice the low, dangerous rumble of a snow leopard. „‚I was blinded by the sun, Mother. Danny used a trick to gain advantage. Lei-Kung betrayed me when he called the fight, Mother. I never yielded.‘ Excuses for your failure.“

Without finishing her task, she gets up, walks away from you, like she‘s too disgusted to get close to her own son. „Better I were barren than to bring a disgrace like you into this world. Second best! The fool who lost his birthright to an outsider!“

You flinch when the bowl of medicine shatters against the wall. Your jaw is too swollen to speak.

„I thought I‘d raised a champion“, Mother hisses. „I was mistaken. I now must wear that shame.“

„Mother, I‘m sorry -“ The tears make the gashes in your face sting. „I will make you proud“, you vow. „I will make you proud. I will make you proud. I will make you proud -“

She‘s already gone.

***

Mother doesn‘t come by your chambers again. Nobody comes.

You spend three days without food, water, medicine, or human contact. Drowning in black, black nothingness, secretly wishing your wounds would fester and take you from this world.

It wouldn‘t be the warrior‘s death you seek, but, perhaps, an effective final act of vengeance. For Danny to live with the knowledge that despite his hesitation, he brought about your death anyway, a death without the mercy of dying in dignity. For Mother to live with the knowledge that she could have saved you, had she not rejected you. (Not like she would care. After how much you‘ve disappointed her, maybe your passing is exactly what she wants.)

*

On the third day, someone leaves a pitcher of water and a bowl of soup by your futon while you‘re running a fever, dreaming of fiery eyes in the darkness, and wings that stretch across the sky. You drink, and it tastes like blood. You eat, and it tastes like ash.

You don‘t throw up, but it‘s a close thing.

*

By the fourth day, you can walk enough to empty your rancid chamber pot, and get yourself something to drink. Nobody sees you walk the long, labyrinthian corridors of the monastery. You‘re not sure whether you‘re disappointed or relieved.

There‘s no trace of Danny anywhere.

***

„The Trial is completed“, are the first words your father speaks to you after the tournament. „Go fetch your brother, Davos. See if he still lives.“

*

The moment you see him lying, face down, on top of the rocks that dot the creek, all of the anger, all of the bitterness over your loss vanishes, leaving behind nothing but emptiness, like someone removed all the blood in your veins and replaced it with the thin, watery mud that runs down the mountain in the spring, when the rains fall and the snow starts thawing.

In your mind‘s eye, you see the face of every traitor you‘ve watched die right in front of you, down at the bottom of the ravine, but this time, you can‘t even feign indifference to the body in front of you.

It‘s Danny. Despite everything, he‘s your brother. He‘s the one who has made you laugh more times than you can count, who trained with you, who played with you, whose heartbeat has sung you to sleep on so many a night.

Cautiously, you creep closer and call out his name, but he doesn‘t respond. Fear grips your insides as you turn him over onto his back, eyes glued to his chest to make sure he‘s still breathing, when you see it - black, black wings and the body of a serpent, the symbol of Shou-Lao, burnt into Danny‘s skin.

He jolts awake with a gasp, one hand clutching at your robe, the other balled into a fist, ablaze with golden-yellow chi. „Davos?“

„You did it, Danny“, you tell him softly, and it‘s no longer envy you feel, it‘s relief. „The trial of Shou-Lao - you survived.“

Your eyes meet, his fever-bright with pain and shock, beautifully, gloriously alive, and it takes everything you have not to kiss him. „You‘re the Iron Fist.“

He doesn‘t speak. He just shakes and trembles, and offers neither resistance nor assistance as you drape his arm across your shoulders to help him stand.

„Our people need to meet the Immortal Weapon“, you say, with a warmth you hadn‘t thought you‘d be capable of feeling for him again. You‘ve missed it, this love coursing through you. With the hatred gone, it‘s like you can finally breathe again. „I‘ll be your second. Standing beside you on the pass. Protectors of K‘un-Lun.“

The promise is surprisingly easy to make. You don‘t need the title or the powers to have a purpose, to belong, to fulfil your destiny. All you ever wanted was to protect your home, and be with your brother.

Perhaps this is for the best. You remember the ache in your heart whenever Danny spoke of his own world, and you couldn‘t help but feel like all he wanted was to return to it.

If Danny is the Iron Fist, at least he will have to stay with you.

***

The pass is high enough up the mountain that it‘s covered in snow year-round. It‘s freezing up here, especially with your only shelter being a small, single-room stone hut. It‘s even more bare-bones than your chambers at the monastery, stocked with the bare necessities only. Storage for food and firewood. Buckets to collect snow with, and a small, wooden tub for bathing and laundry. A hearth that serves as the singular source of heat, with your futons lined up beside it, as close as you dare get to the fire.

This cold, lonely place is where you‘re going to live, and where you‘re going to die, side by side with your brother. You‘ve never felt as at home anywhere else.

***

The warm excitement of being here, where you were always meant to be, with the man that you love and away from prying eyes, fades all too quickly.

Something‘s changed about Danny. He‘s gone even more quiet, barely saying a word to you on some days. At first, you‘d assumed it to be an adjustment period, Danny still getting used to his new powers or the weight of his duties. But this is more than that. He feels empty, a black, black void where your brother used to be. Where there used to be laughter, joy, playfulness, there‘s only melancholy now.

You try to give him space. You try to cheer him up. You try to start fights with him, just so that spark of passion in him may burn bright again, if even for a moment.

Nothing works. Danny keeps his distance, and he wears his silence like a cloak, white, white like the snow that suffocates your new home.

***

The boredom is the worst part. With the way closed, there‘s little to do, except spar and meditate to keep yourselves sharp, as befits two living weapons.

You have to badger Danny into doing even that much. You suspect that if you weren‘t around, he‘d spend his days sitting out on his favourite rock and watching the birds fly by, his face turned towards the blue, blue sky like he wishes the dragon wings on his chest would let him take flight, too, and carry him far, far away.

The lion‘s share of the efforts to keep both of you from freezing or starving falls to you. You cook meals and make tea. You gather snow and melt it down for drinking. You wash and mend both of your clothes. You keep the hearth lit and the hut clean. Every week, you make the trek down the mountain to the monastery, to give updates to Lei-Kung and collect your rations of food and wood.

Sometimes, Father points out that carrying that load up the mountain would be easier for two people, and you make up some excuse about how seriously Danny takes his duties.

Mother is conspicuously absent whenever you're around.

***

The path is going to open soon. It‘s the day you‘ve been fearing for the past fifteen years.

***

There‘s a blizzard raging outside when you slip under his blanket for the first time in almost a decade.

There are a million things that you want to say to him, that you want to ask him.

What happened to you, Danny?

What happened to us?

What can I do to make you happy?

What can I do to make you stay?

„It‘s cold“, you say instead, as you snake your arms around his waist and rest your head on top of the black, black mark on his chest.

He doesn‘t say anything at all. His embrace is even colder than the storm outside.

*

Your dreams are filled with dragons.

You wake up alone.

***

He‘s gone. Gone without a word, without a trace.

You search the pass, over and over again, looking for footprints, a shred of fabric, a drop of red, red blood on the white, white snow. A note, a sign of a struggle, anything.

But there‘s nothing. He‘s just gone.

He‘s gone and you can‘t breathe.

IV. They‘re angel wings when he leaves.

(Strange, how the emptiness inside you never had a name until he came to fill it. Now, you know it for what it was: Loneliness.)

***

Danny is gone, and the people blame you. You don‘t know how to tell them that if it had been up to you, you would have kept Danny safe in your gaze, in your arms, in your bed until the day your breath gave out.

***

Hesitantly, you knock on the door. „Mother?“

No reply.

(Not surprising. She hasn‘t spoken to you since the morning after the fight.)

„I know you‘re in there.“

Still nothing.

„I‘m leaving K‘un-Lun. And I‘m going to bring Danny back.“

Perhaps you should leave it at that. What does it matter to her whether the son who is dead to her brings back the son whose name she‘s been cursing for years?

But you can‘t just give up. She cared for you, once. Your knuckles still sting with her love for you.

„I ... I just ...“, you mutter, struggling to find the right words. You rarely speak from your heart, rarely voice thoughts and feelings that are fully your own, not the wisdom, lessons, mantras, and prayers you‘ve rehearsed and internalised. „I - I know how much you‘ve sacrificed for me. And I know that you pushed me so that I might have the keenest edge in battle.“

You swallow. „There are things unsaid between us. They are things other mothers could say to their sons. Things other sons could ... just ... say to their mothers. I may not return, Mother. My bones my rot in cursed soil far from home. Is there anything you want to say to me?“

You press your temple against the hard, wooden door as you try to bite back tears.

„This may be your last chance to speak your heart. Please.“

A sob escapes you, against your best efforts.

„I understand what I must do. I haven‘t told Father or the Yu-Ti, but I just -“ You press your palm against the door, softly, almost a caress. Your knuckles ache. Your hands were never made for such tenderness. You understand that now. „I just wanted you to hear - I will make you proud, Mother. And I won‘t rest until our destiny is realised.“ Your voice almost fails you. „And then maybe, you‘ll be able to say the words that you cannot say.“

Her silence speaks louder than any words ever could.

***

Tracking him down is almost painfully easy.

The first time you see his face again, it‘s on the cover of a magazine. You pore over the article more times than you can count, tracing each sickeningly worshipful line with your fingers until the ink starts to fade.

Danny has these people charmed, the same way he did to the Thunderer. They, too, think he‘s special - kind-hearted, brave, selfless, an entrepreneur with a conscience, as the magazine puts it.

The words make bile rise in your throat. These aren‘t his people. They don‘t know him. Not like you do.

Figuring out the logistics of getting to him, that‘s the tricky part. Even after fifteen years of listening to Danny ramble about the wonders of his home didn‘t prepare you for actually trying to navigate a huge, complex, digitalised world.

It‘s not even the machines that give you the most trouble. Bureaucracy becomes the bane of your existence. Laws, paperwork, currency.

You have to resort to some unsavoury methods to get into contact with people who can help you get from rural China to New York City, and even more unsavoury methods to acquire the money to pay them off.

You don‘t kill - not for this - but you‘re not above beating people up for resources or information. A part of you gains some petty satisfaction from treating the inhabitants of Danny‘s world with the same lack of care he‘s shown the inhabitants of K‘un-Lun.

***

You‘re not unfamiliar with Christianity, its beliefs and iconography. Virtually everyone in K‘un-Lun is Buddhist in some capacity, but their roots stretch all across Eurasia and Africa, and with those roots come the aesthetic, linguistic, and cultural trappings of a thousand different places and creeds.

However, you are used to depictions of bloody martyrs and sombre saints, the Virgin in Her blue robes and Christ on the Cross, captured in boldly coloured stained glass or stark, precise ink or idols that have been carved from cold, unforgiving stone. The particularly garish brand of Christian imagery that‘s popular in North America is something else entirely.

You‘re strangely fascinated by all of the twee angels with their fluffy white wings and golden halos, usually chubby-cheeked children or beautiful men and women, typically with fair skin and bright blond hair, the type that‘s rare back home.

And it‘s not just their appearance that‘s different. They have been so far removed from their original purpose, there‘s barely anything Christian about them any more. Instead of messengers of God, they‘re painfully human, imbued with - or the object of - human desires, like love and lust and laziness.

As you pass through shops and markets, on the hunt for supplies and rations you can actually recognise as food, and you are inundated with those perversions, it‘s no longer just the local cuisine that churns your stomach. You pray that Danny has been keeping the Fist secret, because if this is how these people treat what‘s holy to them - just what would they do to Shou-Lao‘s great gift?

***

Of all the ugly places you‘ve seen on your journey so far, New York City is by far the ugliest. It smells of industrial fumes, waste, and human misery. Its grey buildings reach towards the sky like spears trying to pierce the firmament. Red and yellow lights drown out the stars at night, and everywhere you look, screens and billboards try to goad you into spending money gratuitously while beggars roam the streets, competing with rats and raccoons for scraps.

It‘s loud, too. People yell at each other over the smallest things, but seem to lack any motivation to challenge the injustices going on around them.

The place revolts you, physically, spiritually, morally, from the casual cruelty to the infestation of crime, from the filth that litters the streets to the ostentatious displays of wealth that defy the virtues of both humility and good taste.

And among those displays of wealth? A tall building with Danny Rand‘s name on it.

***

You camp out in front of the Rand headquarters, hiding away in a food truck that offers you a decent view of the main entrance. You don‘t hurt the owner more than necessary to knock him out and tie him up, but you do scare him a little, mostly because the stench of his urine when he wets himself in fear is moderately preferable to the stench of the food he serves. (And also, maybe, because you‘re bored.)

You know you shouldn‘t be taking your frustrations out on an innocent bystander, but ever since you left K‘un-Lun, you‘ve felt like crawling out of your skin. Everything here is wrong, nothing like the world Danny told you about. This is the place he‘s been yearning for for a decade and a half? That‘s madness.

You want to ask him why. Why he left, yes, but also why he fought so hard to win the title of the Iron Fist when he wasn‘t willing to commit to his duties? When he felt no loyalty to the people of K‘un-Lun? When he was so eager to return to his own world?

(When he knew how much the title would have meant to you?)

***

„Wow. You are the worst Iron Fist ever.“

Once upon a time, those words would have been teasing, fond. Now, they only taste bitter in your mouth.

You‘re not surprised that Danny gets himself in trouble - someone who is both the heir to a large fortune and the person to carry the power of the Iron Fist was always bound to have enemies, in either world. It‘s the sheer extent of his wilful stupidity that makes you question everything you (or Father) ever saw in him.

In the time it takes you to find him, Daniel Rand-K‘ai, the Immortal Iron Fist, sworn enemy of the Hand, has somehow managed to get tangled up in a corporate conspiracy instigated by the Hand, break his vow of chastity by bedding a member of the Hand, and let himself get dragged off to a Hand compound you have to break him out of to prevent him from getting murdered by one of the Hand‘s leaders.

It would be funny if it didn‘t make your stomach churn with bitter disappointment.

Your eyes meet in the middle of the chaos, and for a moment, you see the boy who earned both of you a beating because he skipped training to have a snowball fight with you. Not a weapon. Just a child who has been given a power he was never meant to possess.

And then, you find out that that power is gone, too.

***

You don‘t know which you hate more - your brother, broken, bleeding, a failure, who threw away the gift that your home gave to him? Or the world he threw it all away for? The rotten, decadent world that almost killed him? That killed the light within him, corrupted his spirit to the point that it rejects the Fist?

„We need to leave this place as soon as possible and return to K‘un-Lun“, you tell him, leaving no room for discussion. „Father can rebalance your chi and restore the Fist.“

Danny sighs, sounding a lifetime wearier than since you last saw him. „How was Lei-Kung? Is he pissed off?“

„He‘s troubled. He‘s confused as to why you would abandon your post and leave us unprotected.“ Your tone is steady, measured. You want to be truthful, but you can‘t risk making it sound like Danny can‘t return. Like he‘s lost Father‘s support, and yours. Still, you can‘t help but add a snide: „And yeah, he‘s also very pissed.“

„How did you even find me, Davos?“ The annoyance in your brother‘s voice, in the furrowing of his brow, pains you more than you are willing to admit, even to yourself. Like your presence is unwelcome, an inconvenience. Like he never expected to see you again, and was fine with that.

„I saw you taken by those men outside that dojo. I followed you to the compound.“

„I meant - here. New York.“

With all the patience you can manage, you pull out your phone, supplied to you by some shady people smuggler in one of those interchangeable, wretched, grey, stinking cities you passed through on your way here, and show it to him. „Here. You were right about the internet. It‘s very useful.“

Danny‘s eyes skim over the article you‘ve pulled up, before he drops the phone on the ground and crushes it beneath his foot.

For a moment, you think he‘s angry at the article - like he isn‘t the one who went around, putting himself in the spotlight, making himself a target - before he explains: „I saw some equipment in Bakuto‘s office. I think he can track cellphones. I left mine back at the compound.“

The irritation that‘s been building inside you threatens to boil to the surface, so you turn and start walking, in hopes Danny won‘t see it on your face. „Another reason to leave the city as quickly as possible.“

„We‘re not going anywhere“, Danny tells you stubbornly, and the we in that sentence thrills and infuriates you in equal measure.

He still thinks you‘re a team. And he still thinks he‘s the leader.

„Danny, the path will not remain open forever. If we miss it, it will be years before we return.“

„They killed my parents, Davos.“

The words stop you in your tracks. „What?“

„The Hand. They poisoned the pilots. They - they crashed my plane! They‘re the reason for all of this.“

No, it can‘t be. There‘s no way the Hand is the reason why you have a brother. A brother who claimed the title that was your birthright, only to waste it on a personal crusade.

„But you wanted to be the Iron Fist, Danny.“

„I am the Iron Fist“, he says, petulantly, like a twin claiming authority by virtue of being five minutes older than the other. His attitude makes cold fury take hold of your guts.

„You knew what your duties would be, and you don‘t get to decide what that means.“

„The hell it doesn‘t!“, he snaps.

„You don‘t belong here!“, you snap back, because how dare he? How dare he turn his back on the people who took him in, who opened their home to him, accepted him as one of their own, shared their secrets, bestowed him with great powers - only for him to turn his back on them?

„If I‘m supposed to be the destroyer of the Hand, then I should be here. Destroying them where they are.“

The sudden ferocity in his demeanour makes the hair at the back of your neck stand up, and not out of fear. This is not the boy you fell in love with, but the man he has become still holds your heart in his hands. Despite your best efforts, you can feel your resolve weakening.

His eyes bore deeply into yours. They‘re the one thing about him that hasn‘t changed. Those blue, blue eyes, at once icy and alight with a fire hotter than the Heart of Shou-Lao. „You‘re a warrior, like me. Trained to be the Iron Fist.“

„But I‘m not the Iron Fist.“ You had accepted that, once. Now, it‘s difficult to keep the bitterness at bay. „I wasn‘t chosen. You were. And you took it and ran.“

„I didn‘t run.“

„You were gone, Danny. There one moment, then nothing.“ The anger, the betrayal, the disappointment, the pain of losing the only member of your family who loved you for you, not for what you were meant to become - it‘s all right there, sour on the tip of your tongue, burning a hole into your heart. „You failed us.“ You stare straight into his eyes. Let him see it. Let him feel what he did to you. „And for what? For what? What do you have to show for abandoning us?“

„I have the truth about what happened to my parents“, he practically growls.

You scoff. „And you want to take them all on? Without the Fist?“

„Please, Davos“, he pleads, earnest and vulnerable in the same way that he would get after a nightmare, seeking comfort in your arms. „I need your help.“

You feel something inside you soften. There‘s no convincing him - you know that. Or perhaps, that‘s just what you tell yourself to avoid having to acknowledge just how deeply devoted to him you are, even after everything. „And once we do this, we go back?“

„Once the Hand is done, there‘ll be nothing left for me here.“

It‘s not a yes. He‘s avoiding your question.

You know him. You know what this means. You know he‘ll break your heart again.

You nod anyway.

***

You‘d known Danny and that woman had been physically intimate the moment you‘d laid eyes on the two of them together, but finding out that Danny‘s healer knew about - about everything, about K‘un-Lun and the Iron Fist and the woman, all while Danny lied straight to your face about his Hand paramour, still feels like swallowing molten lead.

Oh, and to top it all off, the healer - Claire - refers to you as a mystery man, meaning that apparently, the one thing Danny hasn‘t told her about was you. Lovely.

Claire asks about the woman - Colleen - and Danny tries to distract you, to get you to leave, like you‘re too stupid to tell what he‘s doing. You play dumb, like the fool he seems to think you are, refuse to leave his side, but he insists.

And you? You‘ve never been able to say no to him. Not when he looks at you with those earnest, pleading eyes.

Maybe you are a fool after all.

*

You think you like this healer. Claire is skilled and kind, and her dry observations remind you of your own brand of humour.

Despite your limited experience with women, you‘re fairly certain she‘s flirting with you, although you suspect she‘s not serious about it. That seems to be a thing in Danny‘s world - people talking without actually saying anything, or else saying things they don‘t really mean. You‘re fluent in English, yet you keep feeling like everyone around you is speaking a completely different language from you.

Claire however ... Claire is different. When you speak to her in the only tongue you really know - sincerity - she responds in kind.

„These books“, you say, feeling compelled, for reasons inexplicable to you, to try and find common ground with this woman in front of you. „Why are you studying reiki?“

„I‘m trying to understand how it is that Danny does what he does. Healing through chi“, she replies while pouring two cups of coffee for the both of you, and you can‘t help but appreciate her genuine interest and open-mindedness regarding the subject. „Reiki is thought of as a pseudoscience, but there are stories of it healing tumours and curing disease, so ... maybe it‘s more real than I thought.“

You step a little closer, suddenly aware of the fact that Claire just made you smile - the first person in this world to do so. „You know, chi is the breath of life“, you offer, in the same tone that you used when you explained all of this to Danny back when you were children. „It‘s what powers the Iron Fist.“

She nods, thoughtfully, and you know you‘ve made the right choice in entrusting her with this knowledge. „Where does that come from? The Fist?“

„It‘s a force that lives in the heart of Shou-Lao until a warrior from the monastery can claim it.“

„What or, uh, who is Shou-Lao?“

„A dragon.“

She laughs, like she thinks you‘re joking, but the look on her face tells you that she isn‘t ruling out the possibility that you may be telling the truth. „Okay, wow. Dragons aren‘t real.“

„Why would you think that?“

„Okay, you mean like - a small thing, like a Komodo dragon? Or like Pete‘s Dragon?“

„I, uh - I don‘t know who Pete is“, you say, thrown off by just how vast the cultural difference between the two of you is, „but think infinite.“

This time, Claire doesn‘t laugh. „So, do you have to kill it?“

Kill the sacred protector of your home? And Danny always acted like your people are bloodthirsty compared to Americans. „Shou-Lao is undying.“

„Do you have it? The Iron Fist?“ She sits down at the table with the coffee and gestures for you to do the same.

„No“, you say, hoping that your disappointment over that fact doesn‘t show. „There‘s only one. I trained for it, same as Danny. But ultimately, Lei-Kung and the elder monks decided that it was Danny who should enter the cave. He was the first ... outsider to be chosen.“

„Why him?“

You have to remind yourself that Claire isn‘t trying to hurt you with her questions. You swallow thickly. „I don‘t know“, you say, because He beat me would have been a lie. „But I think Lei-Kung made the wrong choice.“

Claire gives a half-hearted shrug. „Danny‘s - trying to do good“, she says tritely, in a misguided effort to be diplomatic. „Make the world a better place.“

„No, no, no, no, no“, you stammer, each no forcing its way up your throat like milk that‘s about to boil over. „This - this is not his world.“

„Well, I think it is“, Claire says, putting into words the very truth you‘ve been scared of acknowledging since the first time you heard Danny‘s voice. „I think it always has been.“

It hurts. „He abandoned K‘un-Lun. The people who took him in. Cared for him.“ You. He abandoned you. „I treated him like a brother. And he stole from us! The Fist was -“

When you realise just how hot the rage inside you is burning, you cut yourself off in the middle of the sentence and turn away in shame, remembering a lesson your mother taught you long ago, long before you ever met Danny: Do not talk without need. Talking will only reveal your vulnerabilities.

You take a deep breath, the way Father showed you. „I apologise. I shouldn‘t have raised my voice.“

Judging by the look on her face, Claire must know how just how hot your anger burns. To your surprise, she doesn‘t seem intimidated or offended by your loss of composure. If anything, she seems impressed by your quick recovery. It makes you wonder just how much anger she is used to dealing with. How little control the people in her world have over themselves.

„What did you do just there?“, she asks.

„I centred myself. Calmed the storm inside me.“

„I‘ve seen Danny do that.“

(Danny, Danny, Danny. Even Claire doesn‘t see you as your own person, just someone who can help her figure out the puzzle that is Danny Rand.)

„It‘s how we were trained. You don‘t let emotions cloud your actions.“

„So you just - lock it all away. Pretend the emotions aren‘t there.“ Claire‘s disapproval is palpable on her face, along with a trace of pity that revolts you.

„A weapon doesn‘t know feelings“, you say, and wish it were true.

***

It takes you all of five seconds of meeting the Meachums to decide that you hate them. All of them. Slimy, presumptuous, self-serving Harold and that wide-eyed, weak-willed daughter of his and the son whom you haven‘t even met, because apparently he is such an enormous failure, he somehow managed to be a disappointment to both of them.

These are the people who call themselves Danny‘s family?

A nest of vipers, that‘s what they are. No wonder Danny, too, grew up to be a snake.

***

You have a bad feeling about Danny‘s plan to take on the Hand, but staking out one of their hiding places together feels right, like Danny never left in secret, like it‘s always been the two of you, going on this mission together.

It‘s like you can breathe again, despite the noxious fumes that fill this city.

Falling back into the old friendly rivalry is easy. You banter about who gets to drive the car, and in a moment of recklessness, you bring up that day at the lake, with Brother Kuo‘s cart and the bathing girls you never saw.

The day you kissed him.

You don‘t mention that part. But it‘s still there, invisible, but hanging between the two of you like a spider web stretched between two trees, sticky and treacherous.

He sighs deeply, and you can feel your pulse pick up. Is he going to bring it up? Do you even want him to?

(You want him to think about it. To remember that, if it‘s companionship he seeks - the physical kind - you‘re more than willing to give it to him. He doesn‘t need these people. He doesn‘t need this world. He has K‘un-Lun. He has you. He always will.)

„Do you ever think that maybe, the Thunderer was wrong? About certain things?“, he asks, quietly, making tentative hope blossom in your chest.

About love?, you want to ask. About intimacy? About ... what we could be?

„Everyone meditates in their own private way“, you say instead, deliberately missing the point. Like a coward.

He won‘t let you have that out. „That‘s not what I meant.“

You don‘t dare look at him. You don‘t dare feed this hope, nor do you have the heart to stamp it out.

„Sometimes, I get these ... these flashes“, he says, and you can feel his stare boring into the back of your head. „Anger. It‘s like a - a fire, burning inside of me. Every time it happens, it ... it gets harder and harder to control.“

You nod. You know what it‘s like. And yet - „Did you ever think this turmoil you‘re in is because you questioned Lei-Kung‘s teachings? If you just followed the path he laid out for you, none of this would be happening.“

He doesn‘t believe you. You can‘t blame him. You don‘t believe it, either. No matter how much you try.

„Sometimes, my anger gets the better of me as well“, you admit.

„Why?“ A single syllable, barely there. A breath. And it cuts you to the quick anyway.

You swallow, struggling to get the words out, still looking straight ahead instead of at him. „I thought the Iron Fist was my birthright.“

„You wanted to be chosen.“ It‘s a statement, not a question. Compassion, understanding. Too late for it to matter, but not too late to thaw the ice around your heart.

„It‘s all I ever wanted. To be the protector. To guard the pass.“ But as the ice melts, it releases the bitterness, too. It wells up inside you like dirty water at the bottom of a dried-up lake. Finally, you meet his gaze. „And you took it from me. I accepted that. You were still my brother.“ Your voice almost breaks as you continue. „And then you ran. Like a thief in the night.“

„That‘s not what happened“, Danny says, oh so gently.

„Then explain it to me“, you all but beg. „I want to know why you abandoned us. Why you abandoned me.“

It‘s the first time you‘ve admitted it out loud. That this is personal. That he hurt you. That you - you missed him.

(You still do.)

Danny takes a shaky breath. „Ever since I got to K‘un-Lun, ever since the crash, I ... I‘ve always felt empty.“ You know what he‘s about to say next before the words have left his mouth, because you understand. You‘ve felt exactly the same, all your life. „I thought maybe the - the Iron Fist would fix me. But it didn‘t.“

And that, too, you can understand.

The only thing that has ever driven away the lonely void inside of you was him. It pains you to know that he never felt the same way about you.

„At first, I thought maybe it was a mistake“, he recounts, calmly, but with a certain breathless urgency, like he needs you to hear him, and understand. „That I wasn‘t supposed to be the Iron Fist. I was looking for a sign. Then I saw this hawk.“

Your heart stops, remembering black, black feathers and red, red blood upon the white, white snow.

„And watched it fly further and further down the mountain. And that‘s when I knew - the way to K‘un-Lun was open. I could leave“, he continues. „I was looking for a sign. And instead, it showed me a path.“

„Maybe it is a sign“, you say, because it has to be. It has to be. „A sign telling you that the path is open. That K‘un-Lun needs protection. It‘s where you belong.“ By my side. „And look at what a mess you‘ve made here. I‘ve seen this world, I‘m ... I‘m not sure it‘s worth fighting for. Come home.“

You breathe the last two words into the cool night air, willing them to wrap around Danny like an embrace, like a promise.

He doesn‘t look at you.

„Danny, what is keeping you here?“

*

Her name is Wing. Of course it is.

*

You don‘t remember much of the conversation (if you can even call it that) with her, it‘s all muddled by rage and frustration and jealousy, feelings you should be able to brush aside in favour of your mission, but you can‘t. Danny is clearly letting his emotions lead his actions, so why do you have to stay calm and composed? Why do you have to make all the compromises and sacrifices Danny won‘t? Why do you have to bear the burden of being the Iron Fist when you have neither the title nor the powers?

He holds that damnable woman in his arms, tenderly, without any shame, like this isn‘t a violation of his oath, his duties, everything he‘s supposed to stand for. Like the Iron Fist means nothing to him.

He holds her in his arms, comforts her, and he calls you ignorant.

„You know, this place has confused you“, you say, with an evenness you don‘t feel. „It‘s no wonder you can‘t summon the Iron Fist.“

You walk away, and he lets you.

Like you mean nothing to him.

*

You don‘t leave. Not for good.

You pace up and down the street, wondering whether Danny will go after you, to try and talk you down.

He doesn‘t, of course. He simply waits for you to give in and crawl back to him.

You do, of course.

*

„I‘m not losing my family to the Hand again!“, Danny snaps, determined to walk straight into that Hand trap for those people who are neither his blood, nor did they raise him. Not like Lei-Kung, who taught him everything he knows. Not like Priya, who may not have liked him, but still tended his wounds, cooked his meals, and watched over him all these years. Not like you, who held him in his most vulnerable moments, who trained with him, laughed with him, endured so much pain with him, who comforted him when things got tough, and cheered on his successes.

„Danny -“

„I‘m the Iron Fist“, he interrupts you childishly, as if he still has the right to pull rank on you after everything he‘s done to betray his duties. „You don‘t tell me what to do.“

For the first time in your life, you wish he‘d died in that plane crash.

*

You tell yourself you only go along with him because you want to see the Hand destroyed, not because you‘re still loyal to him.

It‘s starting to feel true.

*

You grab Danny by the arm to prevent him from rushing to assist his - that woman.

„He‘s her sensei. This is her fight“, you remind him, and you actually mean it. Whether she kills Bakuto or dies by his sword - either way, she‘ll prove that Danny‘s faith in her was justified. You can give her that, at least. For his sake. (And, perhaps, for yours, too.)

Danny must agree, because he nods, and stays behind with you to watch.

The battle is brutal, and beautiful, the way only a fight that‘s personal can be. The heavy rain looks like Indian ink in the faint light of the city, and each wound that‘s drawn drips black, black blood onto the blue, blue cobblestone.

Bakuto looks shocked when his former student drives her broken blade deep into his chest, and you - you‘re pleased. For a moment.

The Hand leader goes down, clutching at the wound in his side with shaking hands, as the woman - Colleen - holds her weapon aloft ... and then lowers it again, without striking.

„You were right, Bakuto“, she slurs, drained by pain and weariness, „I was never cut out to be Hand.“

„Kill him“, you urge her, desperately. If she kills him, Danny will have been right. If she kills him, she will no longer be Hand. If she kills him, you can bring her back with you to K‘un-Lun, give Danny no reason to stay here in New York. You‘ll face your father and the people of K‘un-Lun. You‘ll advocate for her, vouch for her, protect her. It‘s a sacrifice you can live with it. You‘d rather see Danny happy with someone else than have him abandon you entirely.

If Colleen kills Bakuto, it‘ll all have been worth it.

She doesn‘t move. „If we kill him, we‘re no better than them.“

„So what?“, Danny asks sarcastically. „We call the police?“

„We have enough on him“, Colleen replies calmly. „He‘ll be the first leader of the Hand to ever get arrested.“

No. No, no, no, no.

There‘s no prison that can hold the Hand. Not with their connections, their abilities, their secrets. If this woman refuses to deliver the killing blow, how can you - how can anyone back home - trust her? There will always be doubt, doubt that she wasn‘t acting out of mercy, but out of loyalty, facilitating Bakuto‘s survival the only way she can with two warriors of K‘un-Lun determined to destroy him.

„Danny, we do what we came to do“, you plead.

Bakuto, naturally, takes full advantage of his pupil‘s hesitation to try and sway Danny as well. „Is this really who you want to be?“, he asks. „A living weapon? An assassin for K‘un-Lun?“ He spits out the name of your beloved city like a curse. „Is that what your father had in mind for you when he was raising you to be Danny Rand?“

Your jaw clenches with irritation. Danny‘s father. Is Wendell Rand more deserving of that title than Lei-Kung? Is being Danny Rand, the billionaire, more important than being Daniel Rand-K‘ai, the Iron Fist, protector of K‘un-Lun?

Danny can‘t just keep picking and choosing between which of his identities is the most convenient to him at the time, ordering you around as the Iron Fist, then leaving behind his post and failing to carry out his duties because he‘s Danny Rand, whose idea of honour was instilled in him by a world corrupted by greed, egotism, and weakness.

„If you kill me, then all you‘ll ever be is K‘un-Lun‘s Iron Fist, in a long line of living weapons whose only purpose is to be used by others“, Bakuto has the audacity to say, as if he‘s not one of the people who have been trying to use Danny for his gift.

„We stay the course“, you murmur in Mandarin, and decide to save Danny from his own foolishness by doing what his lover can‘t and stabbing that Hand bastard straight through the heart.

You look Bakuto in the eyes as you do it. It‘s not satisfying, nor does it make you feel bad. You‘ve struggled a lot more with the chickens you‘ve watched being slaughtered. Perhaps you shouldn‘t have stopped watching when Danny came along. Perhaps you should‘ve made him watch, too.

„You out of your mind?“, Danny yells at you while the woman stares at you with wide, scandalised eyes. Like you didn‘t overhear both of them talking about wanting to kill Bakuto only hours ago. Like sparing him hadn‘t been a last minute decision for her.

„You‘re the Iron Fist!“, you snipe back. „Your duty is to kill the Hand, not put them in cages.“

„The rules are different here. There are consequences.“

Ah, of course. Here. Meaning this is where Danny is going to stay. He isn‘t planning on coming home. He never was.

At least he‘s finally admitting it out loud.

„You can‘t just go around killing people!“, Danny says, like it‘s an obvious truth rather than him immediately and unthinkingly regurgitating the poison fed to him by two members of the Hand.

„That‘s not why you didn‘t do it“, you tell him, because he‘s fickle, weak-minded, a hypocrite and a liar, and you‘re over playing along with his delusions of righteousness in hopes that somehow, miraculously, they will morph into the real thing. „You couldn‘t, because you haven‘t got it in you, Danny. You‘re not a warrior. You are a failure.“

„It‘s not that simple!“, Bakuto‘s pupil pipes up, and you can feel your blood boil with cold fury.

„You of all people don‘t get a say in this!“

„Don‘t“, Danny growls, „talk to her like that.“

Taking her side. Of course he does.

„K‘un-Lun would have been better off if Chodak and Tashi had never found you.“

It feels good to say it. To let it out, feel the truth of it as you weigh each word on your tongue. Like sucking venom from a wound and spitting it back out.

Danny must know it, too, because instead of defending himself, he attacks you. You no longer have it in you to be disappointed.

The two of you fight, and despite your anger and bitterness, your heart isn‘t in it. You‘re just tired. So, so tired. It affords you some detachment, some distance, some clarity. Unlike Danny, who clearly isn‘t thinking about what he‘s doing, just mindlessly throwing kicks and punches your way.

Taking advantage of his sloppiness, you knock him backwards into a waste bin and point your finger at him accusingly. „You‘d choose this putrid hellhole over the people who raised you? Get up!“

„This has nothing to do with K‘un-Lun“, Danny says in a low, dangerous voice. „This is because I left you.“

This is it. After everything, this is what makes you see red - to know, for certain, that Danny knows how you feel about him, how much you need him. That he knew all along, and that it didn‘t matter to him one bit. That he abandoned you, fully aware of the pain it would cause you, then strung you along with false promises of returning when you came after him.

You finally lunge at him in earnest, no longer aiming to subdue, but to hurt, to make him feel some of that pain he put you through.

As expected, the fire in your veins makes you sloppy, too. Your single-minded focus on retribution spurs you on to take risks, leaving yourself open for attack.

It‘s Danny who gains control of the fight this time, turning the tide embarrassingly quickly. A single well-placed grab allows him to flip you over and toss you to the ground. He stands over you, calm enough to make you want to strangle him, and offers you his hand, demanding that you yield.

As if you‘d ever yield to him.

You reach for his hand, try to use it to put him off-balance, but he‘s too quick. Despite your best efforts, you end up on your back again, with his hands wrapped around your throat.

„I kicked your ass back in K‘un-Lun, and I kicked your ass here“, he taunts, claiming victory over a battle he never even finished, not really, and in this moment, you truly, honestly hate him. „Yield!“

His fist is raised, ready to strike, and it starts to burn with chi, equal parts beautiful and terrifying up this close. Are you going to die? Is he enough of a hypocrite to try and spare a leader of the Hand, but murder his own brother in cold blood?

The woman shouts his name, like she‘s afraid he might be, making you wonder whether it‘s her voice that makes his resolve falter and his arm start to shake, not his affection for you.

„I hurt you! I get it!“, he yells, showering your face in drops of angry spittle. „It was selfish and wrong of me to leave without telling you. But coming here has taught me that the Iron Fist isn‘t just for K‘un-Lun. Others before me may have felt it was their destiny, but I‘m Danny Rand, and I‘m the Iron Fist.“

He pulls back his lit-up fist, as if he‘s going to use Shou-Lao‘s power to smash your skull to pieces, like the mercy killing Danny should have received to spare all of you this anguish and heartbreak.

But then, he stops himself, and the light dies down. You‘re not sure whether it‘s because he lets it, or whether he‘s lost control of the Fist again, and you don‘t really care any more. You don‘t really care about anything any more.

Self-aggrandising coward. He should‘ve just killed you.

You roll onto your side, feeling numb, cold inside and out, despite his scorching hot hands on your shoulder.

„I‘m sorry“, he whispers, and the words mean nothing to you. The time for apologies has passed. How can you forgive him when he‘s not going to fix anything?

You scramble to your feet, put some distance between the two of you.

He looks at you, wet and shivering, reminding you of a pup someone tried to drown. „I wish you could understand.“

„I never will.“ You look right back at him, taking in his features as if for the last time. There is blood in your mouth, and it tastes like plum wine. „All I know is the way to K‘un-Lun is open, and there‘s no one guarding the pass. There will be consequences for this, brother.“

You limp away, and this time, you‘re glad he doesn‘t stop you.

***

You walk the streets in a daze. None of this feels real. It‘s a nightmare you‘re trapped in, and Danny will be there when you wake, slumbering beside you on his futon, or perhaps stoking the fire so he can make tea. He‘ll give you that carefree smile from when you were children - the one you haven‘t seen since he became the Iron Fist - and clap you on the back, like nothing‘s wrong.

You barely remember to pick up your things - your fake passport, a change of clothes, and what‘s left of your money - before marching to the airport like a soldier to his death.

The prospect of returning to K‘un-Lun is equal parts daunting and seductive. You miss the city, its tall mountains and lush fields, its ancient magicks and beautiful edifices, its sensible food and its steadfast, honourable people. You want to be back there, back home, doing your duty, even if you‘ll have no one to share that burden with. Even if you‘ll be all alone again, for the first time since you were ten years old.

You don‘t know how to explain to your parents that you failed in your mission.

If you find the right words, Father might forgive you, maybe. Maybe he‘ll even apologise for choosing Danny over you. For even considering him a worthy candidate to compete for the Iron Fist.

Mother, on the other hand ... No, best not to dwell on it.

You buy a ticket for the first flight to China you can find, and spend the rest of the night perched on a plastic chair, staring at a gift shop full of plastic angels.

V. They‘re metal wings when he beats you. (Again.)

(He‘s the most important person in your life. You‘re barely a footnote in his. Until you become his enemy.)

***

On your way home, you‘re too tired to sleep, and your stomach is filled with too much rage to eat. It only takes a week, but every time you catch a glimpse of your reflection, you look a decade older than the time before.

You wonder what you‘re going to do when you return. Are you going to guard the pass by yourself, a mortal man, not an immortal weapon? Will you spend the rest of your days in what amounts to exile, useless, except as a meat shield standing between K‘un-Lun and its attackers?

There is, of course, the possibility that you won‘t get back in time. That you will come home, only to find the path already closed. The thought terrifies you - you cannot bear the thought of staying in this wretched world for another second, let alone fifteen years.

Fifteen years of breathing polluted air and eating poisonous food and subjecting yourself to the spiritual rot of a society that has systematically estranged people from themselves. Fifteen years of being marked as an outsider, of having to choose between lying about your past, about your heritage, or being called crazy. Fifteen years of not seeing your parents‘ faces, or hearing the familiar voices of the monks.

And yet ... there‘s a small part of you that almost hopes that you‘re too late. It‘s a part of you that you detest, but it‘s there, niggling away at you, a tiny pocket of pain within the expanse of black, black nothingness inside your chest.

You‘d always feared that one day, you‘d be forced to choose between Danny and K‘un-Lun. You know which one of those choices is the right one. You also know which one your heart wants to make. Hoping that the choice will be taken out of your hands is the coward‘s approach, but you can‘t deny how enticing the idea of being able to stay with Danny without guilt is.

Besides, you tell yourself, if the path is closed, at least K‘un-Lun will be safe, even in the absence of its guardian.

***

Despite being weighed down by the guilt, shame, and dread in your stomach, the hike through the Himalayas reinvigorates your spirit. It feels cleansing, like every step you take away from civilisation is bringing you closer not just to home, but to yourself again. You taste the fresh mountain air, perfumed first with the smell of wild herbs and gnarled trees, then withering stone and freshly fallen snow, and it‘s the best nourishment you have received since you left.

At night, you sleep under the stars, and watch the planes pass overhead, giant metal birds accompanied by blinking lights and the ominous roar of distant thunder. They follow you into your dreams, steel wings shattering like glass upon the rocks.

***

The path is open.

You‘re greeted by deafening silence, and red, red blood upon the white, white snow.

***

You try to come up with explanations. Apart from the slain Hand warriors near the entrance, there are no corpses, no rubble, not even ash. The snow looks pristine, like it hasn‘t been disturbed in centuries. Maybe everything you know about the path is wrong. Maybe this is just what it looks like to outsiders when K‘un-Lun withdraws into its own world. Maybe the elder monks activated some of the old protective magicks and closed the path early, or transported the city to another dimension entirely. Somewhere safe.

But in your heart, you know better. You smell the smoke on the breeze, the burnt buildings and burnt flesh and burnt history, and you know that if there were magicks involved, they were used not for escape, but for self-destruction - a last ditch effort to keep K‘un-Lun‘s secrets from falling to the Hand.

It‘s gone. It‘s all gone. Mother. Father. Even sacred Shou-Lao. Gone. Erased not just from this world, but from existence itself. Like it was never there at all. Is this your punishment for wishing you could stay with your brother, the traitor?

You wail. You scream. You beat your fists bloody against the side of the mountain.

You walk to the old ravine and consider flinging yourself onto the rocks below. It seems like a fitting end for one who betrayed his people so, even if only in his heart.

***

It‘s spite that saves you. A little, fiery spark that staves off the darkness long enough for you to tear yourself away from the white, white nothingness that used to be your home, and return to the world you despise.

You spend three weeks wasting away in a dingy hostel near the Nepalese border, populated mainly by young, mostly American tourists with unkempt beards and backpacks bigger than their torsos. The men are too busy trying to make advances towards the comparatively fewer female travellers to pay you much mind. The women don‘t seem particularly keen on courting even more male attention, so they ignore you the same way you ignore them.

You listen to the people around you come and go, and drown yourself in the background noise of their inane conversations as the black, black nothingness inside you slowly hardens into steel.

***

You‘ll probably have to move on soon. You‘re not breaking any rules or planning anything more nefarious than wallowing in self-pity, but the people who own the hostel are starting to get suspicious of you, and you‘re running out of money.

Two days ago, a traveller with wild blond curls and blue, blue eyes arrived and claimed the bed opposite yours. You keep catching yourself staring at him, fantasising about driving your fist into his handsome face until there‘s nothing left of it. Nothing to remind you. Nothing to tempt you.

You alternate between sleeping too much and not sleeping at all. As you lie awake, listening to the snores of the vapid tourists, you wonder whether Danny knows about K‘un-Lun. And if he does, whether he even cares. Unlike you, he still has a home.

***

„Hey mate, don't take this the wrong way, but I noticed you looking at me, and ... I‘m flattered and all, but, uh, I‘m not gay. Sorry.“

The blond traveller stands in front of your bed, looking so much like Danny with his slumped shoulders and endearingly awkward smile, it makes your guts twinge with a strange combination of longing and loathing.

It takes you a moment to recover enough to formulate a response. From context, you manage to gleam that this man thinks your interest in him is physical, which ... isn‘t entirely inaccurate, you suppose, albeit not for the reasons he thinks. „It‘s not like that“, you say carefully. „You ... look a lot like my brother.“

The man laughs brightly. „I highly doubt that. Unless you‘re adopted or something.“

„My brother is the adopted one.“

The man blinks at you a couple of times. „Ah, shit, mate, are you serious?“, he asks, looking sheepish. His accent is different, you notice, more similar to your own than to Danny‘s, and his hands look too soft to have thrown many punches during his lifetime. You decide not to let your gaze linger on them. „I‘m sorry. I shouldn‘t have assumed.“

„You are forgiven“, you say evenly, which makes a big grin spread across the travellers‘ face, like you just said something funny.

„I‘m Andy“, he introduces himself.

„Davos.“

Andy sits down next to you on the bed without asking, which irritates you a little, but he keeps a healthy distance between the two of you, so you decide not to say anything.

„So, Davos“, he says, trying out the name. „I hope this isn‘t, like, super racist or anything, but you kinda look like your family might originally be from around here?“

You are really not in the mood to explain K‘un-Lun to yet another outsider who has never even heard of it, so you answer with a simple: „We are.“

„Cool.“ Andy gives you a thumbs-up and a goofy grin. „So, are you, like, on a journey to reconnect with your roots or something?“

„I guess you could call it that.“ You feel your mouth twist into a bitter frown. „I wanted to go home. But there‘s nothing left.“

„That sucks, man.“ Oddly enough, Andy‘s sympathy seems sincere. „British imperialism, am I right? Ruining everything for everyone since - ... shit, I should‘ve paid more attention in history class.“

You only have a vague understanding of what he is talking about, but his irreverence startles a smile out of you anyway. It‘s ... strange, and a little uncomfortable after a near month of steadfast stoicism.

„I know it‘s not the same“, Andy offers consolingly, „but home is where the heart is, right?“

Once upon a time, you might have agreed.

***

Without anywhere to go, you decide to go everywhere. Inspired by what Andy said, you trace your heritage to Tibet, China, Nepal, and all of it is so familiar to you, but still so different. You like China the least, its big, grey, ugly cities an unwelcome reminder of the same degeneracy you saw in America.

Tibet, on the other hand ... There are parts of it that still remember, secrets to suss out if you know where to look.

Reluctantly, but without other options, you seek out the connections you made when you first left home. It‘s not an easy task, but you‘ve learned just how many doors can be opened through the careful application of either bribery or brutality. Museums, private collections, hidden archives full of knowledge squirrelled away before the Chinese government could destroy it in their effort to erase millennia of culture.

At first, you‘re not looking for anything in particular - you‘re hungry for anything and everything left in this world of K‘un-Lun, perhaps a hint somewhere that the city isn‘t destroyed, merely gone. (You dare not dream of a way to get home, but you search anyway.)

What you find is unexpected. Whispers of a ceremony of blood and ink, a way to transfer Shou-Lao‘s gift from one person to another, should the need arise.

It seems too good to be true. Which is exactly why you have to try.

***

You take your time on your journey back. You follow the ghost of the Silk Road, explore the remains of what used to be the Byzantine Empire, travel the coasts of Greece‘s fingertips and the sole of Italy‘s boot, all while a plan slowly hatches in your mind.

Wherever you go, you‘re an outsider, just like you expected. People avoid you, seemingly by instinct, and that suits you fine. It‘s the police that give you trouble, especially once you reach Europe. Apparently, they‘re not too fond of people who look like you, so you learn how to give off the appearance of wealth and wear it as a protective shield. You learn how not to draw eyes to yourself, how to blend into a crowd, until all anyone would see is a man with a fine, tailored coat and an unnerving stare. You subsist mostly on spite and whatever fruits and vegetables the odd jobs you do along the way can pay for.

You keep thinking of your childhood, of that loneliness you felt back then. You should have stayed lonely. It was easier to bear when you knew nothing else.

***

In Paris, you spend a day at the Louvre, pretending to be just another tourist as you study the art of centuries past. You‘re not sure what you‘re looking for in the statues of heroes and the paintings of saints, what kind of revelations you hope to find in abstract splotches of colour and impossible geometry. A new path to follow, perhaps. Or perhaps you simply wish to understand the people you‘ve been forced to live among.

(If you wish to understand a people, listen to their stories, Master Q‘on used to say, while regaling Danny with tales of K‘un-Lun‘s mythical past. You wonder if Danny ever truly listened.)

You leave without answers. You never even figure out the question. Even the finest of artworks here seem trite compared to the ancient wisdom and beauty that was lost to one man‘s carelessness.

(At least these depictions of angels have some dignity to them.)

In a sour mood, you wander the Paris streets aimlessly, determined to leave the city come nightfall, until a familiar name stops you in your tracks.

*

When you hear the maître d‘ call out the name Madame Meachum, your first impulse is to slink back into the crowd and pretend that this must be someone else. It has to be, and even if it isn‘t? As far as you‘re concerned, the Meachums are just as guilty of leading Danny astray as that woman from the Hand.

Then again ... If you want to know about the ritual you‘ve read about in Tibet, you‘re going to need money. More money than you could ever make doing what is, essentially, mercenary work. And it‘s more than just the money. You need influence, legitimacy, someone with business savvy and knowledge about the inner workings of this world. Joy has been little more than a pawn so far, but the fact that she‘s still alive tells you that perhaps, she‘s more resourceful than you initially assumed. And you know that resourcefulness can easily become corrupted into ruthlessness.

You‘re not like Danny. You‘ve never been good at convincing people to do anything, but if you play your cards right, that may actually be an asset. If Joy is tired of being manipulated, she might find someone like you a refreshing change to what she‘s used to.

You have to try.

*

Joy‘s eyes grow wide with surprise when you slide into the chair opposite from hers. „Davos? What are you doing here?“

„I had to get away from Danny Rand“, you say, with unconcealed hatred, in an attempt to foster some kind of kinship between the two of you. „The same as you.“

It‘s just a guess, but the embittered twist to her mouth tells you that your words strike true. „Did you, now? What did he do to you?“

You grit your teeth. „He betrayed my people. He‘s an oath breaker, the lowest of the low. Because of his selfishness, my home is destroyed and my parents are dead.“

Joy winces at your bluntness, clearly not used to dealing with other people‘s tragedies like this and deeply uncomfortable with the entire situation. „Your parents are -? God, I had no idea, I - I‘m so sorry.“

Her performative empathy doesn‘t offer you much comfort, but you‘re not looking for a shoulder to cry on. „It‘s not just them. I‘m talking about thousands of lives here, Joy. Lost because Danny Rand prioritised his own need for closure over their safety. Lost because he stole the sacred gift that was created to protect them, and used it for his personal gain.“

*

You tell her everything. Everything she needs to know, anyway. You tell her about the boy Chodak and Tashi brought back to the monastery, the boy you nursed back to health, and called brother when Lei-Kung took him as a son, not just another student.

You tell her about training for the Iron Fist all your life, only to lose the right to face the dragon when Father called the fight early. You tell her about becoming Danny‘s second, about being treated like a servant while he got lost in his own head.

You tell her about waking up to find him gone, about the fear in everyone‘s eyes.

You tell her about leaving your home to bring him back, about finding him in New York, in the clutches of the Hand, actively fraternising with one of them. You tell her about him begging you to stay and help him take them out once and for all, before instantly going back on his word and sparing their leader.

You tell her about returning to K‘un-Lun, without the Iron Fist, only to find that the Hand had taken advantage of the fact that they knew the city was without protection, and completely annihilated it.

Joy, to her credit, listens patiently, although you can tell that there are parts of your story that leave her completely cold. You can‘t blame her. Of course an outsider wouldn‘t understand the cultural significance of the Iron Fist, or the deep shame of not carrying a fight all the way through till the end.

What matters is that there are parts she does latch onto.

„So we‘re all orphans now“, she mutters darkly, stirring another spoonful of sugar into her coffee.

„Your father, he ... was killed?“ Now that‘s unexpected. And quite possibly something you could use to your advantage. „By Danny?“

She scoffs. „By my brother. Danny‘s a lot of things, but he‘s no killer.“

„Are you sure about that, Joy?“, you ask. „What else would you call someone who has caused so many deaths?“

„Indirectly“, Joy points out. „It‘s not like he murdered anyone himself. You just told me about all the lives he refused to take.“

„Because he‘s a coward. He doesn‘t have it in him to carry out the deed himself, it‘s true. But his reckless indifference to the suffering of other people, his refusal to do what it takes to keep them safe - doesn‘t it all amount to the same thing in the end?“

Something cold and dangerous flashes in Joy‘s blue, blue eyes, and you know you‘ve got her. „‚Reckless indifference‘? That doesn‘t really sound like Danny to me.“

„Because you don‘t know him like I do“, you argue. „Even though Danny Rand physically survived the plane crash, it seems the boy you knew died that day. Becoming the Iron Fist changed him.“

She regards you curiously. „Maybe.“

„He destroys everything he touches.“ Your voice is calm, even though the rage still simmers in your guts. „Isn‘t it true your world fell apart after his return?“

„Things changed for me“, comes her non-committal reply.

„And you know that if you have any hope of returning to your old life, he must be removed.“

„Removed?“

„Killed“, you say bluntly, because subtlety isn‘t going to help you here. Either she‘s going to be receptive to the idea, or not. „I can help you with that.“

She only hesitates for a moment. „I‘m listening.“

„Not physically“, you clarify. „I‘m talking about cutting out the thing that corrupted him. The thing that he wasn‘t strong enough to handle.“

„The Iron Fist“, she guesses.

You smirk. „Exactly.“

*

While you lay out everything you‘ve learned about the ritual, and all the information that‘s still missing, Joy makes her way through three bottles of white wine.

You‘ve stayed clear of alcohol ever since that night in the monastery gardens, so you firmly decline when she offers you some. She rolls her eyes at you and calls you boring, but doesn‘t try to force the drink on you. In turn, you try not to judge her too harshly for drinking her troubles away. Ancestors know you‘ve felt the urge before.

By the time you‘re done, she‘s swaying so hard on her feet, you have to practically carry her back to her hotel room, with one of her arms slung around your neck and of yours slung around her waist. It‘s the first physical contact you‘ve had since your fight with Danny, and despite your lingering dislike for Joy, you find yourself leaning into the touch like you‘ve been starving for it. (Maybe you have.)

She pulls you down onto the bed with her, and for a moment, you‘re afraid she might try to make advances towards you, but her hand remains on your shoulder, with no apparent intention to wander anywhere else.

„He was gone so long“, she slurs into her pillow, her unfocused eyes aimed vaguely in your direction. „He was gone, and I missed him so much, and then he wasn‘t, and now he‘s gone again. It‘s like the only reason he came back into my life was so I‘d have to mourn him all over again.“

„Your father?“, you ask quietly.

She sniffles a little. It makes her seem less like a grown woman and more like a child. „He wasn‘t what he was supposed to be. It was all ... wrong. I was wrong. Now I don‘t even have my memories any more.“

„I know what that feels like“, you admit, because she likely won‘t remember this conversation anyway come morning.

***

It doesn‘t feel real. None of it does, except, ironically, your dreams of metal wings on fire, red, red against the black, black sky.

The ritual was a pipe dream, a vain hope, something to keep you going when you had nothing else left. But with Joy ... There may actually be a chance.

You return to New York together. She sets you up with an apartment, bare-bones, yet much nicer than any other place you‘ve ever stayed at. You have little use for mindless entertainment or beds that make you feel like you‘re slowly sinking into a swamp, but you take full advantage of having access to indoor plumbing, even though each hot shower you let yourself indulge in makes you feel like you‘re going soft.

Unlike Claire, Joy doesn‘t seem to care about K‘un-Lun or the Iron Fist or even you, for that matter. If anything, the way of life you were raised with is an annoyance to her, something that left you ignorant of what she considers the real world, something you should be working to overcome.

Still, her condescension is worth putting up with, when you realise just how far her reach goes, getting you tantalisingly close to turning vague whispers into tangible reality.

Through a combination of internet research, liberal perusal of the Rand archives, and calling in favours from old contacts, she manages to track down a thangka that describes the ritual in detail, to be sold at an auction along with what you recognise immediately from the pictures as an authentic K‘un-Lunan singing bowl, the kind used for the cleansing and realignment of chi ... and in the transferral ceremony.

There‘s another thing you need to procure, one that‘s significantly more difficult to obtain and smuggle into the country, but unless you wish to flay your brother alive, you have no other options.

So you hold your tongue, swallow your pride, and wade into the cesspool that is organised crime.

***

Joy isn‘t much help for this part. She takes care of the finances, occasionally gives you a name. But the rest is up to you.

Despite the circumstances, you do what you can to conduct yourself with some semblance of honour, but it‘s ... challenging. You‘d avoided taking lives before this, but that line gets crossed much quicker than you would‘ve liked.

There are days you wonder whether these people‘s deaths are worth it. But then you think about maiming the only family you have left, and you tell yourself that this is just the way war is waged. The men you kill aren‘t Hand, but they‘re not civilians, either. You watch them die, and have no regrets.

***

You have no regrets. You don‘t.

The night you find out that your contacts in China have finally found him, you cry with relief.

***

You always feel dirty when you return from one of Joy‘s little errands. Even on day‘s like this, when you didn‘t even break a sweat, or get blood on your clothes. The stink of the raw fish seems to cling to the heavy fabric of your coat regardless, an unwelcome reminder of that slippery eel that runs the so-called business.

You find Joy sitting at her breakfast nook, staring forlornly into a wine glass, the very picture of decadent self-pity. „Come, sit“, she says by way of greeting. „I‘m celebrating.“

It‘s a pattern you‘ve noticed. When she‘s sober, your partnership with her is one of convenience, but for some reason, as soon as she gets some drink in her, she tends to treat you as a confidante.

„I don‘t drink“, you remind her coolly, and with perhaps a hint of petty disapproval. „And I regulate my diet to maximise my physical well-being.“

„Right! That‘s right. You don‘t do anything fun.“ Her mockery doesn‘t faze you. Much. You quite prefer being seen as - well, joyless. „But you can watch me.“

Looks like you‘re not getting out of this one. You don‘t sit, and you turn towards the window, not her, but you stay close, to indicate that you are listening.

„So, tell me how it went with Yang“, she says, casually, like it‘s just another business transaction to her. It probably is.

„He changed the price we agreed on.“ Irritation stirs within you, threatening to bubble to the surface. Talking reveals. „He has no honour. No moral centre. I debase myself by association with him.“

When Joy only stares at you instead of responding, you can‘t seem to stop yourself from continuing your rant. „It‘s not just Yang. It‘s this city. Every breath I take of its fetid air is like poison in my lungs. Like everything else in it, Yang can be bought, traded, sold - for what? To wear a crown in a kingdom of iniquity.“

Your speech barely even gets an eyebrow raise out of Joy. „Don‘t forget about the traffic on the way to Jersey. It‘s - it‘s a killer.“

Of course she doesn‘t care. She was born in the lap of luxury, the recipient of all the benefits the iniquity that infuriates you so affords the lucky few at the top. Your birthright was pain, duty, sacrifice. Her birthright was a crown.

You crack your neck and card your fingers through your hair, almost longer now than it‘s ever been. You still haven‘t decided whether to grow it out or not. You could. Father is no longer around to disapprove.

„This is a sorry celebration, what‘s wrong?“, you attempt to change the topic, hopefully to something you can both agree on.

She scoffs. „I had to look Danny in the eye, and my brother, and act like you and I aren‘t planning what we‘re planning.“

You‘re not entirely sure what to make of that. „I thought you would have enjoyed that.“

„At first I did“, she says with a wide smile that is gone before it is even fully formed. „And then after it was over ... Danny stuck around, and ... I don‘t know. I - I don‘t know.“

Her voice trails off at the end, quiet in a way that indicates that she knows exactly what she‘s feeling, but can‘t bring herself to put it into words.

„What did that fool say to you?“

„Nothing much“, she says, unable to look at you. „He was kind.“

That sounds like him. Kind, gentle, innocent Danny, with the earnest eyes and sweet smile that hide the rot within him.

„Joy“, you murmur softly, „are you wavering?“

Finally, she turns to you, her gaze meeting yours head-on. „No.“ A smile that doesn‘t reach her eyes flickers across her lips as she raises her glass. „I‘m drinking.“

You don‘t believe her for a second.

*

Something about Joy‘s doubt creeps into your own head like icy fingers, digging up half-buried memories.

Danny, after a long day of training, patiently rubbing ointment into your hands when the practice sword left them blistered. Taking care of you before taking care of himself. Chattering aimlessly about nothing, just to make you smile when the weight of the world rested on your young shoulders and you felt like you couldn‘t possibly bear another day of training.

What happened to that boy? Once, you counted knowing him among your greatest blessings.

Was all of that just a facade? A lovesick delusion of yours? Or does that boy still exist, and Joy met him today?

Maybe - maybe there‘s still hope for redemption, for reconciliation instead of revenge. Maybe you should talk to him. Just one more time, to make sure.

He‘s the only thing you‘ve got left. He made sure of that. And maybe this makes you a fool, but ... you‘d hate to lose him, too.

*

Seeing him again is strange. In your mind, you have built him up as this monster made of dragon fire and deception, but when you see him, he‘s just ... Danny. Shoulders slumped, walking with his hands in his pockets, laughing with that woman the way he used to laugh with you.

(You hope he‘ll let her down, too.)

The moment he recognises you, he stops in his tracks, wary and on his guard, like he‘s stumbled across a ghost, or perhaps a wolf.

„Davos. Where have you been?“

He seems about as happy to see you as during your last reunion, and you can‘t shake the feeling that if you had never come back to this city, he wouldn‘t have wasted a single second searching for you, missing you, or even thinking about you. The most important person in your life, even now, and your absence barely even registers in his.

„I‘ve been here, in New York.“ It‘s true enough, at least for these past couple of months. You‘re curious whether he‘ll mention K‘un-Lun at all.

He, of course, does not. „Why didn‘t you reach out?“

Placing the burden on you once again. „The time wasn‘t right, for many reasons.“

Tentatively, he nods. „There‘s a lot I need to tell you.“

„About K‘un-Lun?“, you ask bitterly, before you can stop yourself. „Gone.“ It takes every bit of your self-control to keep from screaming at him. Or, more shamefully, bursting into tears. „If only you‘d come home with me when I asked.“

„It‘s not that simple.“ A coward‘s reply. The same the woman used when she refused to kill her former sensei. „I couldn‘t. We‘ve been through this.“

„Yeah. You had your reasons.“ You gesticulate at the woman. „One being you‘d chosen to ally yourself with a warrior of the Hand.“

„I‘m not Hand“, she informs you pointlessly. „Not any more.“

„I‘m not here to talk about the past“, you say, if nothing else to stop yourself from ruining your own plans by getting into a fight with the two of them right here in the street. „Danny and I have family matters to discuss.“ To spite the woman, you emphasise the word family, because even though it tastes rotten in your mouth, it‘s still true. You‘re Danny‘s family. And maybe, in their own way, the Meachums are, too. She‘s just an interloper.

You look directly at Danny. „Walk with me. Alone.“

He hesitates.

„You don‘t have to, Danny“, the woman says, and not for the first time, you fantasise about crushing her windpipe with your bare hands.

However, Danny does decide to follow you in the end. It‘s more gratifying than it has any right to be.

*

You take him down to the river, one of the few areas of the city that you can tolerate. On the way there, you walk in tense silence, until Danny breaks it.

„So much has happened since I last saw you.“

„But you remained here. Which says much in itself.“

„Where else would I go? This is my home.“

The admission stings, as does the truth of it. You lost everything - your birthright, your honour, your purpose, your family, your home. Danny lost nothing. He took what he could from K‘un-Lun, and then came right back here, to claim his crown as well.

„I hear you have you your father‘s company. You‘re a rich man, Danny.“

„The money, the business, that‘s - that‘s not my concern right now.“ Spoken like someone who will never have to worry about paying for his meals. „All of my attention is focused on protecting this city.“

„And where were you when our city needed protecting, Danny?“

„The mission of the Iron Fist was to destroy the Hand. I succeeded in that“, he says, without an ounce of remorse.

His callous disregard for an entire city, an entire people, an entire culture, infuriates you. „While K‘un-Lun paid the price.“

„There was a lot they didn‘t tell us“, he argues, and at least there‘s anger in his voice this time. „I did what I thought was correct.“

„Did you, now?“ Perhaps he believes his own claim, but you believe him about as much as you did Joy. „Were you even listening to anything Shifu said?“

You strike at him, going straight for his heart.

Your palm makes impact with his chest before he even registers that he‘s being attacked. Fool. If you‘d meant the hit, you could have caved in his ribcage.

„With practice comes mastery“, you recite, and he shakes his head, like you‘re little more than an annoyance to him.

„Don‘t do this.“

His calm, his lack of defence, his trust in you throws you off a little, but you push the feeling aside. He no longer has any power over you. He doesn‘t. „With mastery comes knowledge.“

Finally, he snaps out of his passivity, and grabs your arm before you can deliver another blow. „I remember.“

You try to break free, to strike once more, but he‘s fast enough to block your punch. „With knowledge comes strength“, you growl, and then you‘re fighting, just for a moment, before you manage to grab him by the throat, and squeeze.

„But you have always been weak.“ You tighten you grip, and all you want in that moment is to feel him yield to you. „Without my father‘s help, you never would have won that fight between us.“

„That‘s not true and you know it“, he grits out.

You lean in closer, almost intimately, a mockery of a lover‘s embrace. „And then when you had it all, you left. Ran to your money, and your influence -“

„I came back for family.“

„Did you? Because when I tried to get you to return, all I saw was cowardice, and a Hand whore.“

Of course that is what makes him attack you in earnest. That cursed woman of his. He‘ll put her honour before the thousands of people whose lives were lost so he could be with her.

The fight is brutal, but short. He throws to the ground at the same time that you go for his throat again, and then - that‘s it. He bats your hand away carelessly. As you rise to your feet, a look passes between the two of you, and you both decide that this is over. You‘re not sure why. Maybe it‘s just the knowledge that if you were to continue, this fight would end up with one of you dead.

He glares at you with cold fury. „You talk about Colleen that way again, I will break you.“

„If you could go back and do it differently, would you?“, you ask, a last ditch effort to - even you don‘t know. See whatever it is that you saw in him again, and hope you‘ll find it in your heart to forgive him?

„There is no going back.“ It‘s precisely the wrong thing for him to say, because he‘s right. Changing the past would be the only way to undo this damage, to make anything right again, and it‘s impossible. He has his life, his powers, his wealth, his family, his lover, even a purpose. All that‘s left for you is revenge. „I fought for the right to challenge the dragon. I fought my friends. I fought you, my brother. I didn‘t like it, but I won.“

He makes himself sound like a real martyr. Like the Iron Fist was thrust upon him, a burden he never asked for.

All he had to do was yield.

„Debatable“, you say wryly.

Judging by his reaction, you seem to have struck a nerve. „Is this debatable?“ He pulls his shirt aside slightly to reveal the upper wing of Shou-Lao‘s mark. „Burned into me?“

And isn‘t that precisely the point? What he stole, he couldn‘t have given back even if he‘d wanted to.

Not that he knew of, anyway.

„There is no changing what happened“, he says, because to him, accepting it is easy. He came out on top, after all. „To either of us.“

„And what if there was a way?“, you ask, hesitantly. „For you to give me back my birthright?“

He stares at you in shock and disbelief.

„I mean it“, you insist. „Would you do that, little brother?“

You know what the answer is going to be before he even opens his mouth. „The Fist ... It gives me purpose.“

„You don‘t know what it is or how to use it“, you point out.

He doesn‘t have a rebuttal for that. „The fact is - it‘s my duty to carry it.“

Duty. Now he cares about duty? After wilfully neglecting it and failing your entire people in the process?

He took everything from you, and he won‘t even consider giving you this? The one thing that would mean the world to you? The one thing that would tie you to your ransacked home, to your murdered parents, to your stolen destiny?

The ravine seems too merciful a fate for a traitor like him.

„Now, you said you had questions“, he has the nerve to say. „You gonna ask them?“

There‘s no saving this fool from himself. You‘re done giving him chances.

„You already answered them“, you say, and walk off into the night, seething with rage and disappointment, and a yearning deep inside you that refuses to die, no matter how much hate you try and bury it under.

*

Joy isn‘t happy when you tell her you spoke to Danny. But she drinks in the bile and the hatred and the contempt in your words like it‘s another glass of expensive wine.

„You saw him. You looked him in the eye“, you hiss. „Maybe I needed to hear that pompous, conciliatory tone. Be reminded of the way he has rewritten our shared history. Perverted all I hold dear.“

For a moment, you fear you may have given too much away, but when Joy looks at you, she sees herself: Someone betrayed by a brother, not spurned by a lover.

You wonder what she would think of you if she knew the truth.

***

All these shady dealings, all this sneaking around in New Yorks underbelly, all these fights with lowly thugs, and this auction is still the greatest indignity Joy has ever put you through.

You‘re used to feeling out of place - you are out of place, quite literally - no matter where you are, but among these snobby, rich fools? You stick out like a sore thumb, because no matter how much Joy dresses you up like one of them, you don‘t carry yourself like they do, with ostentation and pomposity and carefully calculated indifference.

Even by Joy‘s side, with her doing most of the talking, you‘re the object of everyone‘s fascination, examined and appraised like another exotic trinket for sale.

Some of her peers are content to ignore you, believing you to be a bodyguard of sorts - an assumption that, by your monumentally low standards these days, is at least close enough to the truth that neither of you bother to correct it.

However, a surprising number of people seem to be under the impression that you are Joy‘s paramour, and that gets under your skin for reasons you‘re not entirely sure even you can ascertain. Maybe you just hate being seen as a creature of flesh and blood, subject to the same fears and temptations as any other human being. After all, if enough people treat you like you are, you just might start seeing yourself that way.

Joy is always quick to inform people that the relationship between her and you is strictly professional, but the thought still rankles. What is it that makes people think otherwise? Even if you were interested in women, you can‘t see yourself being with someone like Joy. And Joy ... Well, she‘s mentioned a former boyfriend or two, here and there, but you‘ve never seen her so much as throw an interested glance at you - or any man, for that matter.

In fact, as she saunters off to ‚catch up‘ with her ‚old friend‘, holding on to her arm, you can‘t help but notice that this is the most ... sensual, for lack of a better term, you‘ve ever seen her act with another person. Perhaps the two of you have something in common besides Danny.

It could be a ruse, of course. A play at seduction. It‘s difficult for you to gauge. Joy didn‘t tell you much about the woman - Mika Prada - besides a sly „Oh, you‘ll like her“, delivered in a tone that implied that this would very much not be the case.

*

You don‘t like Mika. You really don‘t like her.

There‘s just something about her red, red dress, about the way her fingers are locked around her champagne flute like the legs of a dead spider, about her lascivious smirk as she leans into your personal space like it belongs to her that raises your hackles and makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

„So you‘re Joy‘s fascinating new acquaintance“, she says with all the subtlety of a veteran prostitute. „Your accent ... England, right? What brings you to New York?“

You frown and swallow down the impulse to correct her. You don‘t want to be drawn into a conversation with her, much less one about a subject as sore as your fallen home. She doesn‘t deserve to witness even an ounce of your pain. „I‘m here on ... business“, you state vaguely. „Joy tells me you have an object that might be of interest to us.“

*

By the time you manage to make Mika give up on her attempts at shallow small talk and even shallower flirtation, you find Joy in a tense conversation with a slimy man with slicked back hair and an air of petulance and enervation about him, who refuses to so much as look at you as Joy introduces him.

„Just my brother Ward.“

Well. Looks like you‘re not the only one here whose brother is an insufferable brat.

*

„Don‘t even think about it“, Joy hisses at you when she sees you eyeing the blade.

„Your plan doesn‘t work without it“, you remind her.

„Noted.“ She gives you a sickening, insincere smile. „Handled.“

You‘re not going to like this.

You‘re really not going to like this.

*

Joy is curled around Mika like a cat, with one hand in Mika‘s hair and the other holding a glass of champagne so expensive, the money paid for a bottle of the stuff could probably feed an entire family for a week.

They‘re both drunk on it, giggling every time they look at you, laughing at a joke you‘re not in on.

When Mika goes to refill their glasses, Joy walks over to sit next to you, whispering in your ear about Mika‘s husband, and about causing a scandal.

Your stomach twists into knots at the implication. „This tactic - it‘s distasteful.“

„But it‘s a tactic nonetheless“, Joy insists, and you know in that moment that saying no is not an option. „You want this bowl, you‘re gonna ask yourself - is your code of honour more important than your purpose?“

Is it? Without your honour, what makes you more worthy to carry the Iron Fist than the one who already betrayed his duties?

Or are you merely scared of letting yourself be violated in this way, and you‘re making excuses?

„Besides“, she continues. „It‘s not torture we‘re talking about here. It‘s sex.“

*

It is torture. It‘s just that Mika isn‘t the one getting tortured.

She circles you like a shark. Takes off your coat like she‘s stripping you off your armour, then unbuttons your shirt slowly with slender, spidery fingers. „You really don‘t like me“, she purrs, and the thought only seems to arouse her even more - knowing that you don‘t want this, but she can make you do it anyway.

You hate this. Every part. Her painted lips staining your skin. Her perfume, cloying and overly flowery in your nose. (Jasmine. Of course it is.) The alcohol on her breath, sour and stale. Her hands, evaluating your body like it‘s one of her precious artefacts.

You feel the bile rise in your throat, and when she tries to kiss you, you almost let her just to make her taste it, too.

But you can‘t. You still remember another night filled with the smell of jasmine and alcohol. Why? Why were things so different back then? You would have betrayed your vows for him then. Why can‘t you do the same now?

Her lips almost touch yours, and your hand instinctively goes for her hair, yanking her head back, away from you, away, away. You grab her throat, squeeze for a second - a warning.

It would be so easy.

She isn‘t deterred.

In fact, she goads you on, presses down on your hand, begs you to do it, harder.

In your mind, you see Danny, and it‘s his throat you‘re constricting.

Yield, you plead, over and over again, but Danny refuses.

Yield, you think, over and over again, but Mika only smiles as she struggles for air.

She pushes you onto the sofa, climbs on top of you, tries to kiss you again, open-mouthed, like a snake about to swallow its prey whole. Her body rubs against yours, and it‘s all wrong, too slender, too sweet-smelling, too soft in places where it shouldn‘t be. You‘re breathing heavily, and it has nothing to do with arousal.

You throw her onto her back, and you think of the mountains, of tall pagodas and intricate stonework, of dragons painted in colourful ink. You think of a hawk with broken wings. You think of angels. You think of bone crunching under your foot.

You are eight. You are eighteen. You are undying.

You think of golden curls and blue, blue eyes and red, red blood. You think of summer. You think of snow. You think of your father‘s cold voice and your mother‘s cold touch.

You think of the sun in your eyes.

You think of revenge.

You sink into her and think of nothing at all.

*

„You duplicitous bitch“, Mika spits as Joy replays the footage for her, smirking the entire time.

You can‘t look at it. Nor can you stand the thought that Joy is looking, that she‘s watching you in the lowest, most shameful of your entire life, captured on film to be consumed and shared if she doesn‘t get her way.

*

As soon as you‘re out the door, you thrust the bowl into Joy‘s hands to bend over and vomit into the rose bushes.

„Oh, stop being so dramatic“, Joy sighs. „It can‘t have been that bad.“

Somehow, her lack of pity makes you feel a little better.

*

You don‘t sleep that night. You just kneel in the shower and let scalding water rain down on you until your legs go as numb as your heart.

*

In the morning, the ringing of your phone wakes you from your sleepless trance.

Mr. Yang requests a meeting.

*

„Today is not the day to test me, Mr. Yang“, you mutter, suddenly feeling faint as you stare at the bag of money in front of you. „I have made sacrifices -“

„I‘m doing this to prevent an open war with my rivals“, he interrupts you, and it takes everything you have not to kill him right then and there.

You take the more subtle route instead. If he insists on prolonging your suffering ...

***

Having dinner with Danny and his woman is the absolute last thing you want, yet strangely enough, Joy seems to stress about it more than you do.

It makes you nervous. Joy is a master of social warfare, ice cold and calculating in a way you can‘t help but admire. If she is worried, you should be, too.

*

You do what Joy told you to - look in Danny‘s eyes, fake a smile, shake his hand. Be polite to the whore he‘s playing house with. Call her by her name. (You‘ve never done that before, you realise.)

Take off Joy‘s coat for her. Pretend you‘re ... involved. (You‘d refused, at first, but you didn‘t know how to tell her that Danny knows about your lack of interest in women. Not without giving away too much about just how difficult your ... encounter with Mika had been for you.)

The awkwardness is palpable anyway.

„So how do you guys even ... know each other?“, Danny asks with fake casualness.

Joy, usually so prepared, fails to come up with an answer.

„We‘re just curious“, Danny‘s woman chimes in, with a smile that looks like it physically pains her. She offers you drinks, and Joy asks for wine before spinning a story for your hosts on the fly.

„Well ... Can you believe we met in Paris? I was on a little bit of a ‚go find myself‘ break, and Davos, you were -“

It‘s a censored, more polite version of the truth, so you decide to go with the same approach. „I was on my way back from Tibet.“

„It was just a really crazy moment, I mean - talk about a coincidence. It‘s kismet, you know. Six degrees. Call it what you will.“

Danny doesn‘t look like he‘s buying it, but Joy bravely presses on anyway.

The two of you take turns recounting the story of your chance meeting in France, carefully leaving out the more incriminating details in favour of implying a romantic connection that is a lot easier to fake when you imagine that Danny‘s sour expression is one of jealousy.

You know better, of course, but when he asks you to come out back with him ... Well, perhaps you allow yourself a moment to pretend. It helps.

*

„About the other night ...“, Danny begins, but doesn‘t finish the sentence.

„You know I‘ve always had a temper, Danny“, you say diplomatically.

Danny smiles. „I remember when Lei-Kung would tell us the best way to work on our anger was to break rocks with our bare hands.“

„You know I broke my wrist in two places trying to smash that one piece of slate.“ It‘s odd, the warmth you feel then, having someone to remember your father with, even when that person is directly responsible for his death. It feels like a betrayal.

„Sometimes, Colleen will tell me to throw on a jacket", he says. "She doesn‘t realise how used to the cold I‘ve gotten.“

„Well, no one can understand K‘un-Lun if they haven‘t lived there.“

„No, they can‘t.“ Danny falls silent for a moment. „You‘re the only one who knows what we went through.“

Went through, like it was an ordeal for him, not an honour.

„Yeah“, you breathe. „In that way, we are alike.“

You have to distract yourself by talking about the food before you give too much away. Or worse, let yourself be swayed by nostalgia. You won‘t have what you had ever again. Perhaps you never had it in the first place.

*

The food is awful and the conversation is even worse. Danny‘s woman looks like she‘s one more passive-aggressive jibe from Joy away from stabbing someone with a fork, and, in a moment of pettiness, you simply can‘t resist taunting her yourself.

„Maybe it‘s for the best“, you say when Co- ... when she says she no longer teaches martial arts.

She takes the bait. „What‘s that supposed to mean?“

You direct a venomous smile her way. „A teacher lives by example. And I -“ You point at the katana hanging on the wall behind her. „- recall a moment of truth. Do you remember? A true test that you just walked away from.“

She scoffs and tosses her napkin aside angrily. „Do you think you know me?“

Danny desperately tries to salvage the situation by redirecting the conversation towards safer territory, but she isn‘t having any of it.

„What the hell is going on?“, she demands. „Come on. This - this game we‘re all playing, hiding our real intentions?“

That, coming from the woman who lied to Danny about being part of the Hand? You want to call her out on her hypocrisy, but you force yourself to remain calm, and look towards Joy for guidance.

Unfortunately, Joy only stammers out some vague non-response.

Danny‘s woman is not impressed. „We invited you two over tonight to get stuff off our collective chests. So you know what? Davos has it right. Let‘s stop being so damn polite.“

Never before has being agreed with annoyed you so much. Feeling cornered, you reach for your fork, just in case.

„Is truth really that hard?“, she prattles on. „Am I the only one with the balls enough to call it like it is?“

„Oh god“, Joy mutters under her breath, hiding behind her wine glass.

„You are both so important to him.“ The woman sounds like she actually believes it. And that ... hurts. More than it should. „And you are clearly very angry with him, so ... Talk to each other. Air the grievances.“

The rest of the table is extremely reluctant to take her advice, but Danny offers some tentative agreement. „I mean, it - it would be nice to know what is going on between you two.“

Of course he didn‘t buy into the romance story. You told Joy. You bloody told her.

„Davos“, the woman addresses you directly. „You think Danny stole the Iron Fist from you. Danny, you think you won it fair and square. So, hash it out.“

Like it‘s that easy. Like it‘s all about which one of you got to wield the Fist, not about betrayal and death and an entire people, lost forever. All because of one outsider who thought he knew better. Who prioritised his own grief over thousands of lives and thousands of years of history.

„You wanna go first?“, Danny has the audacity to ask.

„This is neither the time nor the place“, you say, because it‘s quite possibly the only thing you can say that won‘t make an all-out brawl break out at the dining table.

The woman laughs bitterly. „Then when? Everything doesn‘t have to be settled in a goddamn sun chamber in K‘un-fricking-Lun!“

Your vision clouds with fury. Is that really what she thinks of your home? Your parents? Your culture? Of the day you lost your destiny, the one thing you‘d been breaking your bones to obtain since you could walk?

Or is that how Danny told the story to her? Could he really be so dismissive of the people who raised him?

Dizzy with rage, you get up from the table and flee into the bathroom to keep yourself from killing both of them.

You tune out the conversation at the table. Let Joy fend for herself. She‘s better at it than you will ever be. Politicking is in her blood, just like fighting is in yours.

You stare at your reflection in the mirror, features shaped by the harsh mountains, by a bloodline that goes back further than almost any other in K‘un-Lun. Generation after generation, dedicating their lives to protecting the city. Iron Fist or not, maybe if you‘d been there -

No. No, if you‘d been there, you would have died, too. You would have died, and Danny would have gotten everything he ever wanted. All of the power, none of the responsibility. You‘re the only one left to hold him accountable.

Gathering all your courage and determination, you decide to sit to put an end to this farce and go - not home. Home is gone. Just go.

You‘re on your way back to the main room when you spot the folder of pictures lying on the dresser.

*

Dragging Joy out of there is more difficult than anticipated. As far as you‘re concerned, Danny trying to trick her into having dinner with her brother is the least of his crimes, but she seems to take it extremely hard.

Another time, perhaps, you would have let her vent to you about it - ancestors know she‘s listened to your own rants often enough. But with your investigator compromised, damage control is more important than either of your feelings.

Luckily, Joy agrees.

*

When you end up with two of Walker‘s blades pressed against your throat, you don‘t flinch.

Under any other circumstance, this would be because you felt confident in your ability to take your opponent out before they could as much as nick you.

Tonight, though, it‘s because you genuinely don‘t care if you make it out alive.

*

Joy handles it. Or tries to, at least. Gets Walker to put down the weapons. Negotiates until the mid-morning sun falls through the window, blinding you.

You only half listen, not paying attention. You couldn‘t, even if you wanted to. There‘s a pounding in your head that drowns out everything. It sounds like war drums. It feels like being punched.

You taste blood and stale champagne in your mouth, and your stomach turns. It‘s been two days since you - since you were - since you let yourself be ...

It‘s been two days, and you haven‘t slept.

You‘re tired. You‘re so, so tired.

***

You hate having to desecrate the body of a son of K‘un-Lun, one who spent his life in service of protecting your home, but it has to be done.

The musty smell of the mummified remains hits your nostrils, and for a moment, you can breathe again.

***

The so-called Crane Sisters know nothing about chi, but they are competent in their craft, and they don‘t ask questions.

You show them the symbol you want - the Steel Serpent, stolen by the Hand, by salesmen of poison and debauchery. An incarnation of Shou-Lao, emphasising loyalty to K‘un-Lun, invoking protection, secrecy, the closed path.

It‘s a symbol worth reclaiming, you think.

You‘re also just really, really tired of wings.

*

Dizzy, dreaming, drunk on tea, on plum wine, on champagne.

Fire flickering. (Fist flickering, fickle.)

Burnt skin. Burnt meat. K‘un-Lun, burning, burning, ashes.

The new moon. The sun in your eyes. Time stretching across the sky like the Breath of Shou-Lao.

The smell of blood. (Red, red upon the white, white snow.)

A groan of pain, voice familiar, family, friend, foe, fate.

Needles scratching, scratching, scratching, like tiny birds walking up and down your spine, talons tugging at taut skin.

Apples. Jasmine. Bile.

Mother‘s voice, cold as the mountain.

Chaste. Pure. Without wife, family, or friends.

Spiders crawling under your shirt, under your skin. Your mind, far away. Your body, given to another. Too soft, too wet, too hard, too drunk.

It can‘t be me.

You really don‘t like me.

Chaste. Pure.

Blood drip-drip-dripping, from your knuckles, from your back, from your from your lips.

Sweat drip-drip-dripping down your temples.

Rain drip-drip-dripping into your mouth.

Snow melt running down the mountain. A creek. A cave.

Black, black ink. Black, black wings on his chest. Black, black nothingness inside yours.

Breath on your neck. A name whispered at dawn.

You wake.

You rise.

You wrap your hand around his throat like a lover.

„Now you‘ll give me what has always been mine, brother.“

*

Right.

It feels so right.

You draw Shou-Lao‘s Heart into yourself, and the agony fills the emptiness that has been residing in your chest since you were born.

You light up your fist for the first time, and it‘s a sacred flame, burning away all the hurt you went through to attain it.

You cradle the mask in your hands reverently, its eyes outlined in black, black ink, and you know that this is who you were meant to be.

You leave Danny in Walker‘s hands, and don‘t look back.

*

Destiny finds you the same night. And destiny decides to throw you a bone for once.

You smile. The Golden Tigers have caused you nothing but trouble anyway.

***

The one-eyed man‘s willingness to sell out his associates disgusts you. Ordinarily, you‘d never welcome an ally without honour or integrity. But in this cesspool of a city, beggars can‘t be choosers.

For now, he‘s useful.

You‘ll get rid off him eventually.

***

When you come to return the apartment key to her, Joy‘s demeanour is as cold as the creek you found Danny in after the Trial.

She acts like it comes as a surprise to her that you have a purpose outside of being her lackey.

„Did you think taking the Iron Fist from Danny was an end onto itself?“, you ask.

She smiles, but it looks strained. Scared. „That‘s how you presented it to me.“

„I didn‘t just take it, Joy. I have become the thing Danny never had the strength to be.“ You don‘t know why her approval even matters to you, and yet ... „I - I‘ve crossed my destiny.“ Your voice is urgent, beseeching.

She tosses the money onto the kitchen counter, like she‘s afraid to reach out and touch you. „Your fist lights up, it‘s really exciting.“

Dismissive sarcasm, with an undercurrent of fear. Why fear? You‘re not going to hurt her. Or anyone she cares about.

„This is not a weapon to be held, it is to be used.“

„Okay?“ Joy is trembling now, ever so slightly. „So what, are you gonna - you planning on running around in the streets and stopping crime like Danny did?“

„I‘m going to do what he couldn‘t do.“

He took your home from you. He should be glad you‘re going to transform his into a place worth protecting, rather than razing it to the ground.

„Davos, I‘m fairly used to you speaking in riddles, but -“ Joy goes for the tray of expensive cognac and, with shaking hands, pours herself a glass. „Look. You have your Iron Fist, I‘m very happy for you, every good boy deserves one, but - this cannot blow back on me. I am building something.“

Oh, that‘s the issue. You‘ve been doing her dirty work for her, and now that you‘re covered in grime, she is trying to wash her hands of you. She has no more use for you, so the time has come for her to discard you. Just like everybody else has done.

„You can‘t compartmentalise who you are, Joy. You don‘t just get to pretend this never happened.“

„That‘s exactly what I get to do“, she snaps. „This is my life we‘re talking about. Everything that I‘ve worked for.“

„This is my life. Everything I‘ve worked for.“ You bled for this. You suffered for this. You gave your innocence for this. You bear the scars to prove it. And this little girl, born with a silver spoon in her mouth and willing to toss you to the side to crawl back to that life of privilege, thinks she can tell you what to do with the power you‘ve earned? „I‘m the Iron Fist, Joy. A sacred duty, passed down for generations, and you could be part of it.“

„Alright“, she says, in that conciliatory tone you‘ve heard her use with Walker. „Let me just ... take some time ... and think through this.“

That‘s a no. You know it. You did everything she asked, and here she is, as disgusted with you as your mother was when you lost the fight against Danny.

You approach her, just to see whether she‘ll back away. She doesn‘t, but her body language practically screams that she wants to. „I know what you are capable of, Joy“, you whisper to her, equal parts compliment and threat. „For good, and for ill. Just know that every choice you make from here on out may have consequences. Do you understand?“

She nods, barely, staring at you like a rabbit stares at a snake, too petrified to make a sound.

You leave without a goodbye, slamming the door behind you.

Of course you‘re on your own in this. You always have been.

***

Your reluctant new ally tries hard to endear himself to you, to build some kind of rapport with you. A true sycophant, as if the list he carries wasn‘t proof of how little his friendship truly means.

In a way, you‘re grateful. You can‘t be betrayed by someone you never trusted in the first place.

***

You find Danny waiting for you at the empty building you‘ve claimed as a refuge, and you feel ... nothing. Not surprise, not rage, not worry, not even relief to see him alive, nothing. Just perfect stillness, and perhaps a hint of smug satisfaction, as you prepare yourself for the inevitable childish pouting, the appeals to your better nature, maybe even a doomed attempt to fight you one on one.

„Brother“, you greet him pleasantly. „I didn‘t expect to see you here. How are you?“

„What are you doing, Davos?“

„The work of an Iron Fist, Danny.“

„Is that what you call it? You got blood on your face.“

Here you go. The moralising speech. You try very hard not to roll your eyes as you walk past him, turning your back on him in a deliberate display of vulnerability. You‘re not afraid of him. You know him too well.

„You‘ve been killing people“, he accuses, predictable as ever.

„When a feral dog is put down, do you call it murder?“, you ask. „When a virus is flushed from the body, is that murder? Call it justice. You should be thanking me. I freed you from a responsibility that had become a burden.“

„You spit in the face of a thousand year tradition“, Danny says, with a quiet, seething anger he has no right to feel. „You didn‘t earn it. You stole it.“

Hypocrite.

„You dare speak of tradition after you abandoned ours?“ He has no reply for that one. Of course he doesn‘t. He never does. You circle him slowly, taking him in, more human than you‘ve ever seen him. Not just touched by fire, but burned by it. „You see, Danny. You feel like you can just walk through this world as if it belongs to you. You value nothing, because your privilege has afforded you everything. You‘ve never had a heritage of your own. A culture you must honour and protect.“

„Stop validating your actions, Davos“, Danny says, once again refusing to acknowledge your point. „This violence, it needs to stop right now.“

„I‘ve chosen my path.“

„You‘ve lost your way.“ He tries to stare you down, as if there‘s ever been an intimidating bone in his body. „I know what you think you‘re doing. But the police won‘t. No one will. And if you resist, they will come after you, and they will kill you. If you come with me now, you can hand yourself in.“

You scoff. Playing the daring renegade, then falling back on this country‘s institutions, the very ones that exist to protect people like him and Joy, at the expense of people like you, or the children you‘ve seen around Chinatown, scavenging the Triads‘ leftovers? That‘s Danny in a nutshell.

„Oh, I know the risks. This is what commitment looks like, Danny“, you tell him. „That night at the pier, you told me that you were protecting this city, but you‘ve never had the strength of character to walk a hard line. This war between the Triads? I ended it in a single day.“

„No, you didn‘t. You just became another faction in the conflict“, Danny retorts. „You disgrace everything Lei-Kung ever taught us.“

„My father mislead us all, Danny, sold us all lies.“

„His heart would break if he could hear you now.“

„If he was here now, I‘d crush his heart.“ The traitor deserves worse than that for destroying your home with his weakness, his preference for his foreign son over his own flesh and blood. All because of what, a prophecy? „He sent you down a path you never should have walked. Put us in opposition.“

None of this had to happen. Danny could have been your brother, your friend, without having his eye on the mantle of the Iron Fist.

„I know you‘re angry -“, Danny starts, but you cut him off.

„No, I‘m not angry. Not any more.“ It‘s true. Truer than you wish it were. „I want you with me, brother.“ The words slip out of you without thought, without your consent, and they sound wrong. Needy. Infatuated. Like the little boy who followed his adopted brother around like a puppy. You‘re over that. You are.

You grit your teeth. „There to learn at my feet, and one day, perhaps fight beside me. I‘m a patient man, and change doesn‘t happen over night. It starts with a person. D‘you remember? A paragon of virtue, with a righteous cause.“

„Can you hear yourself? A righteous cause? A paragon of virtue? You can‘t really see yourself that way.“ Danny‘s voice is full of bitter mockery, like the very idea of looking up to you is absurd to him. To him, you‘ve always been second best. An accomplice. A glorified manservant. A lackey. Danny, Joy, Lei-Kung, everyone but your mother - that‘s how they all saw you. They never believed in you.

„It‘s how you will see me“, you hiss. „As the scales fall from your eyes.“

That‘s when Walker stabs a needle into your arm.

Maybe someone you never trusted can betray you, after all.

*

The last thing you remember before you pass out is shattering Danny‘s leg.

When you wake up, he‘s gone. Like a thief in the night.

***

You stay where you are.

Continue working with Chen-Wu.

Dream of choking on feathers every time you close your eyes.

Taste your parents‘ ashes in your mouth when you wake up.

Wash them out of your mouth with the blood of lowlifes and criminals.

You keep thinking of those children you saw. Orphans, stranded in this city that has no place for them. Like you.

***

Chen-Wu is getting a little too comfortable with you. He‘s reliable, you‘ll give him that, and a surprisingly skilled martial artist, but he keeps trying to give you advice, interrogating your methods. A man without integrity, trying to lecture you about morality? What a joke.

Still, you feel doubt seep into you, bit by bit. It makes you double down, take lives that perhaps, you shouldn‘t have.

You hate that you know that that‘s what you‘re doing.

You hate that you do it anyway.

***

Joy visits you. You know better than to believe she‘s had a change of heart. You know she‘s going to double cross you.

What you don‘t know yet is how. Or why.

So you play along. Pretend to be surprised when she tells you that she was afraid, like you couldn‘t see it in her eyes the last time you two spoke.

„Of me? Joy, I don‘t want to hurt you. I told you the potential I‘ve always seen in you.“

„I think I was more afraid of ... letting go, than I was of you“, she says in a tone that could almost be described as seductive. „Fate brought us together for a reason. Can‘t keep ignoring that.“

You fight the urge to scoff. You‘ve never seen her so much as look at a man with anything but contempt. But considering what she made you do with Mika, you suppose it‘s not surprising that she‘d resort to this tactic anyway.

(Not that she‘d have any luck, given your own proclivities.)

She must sense the fruitlessness of her attempt, because she switches from appealing to a presumed desire for companionship to appealing to your ambitions for this city. „I told you I was done. That what we did to Danny was enough. Maybe it wasn‘t.“ For a moment, her facade crumbles. „I heard what you did to his leg.“

„He gave me no choice.“ She neither agrees nor disagrees with you. Like Danny, she chooses silence when an actual answer would be too incriminating.

Well, you know all about her ambitions, too. „What I‘m planning, Joy, goes so far beyond revenge. It‘s about building a future we could be proud of.“

„You had to start with yourself, first“, she says. „Become the person you wanted to be. So if I want to make the world better, I have to be better.“

Ah. So that‘s what she‘s after. Redemption. A noble pursuit, perhaps, but one that‘s easily manipulated.

You grin. „I‘m so glad to hear you say this.“ You hesitate, just for a heartbeat, before deciding to play the sentimental fool she seems to take you for. „Joy, I miss your company.“

She gives you a brittle smile, seductive demeanour back in place like a mask she‘s worn a hundred times. „Really? I can be so trying.“

„I see you more as a counterpoint.“ Flirtation comes more easily to you than thought. Maybe because it‘s all an act. (Maybe because it isn‘t. It‘s your interest in her that‘s fake.) „I can - I can be serious.“

„You‘re the master of understatement.“

When you see her visibly relax, you step a little closer. „You have nothing to fear, Joy.“ Gently, you take her hand in both of your own. „Okay? I am your protector. And your friend.“

She nods shakily, and chooses silence again.

Predictable. Everyone in this world is so predictable.

„Let me show you around“, you say, softly, like the besotted adolescent you used to be, and she follows you without complaint.

„Not to bring up a sore subject, but - you know Mika Prada?“

Your stomach twists. You can still feel spiders on your skin.

„A shameful moment, but it was a necessary sacrifice.“ You‘re surprised that your voice isn‘t shaking.

„What did you do with the bowl that we got from her?“

Of all the war tactics Joy has mastered, subtlety is not one of them.

*

You cherish the terrified look on Joy‘s face when your new students arrive.

Let her go and squeal to Danny about them. Let him stew in his inability to do anything about it in his crippled state.

By the time he‘ll have recovered enough to even think about challenging you, your students will be ready.

***

Your students are reluctant at first. Obstinate. Disrespectful.

You give them grace, for now. They heeded your call. That‘s got to be worth something.

***

Maybe you should destroy the bowl, just to be safe. But you can‘t stand the thought of something so precious being gone forever.

Too much has been lost to Danny‘s recklessness already.

***

It‘s as you expected: All these children needed was a purpose. A place to belong. Someone to rely on.

You lead by example. They see your strength, and they follow. Yes, Shifu.

Pride fills you as you watch your students thrive under your tutelage. Already used to swinging their fists to get their way, they take to it like a fish takes to water. You teach them discipline more than you teach them how to fight.

You don‘t have a cane. You find that a gentle touch can be just as effective. Easy to give. Easy to withhold.

Your students ache for your approval.

They repeat after you:

With practice comes mastery.

With mastery comes knowledge.

With knowledge comes strength.

With strength comes victory.

Chen-Wu accused you of trying to use them as disposable foot soldiers. The truth is, it‘s difficult to stay detached. Everything in you sees these children and wants to call them family.

***

Danny and Colleen manage to save the Triad scum you were trying to dispose of. And all it took was a phone call.

You hate this city.

***

Joy comes by. Searching for the bowl, most likely, although she claims she was looking for you.

After your run-in with your brother, you don‘t have the patience to play stupid for her.

„Why did you come here, Joy?“, you ask her flat-out.

„I just told you.“

„Not here in this room“, you clarify. „Here with me.“

She hesitates. „Because I wanted change. I want to be a better person.“

It‘s as good as a confession.

You nod, slowly. „But you are afraid of me. And then you weren‘t. What changed your mind?“

There‘s that strained, brittle smile again. „Does it really matter?“

„It matters greatly as something I need to understand.“ You‘ve got her cornered, and you both know it. „Why would you trust me if you fear me? If you were afraid, why join me?“

And in that moment, the naive, lovestruck little girl disappears, replaced by defiant warrior. „Because you need me as much as I need you.“

*

She tries to lure you with a mix of threats and flattery. She‘s good at that. You‘ve seen it before.

She pretends to be your ally, warning you. Calls you noble. Attempts to seed doubt in your mind about killing people. Appeals to your vanity, your desire for approval.

The worst part is that it works.

„Show them the man that I see“, she says. „The man I respect.“ She holds up the flyer with a photo of Chen-Wu‘s car on it, and the phone number that goes straight through to Danny. „And all of this goes away.“ She rips it up, lets the pieces fall to the ground like white, white snow.

„This city must be purged“, you insist - quietly, so your students won‘t hear you. „But maybe the righteous should be given a chance to see me as you do.“

Is it a ruse? Are you actually considering a softer approach? Even you‘re not sure any more, and that worries you.

„I apologise for doubting you“, you say, putting your hand on her shoulder. A kind word. A gentle touch. As effective as bloodied knuckles.

She grits her teeth just as you did when you were a boy, being beaten by your mother.

*

It‘s the way Henry Yip looks at your students. The fear in his eyes. The obvious distrust. He looks at them, and he sees criminals. Thugs, come to extort him. Worthless scum.

„Do you have a problem?“, you ask, overcome by a surge of protectiveness. You have worked these boys and girls hard, and they have risen to the occasion. Why would this man in front of you be so reluctant to accept that they‘ve changed? That you changed them?

„No, I just -“, he stammers, „- want to stay out of ... all of this. I‘ve learned from my mistakes.“

All of this? Does he think you Triad, or something equally vile? „You don‘t - you don‘t believe I‘m a good man?“

„No, I do, it‘s just -“ Warily, he looks at your students again. „I don‘t wanna take sides.“

So he does - he does think you‘re the same as those who would take advantage of the common people for their own gain.

What are you supposed to do? Let him disrespect your students like that, without repercussions? Show weakness in front of them? Make them feel uncared for, unwanted, unworthy of defence? Undo all the work you have put into them? You can‘t.

„You‘re still in league with the Golden Tigers“, you insist, for no other reason than because you need to make this make sense somehow.

„No, I never was.“ He seems sincere, too.

Your throat feels tight. It‘s hard to breathe. „You reject my offer to cling to your old ways. Support criminals instead of justice.“

You believe it. You have to believe it.

All you see is red.

Your red, red fist, alight with chi, covered in viscera.

Yip‘s red, red blood, smeared across the wall.

Ryhno‘s red, red blood, all over Crank‘s knife as he stands over his friend‘s corpse.

„Strike like the falcon does. Without mercy -“

„- or hesitation“, you finish for him, pressing your forehead against his. You‘ve got him. You‘ve got him. You‘ve got all of them. You won‘t let them down.

Heart of the Dragon, what have you done?

*

You did the right thing. Your student did the right thing.

You must have. He must have.

Because if you didn‘t ... who even are you? Vultures? Scavenger crows?

(Black, black feathers upon the snow. Black, black ink on your back. Black, black nothingness inside your chest.)

*

Joy suddenly seems very interested in how your endeavour went, and you do not have it in you to participate in this game of hers.

„It may not have been purposeful, Joy -“ Not in this instance, at least. „- but you think you can solve a problem by the careful application of lies, half-truths, and handshakes. I‘ve realised that there is only one way to solve the problems that plague the city.“

You try to walk away, from her scrutiny, from her deception, from her eyes staring at your red, red hand, but she stops you.

„So, what? You‘re just done? You don‘t care if people hear your message?“

„You presuppose that there are more than deaf ears to hear it.“ None of this had to happen. You shouldn‘t have reached out, tried to make amends with people so easily cowed by criminals. If not for Joy, you would have ignored Yip, taken out the rest of the Tigers, and been done with it. He wouldn‘t have had a choice, but he would still be alive to make one. „Like unruly children, I must bring this city to heel. See, there‘s a reason why, Joy, they - they beat us in K‘un-Lun. To break us down, and make us submit. And it was then that we could see the truth, accept the lesson not just in our minds, but in our blood.“

This time, when you leave her behind, she doesn‘t stop you.

*

The bowl is gone. So is BB.

You never should‘ve let Joy stay behind unsupervised. It was foolish of you. You won‘t make that mistake again.

(Was her little speech about trying to show the people who you really are part of her plan? Nothing more than a distraction, to get you out of the way and secure the bowl?)

When you confront her, she lies to your face. When you call her on it, she insults you. Calls you a thief and a madman.

Predictable. Oh so predictable.

You let her deceitful words wash over you. Once, they would have stung, but right now, all you‘re feeling is numb.

With a phone call and some clever words, Crank manages to track down BB, and, coincidentally, what‘s left of the Hatchets and Tigers. Taking them on all at once feels like a suicide mission. You‘re willing to take that gamble.

That leaves one more loose thread to tie up ...

„What about her?“, Chen-Wu asks, nodding towards Joy.

You brace yourself. You know what you have to do. Doesn‘t mean it won‘t hurt.

„You have a failure of vision, Joy“, you tell her, softly, almost gently. „You know, it‘s not your fault. It‘s how you were raised. And maybe it was too much to hope that you‘d chosen the path of righteousness.“

„Davos -“ She knows what‘s in store for her. You can see it in her eyes. Her blue, blue eyes, wide with fear. „You have no one“, she says, in a desperate attempt to save herself. „Your family is gone. You brutalised your best friend. You live in squalor. I am the only one left who knows you. So before you do something that you‘re gonna regret, just ask yourself: Is this really what you want?“

You almost laugh. She doesn‘t know you at all. And even if she did ... The fewer people know the real you, the better. He‘s not a man worth knowing.

„I‘ve never had greater clarity“, you say with a smile, and push her over the metal railing behind her.

It‘s not a ravine, but it‘ll do.

*

„Keep an eye on her“, you order Chen-Wu.

He looks over the railing sceptically, down to where Joy is bleeding onto the concrete floor from a head wound. „Pretty sure she‘s dead, Boss.“

„She‘s not“, you say coolly. „She‘s a Meachum. Being hard to kill runs in the family.“

*

Danny is waiting for you at the community centre. Standing in front of Triad like he‘s declared himself their protector. He seems to take that duty more seriously than he ever did his duties as the protector of K‘un-Lun.

„Brother“, he greets you, and something icy crawls down your spine.

„I think we‘re beyond that now, aren‘t we?“, you reply.

„You can‘t change your past“, he says.

If only you could. Perhaps then you‘d found it in you to actually strike him down all those years ago, the way you should have.

„The other night when I saw you, I could hardly believe it“, you admit with grudging respect. „But here you are. Standing. Walking, even. If only you could put that kind of resilience to better use.“

He limps towards you, slowly. „It‘s amazing what a few dozen pins and a high-powered magnet can do.“

Something twinges in your chest. You remember spring rain. His hand in yours, his arm in a sling. Mud on your cheek. Drops of silver on his lips.

„It gave me no pleasure to cripple you, but I will do worse with no hesitation“, you warn. Even after everything, you still don‘t want to hurt him. Not really. „Now, I‘m here to retrieve the bowl. And eliminate those who stand against me.“

You point past him, at the crowd gathered at the back of the room.

„It isn‘t just Triad members here, Davos“, he says, with a calm that should infuriate you more than it does. „This is a community centre.“

„Guilty by association.“ Your heart isn‘t in it. You don‘t believe your own words. You‘re not sure you believe anything any more. „Move.“

He won‘t. He won‘t. You‘ll fight. One of you will die, and you - Heart of the Dragon, you can‘t stand the thought of it being him.

„Move!“, you repeat, in an angry shout that echoes in the large room. Desperation claws at the inside of your chest like there are spiders in your lungs.

He doesn‘t yield. He never does.

He merely limps closer, blue, blue eyes boring into yours, pinning you in place. A high-powered magnet, indeed. „You once asked me if I could go back and do it all differently, would I? Well, the answer is yes, I would.“

You can‘t speak.

„I abandoned our home. I abandoned our family. Worst of all, I abandoned you. I‘m sorry. I‘m sorry for everything.“

Damn him. How is he saying all of the right things? And why is he only saying them now? When it‘s too late?

(Is it?)

„You should never have borne the Fist“, you say, clinging to the quickly cooling ashes of your anger for dear life, before the spark that‘s kept you going this long flickers and dies completely.

You‘re tired. You‘re so, so tired.

„Maybe you‘re right“, Danny concedes, and takes another shaky step towards you. „But neither should you.“

You don‘t see the kick coming. You should have.

How are you still such a fool for him?

*

How does he beat you? How does he beat you when you‘ve got the Fist, and all he has is a leg full of screws and a syringe full of drugs?

His arm is around your neck, cutting off your air, and it feels like the embrace you‘ve always longed for.

When the darkness comes, you embrace it, too.

*

Agony wakes you.

The hand wrapped around your head isn‘t his.

No.

*

It‘s her. She tried to take the Heart of the Dragon from you. With Danny‘s help.

What was he thinking? Giving the Iron Fist to a member of the Hand? After what they did to your home?

You thought you‘d tasted betrayal before. He could leave you a million times over, and it‘d have nothing on this.

*

You tell yourself that you‘ll make it. That you‘re strong enough to withstand the shock of the aborted ceremony, even though you can feel your body threatening to shut down, each organ struggling to adjust to the disturbance in your chi. Your throat is tight. You‘re choking on feathers, on spiders, on ashes. You tell yourself it‘s because of the fight with Danny.

You can do it. You just need to get to safety and catch your breath.

But the truth is: You‘re dying. And your only consolation is that she is, too.

You drag yourself back to your hideout, and call out for Chen-Wu. „You wanted a chance to prove yourself. Now is the time.“

On the concrete floor, you find the list he bought his life with. A red, red notebook, lying next to a pool of red, red blood.

*

You‘re dying. You‘re dying, and you‘re being shot at by Walker. No one‘s even paying her to kill you. This just really, really isn‘t your night.

*

„The Fist doesn‘t belong to you“, Colleen taunts, looming over you while you‘re bleeding all over the side walk. „And it never did.“

„To whom, then?“, you shoot back. „A disciple of the Hand? Huh? Or her lover, the weak-willed pretender who fell from the sky? I am the last son of K‘un-Lun!“

„None of that matters.“

No one in this world ever answers your questions. And they still have the nerve to act like they know better than you anyway.

*

The Heart of the Dragon is gone.

All that‘s left inside your chest is that same black, black nothingness.

„End it“, you plead, looking at Colleen. Fitting, that the Hand would claim the life of the last K‘un-Lunan, too. Perhaps Danny would finally see her for what she is. „I want you to do what he couldn‘t do. End it. End it.“

„Then I‘d be just like you“, she replies, as cruel in her mercy as he was.

***

You wake up handcuffed to a stretcher, with the morning sun streaming into your eyes, blinding you.

Danny stands beside you, no more a living weapon than you are. You think you could‘ve been able to make your peace with it if it had been him. Eventually.

But it‘s not.

„I didn‘t want it to end this way“, he says, because that‘s what this is to him: An end. Something to wash his hands off, and move on. „Did everything I could to avoid it.“

„After everything I‘ve done to you, you still approach me with compassion.“ A virtue. A deficiency of character. One of the two. You never figured out which.

„My compassion is a choice“, Danny says. „It doesn‘t come easy.“

Always playing the martyr. „Your choices in K‘un-Lun led to this moment“, you say bitterly.

„No.“ He sounds resolute. Certain. „I have my faults. But I‘m learning to wear my mistakes. You brought this on yourself.“

You sneer at him. „I grasped at glory you couldn‘t even begin to comprehend.“

„Of course I can. But I know the cost is too high. It took a lot of effort to convince people to save you. Give you another chance. I hope you can honour that.“

Save you. Save you! Like you need saving. Like he‘s ever done anything but ruin your life.

He should‘ve snapped your neck while he had the chance.

„You think you‘ve won, Danny?“, you ask, and you think of Triad blood, and the awestruck looks on the faces of your students. „I inspired so many people. Sent a powerful message out into the world, and there is nothing you can do to stop it spreading.“

„I‘m not gonna give up on you“, he insists. „I‘m not gonna give up hope that one day, you will come back to yourself.“

If he thinks you‘ll return to being the heartsick pup following around worshipfully, he‘s sorely mistaken. Joy was right about one thing: He doesn‘t know you. No one does.

„What did Lei-Kung call you? Chosen of Heaven? Touched by fire?“ You shake your head in disdain. „But he never knew you like I did. That you fought for the Fist to fill a void in yourself. Do you really think destiny is enough? That it will lead you to a true purpose? Because it won‘t. At least I picked a path. I walked it. Because in the end, Danny, you still have no idea who you are or what you stand for.“

His blue, blue eyes meet yours one last time. „Goodbye, Davos.“

He doesn‘t answer your question. No one in this world ever does.

VI. They‘re butterfly wings when he locks you away.

(Prison is a cage, but you turn it into a monastery. It makes you realise that the monastery was a cage, too.)

***

You could probably escape the hospital, if you really wanted to.

You don‘t.

There‘s nowhere for you to go.

***

No one comes to visit you. Not your students, not Danny, and certainly not Joy. The nurses tend to you with the same coldness your mother did, but with an edge to their movements that tells you they‘re afraid of you.

They give you drugs that make you sleep your days away. You dream of caterpillars devouring the trees you used to climb when you were a child.

***

When the police come, you tell them everything, much to the annoyance of the strung-out looking public defender they brought in for you.

They don‘t know with the fact that you have no last name, and come from a place that no longer exists.

They don‘t know what do with the fact that you used to be able to smash steel with your fists, either, so they simply throw you into the deepest, darkest hole they can find.

***

This isn‘t loneliness. You‘re used to loneliness. Loneliness feels like suffocating slowly. This feels like being crushed by your own skin.

Tonnes upon tonnes of steel press down on you. They fill your lungs, your limbs, your mind, until all you know is heaviness.

You can‘t sleep. The light is at once blindingly bright and so dim, you have to strain your eyes to see anything. Not that there‘s anything to see. Just white, white walls and black, black shadows and red, red blood, when you punch the concrete until your skin splits open.

You eat, but you don‘t taste anything. You touch, but you don‘t feel anything. You breathe, but there‘s no air.

You try to meditate. It helps, until it doesn‘t.

You think of your students, of letting Ryhno and Crank use the darkroom to discipline them - never more than a few hours at a time, because that was all it took. You regret putting them through even that much.

Ryhno‘s red, red blood still haunts you, more than any of the lives you took yourself. BB died, too, you‘ve been told. Also by Crank‘s hand.

Maybe he deserved it. Maybe they both did. But you - you cared for them. Ryhno, brash and impulsive and not overly burdened with intelligence, but brave, determined, a natural leader. BB, with his strong sense of compassion and his dangerous inquisitiveness. They weren‘t just weapons. They were warriors. Your warriors. They mattered. You wanted to keep them safe.

You failed them.

***

When the guilt is done eating away at you, the boredom starts to chew at whatever‘s left, like maggots stripping a carcass down to the bones after the vultures have had their fill.

Days and nights blur into one, the tasteless meals that the guards slide through the door thrice a day the only thing that mark the passage of time.

Awake and asleep start blurring together, too.

The cell spins around you, faster and faster, until your heart is pounding so hard, you start seeing black spots at the corners of your vision. The spots come alive, inky black sludge turning into wriggling, chittering things, caterpillars that creep along the white, white walls and crawl into your ears to turn themselves into spiked chrysalises inside your brain.

The tattoo on your back itches and burns, like your body is rejecting it. It‘s Danny‘s blood, infecting you from the inside, you‘re certain of it. Every time you wake up, your jumpsuit is soaked all the way through, and you don‘t know whether it‘s sweat or pus. In here, everything reeks of death.

***

The black, black nothingness inside your chest has a shape now. It‘s the Steel Serpent, coiled around your heart. Squeezing so tightly, the tissue has become necrotic.

You‘re dying, you think, hysterically. Then you remember that the universe wouldn‘t be so kind to you.

You dream of the blue, blue sky, filled with enough butterflies to blot out the sun.

***

The first person to speak to you in months is a guard. „Your lawyers are here to talk to you“, he says as he puts you in cuffs and leads you away.

„I don‘t have lawyers“, you point out, voice hoarse and clumsy after weeks of disuse.

The guard shrugs. „You do now, apparently.“

*

„Did Danny send you?“, is the first question you ask your supposed lawyers after they introduce themselves.

„Mr. Rand did hire us to take over your case, yes“, one of them - brown hair, red glasses, a cane that tells you he is blind, but hands that tell you he‘s a fighter - replies. „My associate and I have a fair amount of experience when it comes to representing vigilantes. Particularly those with ... special abilities. Although we have been assured that you are no longer in possession of any powers.“

„I am not“, you huff, and get up to motion for the guard to take you back to your cell, no matter how much the thought of spending another minute in there nauseates you. „Tell Danny I don‘t need his charity.“

The other lawyer - blond, pudgy, physically unimpressive, but with sharply intelligent eyes that tell you not to underestimate him - stops you. „With all due respect, Mr. -?“

You sigh and sit back down. „Just Davos.“

„With all due respect, Davos“, he says, „but what you need right now is to get out of solitary confinement.“

You can‘t really argue with that, so you say nothing.

The blond lawyer holds his hands up placatingly. „Look, I‘m no prison abolitionist, but I believe that no matter who you are or what you‘ve done, you don‘t deserve to moulder all alone in a tiny cell until your brain starts leaking out of your ears. Let us help you with that, at least. If you want to fire us after, that‘s your prerogative. But there‘s no reason for you to let yourself be subjected to that kind of psychological torture.“

He sounds so ... sincere. Like he actually cares. Like Claire, the healer, or Andy, from the hostel in Nepal. A rarity in this world.

A rarity, but not non-existent.

It softens something inside you, just a little bit. Just enough for you to want to hear him out.

„Why now?“, you ask. „It‘s been months. Why did he leave me to rot until now?“

„Mr. Rand was out of the country until recently“, the blind one says. „He wasn‘t informed of your situation until after his return. When he found out, he contacted us immediately.“

He leans forward slightly, and you catch your distorted reflection in his red, red glasses. You look haggard and peaked, worn-down and shrunken, like someone took your skin and stuffed it full of soggy, wet straw.

„Davos“, he says, gently, but insistently, „if you want us to leave, we will. If you never want to talk to Danny again, or be tied to him in any way, I understand. But trust me when I say that he was outraged by the way you have been treated in here, and to be frank, so am I. So please - let us help.“

Against your better judgment, you nod.

You don‘t know whether it‘s because you‘re foolish enough to believe him or whether you‘re just too tired to care.

***

After months of isolation, being around people once more - dozens of them - feels too loud and too much and too fast, like standing under a waterfall. It‘s agonising and it‘s wonderful, and it fills you with an overwhelming sense of anxiety. You‘re hyperaware of how twitchy you are, of the bruises on your knuckles, the scratches on your skin, and the feral look in your eyes. The other inmates must look at you and see a man gone mad.

You struggle to speak, so you don‘t.

You struggle to leave your cell, so you wait for the guards to drag you out of it.

You struggle to sleep, so you try to meditate instead, but focusing inward brings back the chittering of caterpillars in your ears and the beating of wings in your head.

On the third day, you finally find it in you to go out into the yard. Tears flow down your cheeks when you see the blue, blue sky again. You tell yourself it's just because the colour is so vibrant, it‘s hurting your eyes.

***

The first time you see another inmate get raped, you freeze.

It‘s - it‘s awful, and you hate yourself for it, for every single second that the victim keeps suffering, red, red blood running down his thighs and a dirty hand clasped over his mouth to muffle his screams, while you just stand there and let it happen.

But there are spiders under your skin, their bites paralysing you from the neck down, and the phantom smell of jasmine is clogging up your throat, and you can‘t move, you can‘t breathe, you can‘t, you can‘t -

„What you looking at, faggot?“, the rapist barks at you, forcefully dragging you back to reality.

You crack your neck and take a step towards him.

*

You don‘t kill him, but only because after you‘re done with him, death would have been a mercy.

***

You get away with it, strangely enough.

The victim doesn‘t thank you, and you don‘t need him to. His attacker will never do this to anyone else again, you‘ve made sure of that.

You return to your cell, still tasting bile and champagne on your tongue, but you feel lighter than you have in years.

That night, you dream of nothing at all.

***

The incident leaves you rattled and paranoid, but it also opens your eyes to what‘s going on around you, and it fills you with the kind of determination that chases away the black, black nothingness inside your chest and lets you breathe free again.

This world seems to think of prison as a more humane way to deal with criminals than outright killing them. You strongly disagree.

Being locked up isn‘t the punishment. Being locked up with a bunch of people willing to extort and brutalise you is. If these men weren‘t snarling, rabid beasts when they arrived, that‘s what they become once they‘re in here.

It‘s by design, you realise - the guards are either in on it or they look the other way, because they have convinced themselves that this is justice. This country sentences people to be beaten and raped, but pretends that‘s not what‘s happening because it‘s the other prisoners that carry out the deed.

You‘re not going to be one of their pawns.

***

You don‘t go out looking for trouble. But you don‘t look away, either.

Some find you bothersome. Others try to recruit you. Offer you money, contraband, sex in exchange for your services. You turn them all down. Your protection costs is free, and your vengeance is not for sale.

They start calling you Steel Serpent, after the tattoo on your back.

An apt moniker. You never yearned for wings the way Danny did. You‘d trade the sky for the ability to shed your skin.

***

You‘ve been out of solitary confinement for a little over a month when Danny visits you for the first time. You almost refuse to see him, but in the end, your curiosity wins out.

(One of these days, you‘ll learn how to say no to him.)

He looks ... different. Not physically, although you do notice that his hair is at that awkward length where you can‘t tell whether he‘s growing it out or whether he‘s simply overdue for a cut. You think of running your hand through those curls on cold nights, and your gut clenches.

No, it‘s in his posture, in the way his blue, blue eyes shimmer with something ancient and unfathomable.

„You got it back“, is the first thing you say to him, before he‘s even had a chance to say hello. „The Fist. How?“

„It‘s ... a long story.“ He gives you a smile, weary, but genuine. „But yes, I do have it again. Both hands, this time. Like you did.“

„Is that why you‘re here?“, you snap. „To gloat? To rub it in my face that you once again hold the power that you took from me twice?“

His face falls. „No, that‘s not -“

„Then why?“, you demand.

„Because I wanted to see you“, he confesses, in a voice so small, you almost don‘t catch it over the buzz of the conversations all around you. „You‘re my brother, Davos. Is it really so difficult to believe that I miss you?“

„Yes“, you reply bluntly. Your chair drags noisily against the floor as you get up to leave. „You‘ve never given me a reason to believe that you care about me at all.“

***

You‘re standing at a precipice. The traitors‘ ravine below, the path out of K‘un-Lun up above. Danny is waiting for you by the mountain pass, his wings and his smile both as bright as the sun, blinding you.

Choose, they say.

***

The next time Danny tries to talk to you, you don‘t go. You wander the hallways instead, itching to get into a fight.

You don‘t have to wander very far.

Four men, sneaking up on a fifth, and dragging him into a shadowy corner nearby. They crowd him against the wall and, before you have a chance to intervene, one of the attackers grabs the victim by the back of his shorn head and slams his face into the concrete, showering the sickly grey in a spray of red, red blood.

While the others pin the victim in place, the one who got violent with him rips off their target‘s jumpsuit and spits on him to slick the way as he tries to force himself inside.

He never gets that far.

You‘ve already wasted enough time, so you jump right into the fray, a flurry of furious punches and kicks far above what these common thugs are used to dealing with.

It‘s almost disappointingly easy, particularly when the victim - a slight man, but one with a startling amount of compact strength - joins you in fighting back. You watch him out of the corner of your eye, impressed by the surety of his movements, the precision in his strikes. This is a man who has tasted battle before. Something about him reminds you a little of Chen-Wu, but without the formal training.

The memory grieves you more than you would have expected.

Together, you dispatch of the attackers quickly. Once again, you leave them alive, although you‘re not entirely sure why.

You do, however, take the time to kick one of them in the side, revelling in the satisfaction of feeling one of his ribs break under the sole of your foot. „I despise rapists“, you say when you see the victim watching you with curious, deep brown eyes, surprisingly calm and collected considering the circumstances. „There is nothing more shameful than to violate another living being to sate your base desires.“

The man frowns a little at you as he redresses himself and wipes off some of the blood on his face. Oddly enough, the frown seems more confused than disapproving. „Thanks for saving me, man.“

You study his face carefully. Light brown skin, short-cropped dark hair like yours, handsome in a way that‘s ever so slightly off, but only serves to draw your eye even more than perfectly sculpted features would. His nose is broken, and probably not for the first time.

Not taking your eyes off of him, you step closer. There‘s something about him that intrigues you. You look at him and see cunning, cleverness, cold calculation. But beneath all of that lies something more. Passion. A sense of honour. A certain strength of will.

„No need to thank me for disposing of that scum“, you growl, pleased when he shows no signs of fear. You give him an approving half-smile. „You‘re not a lowlife like them. You‘re a warrior. I can see it in your eyes.“

Without really thinking about it, you reach out to cup the back of his head with one hand, and reset his nose with the other.

Up this close, his eyes are huge, and so dark, they make you feel like you‘re falling into the night sky. Your heart is beating impossibly fast in your chest.

You don‘t say anything as you walk away. You don‘t dare to open your mouth. Talking reveals.

*

Your legs carry you to the visitors‘ room, as if drawn there by an invisible magnet. You don‘t know what made you change your mind, but you - you need to see him. You just do.

„Davos!“ Danny‘s relief is palpable, like a physical force filling the entire room. „Thank god. I thought - I thought you weren‘t coming.“

„So did I“, you admit as you sit down at the small table.

His eyes immediately go to your hands.

Your red, red hands.

„That‘s blood“, he says, alarmed. „What happened? Are you -“

„It‘s not mine“, you assure him. „Had to put some people in their place.“

„What?“, Danny hisses. „Davos, you can‘t. If you keep getting into fights, they‘ll put you back in the hole, and I can‘t - ... You don‘t deserve that.“

He seems genuinely distressed by the thought, and that hurts. It‘s easier to live in a world where Danny Rand only cares for you out of obligation. In that world, you may eventually escape the pull of gravity that surrounds him.

„What was I supposed to do?“, you ask furiously. „Do what everyone else in this cage does and look away when someone is being assaulted?“

„Assaulted?“, Danny repeats dumbly.

„Raped“, you clarify, and the word tastes sour in your mouth, like stale champagne. „By four people. I saved a man from suffering that fate. I am not going to apologise for that.“

Danny‘s expressions softens a little. „And the - the rapists, are they ...?“

„Alive“, you confirm. „Just about.“

He breathes a sigh of relief. „Good. That‘s - good. I‘m proud of you, Davos.“

You huff. „For saving someone, or for sparing that human filth?“

„Both.“

Danny‘s hands twitch on top of the table, like they want to reach out for you, to follow the tracks of dried blood on your knuckles with his fingertips. You‘re not sure whether you want him to. It‘s a strange feeling.

„Look, Davos“, he says. „I ... I‘m not angry. You‘re one of the most skilled warriors I‘ve ever known. And I want you to use those skills for good, believe me. It‘s just ...“ He leans forward a little, buries his face in his hands. „I‘m scared. After how our last conversation went, I was afraid that that would be it. That I would never speak to you again. That I would never get another chance to say it.“

Your blood is ice. Your blood is fire.

„Say what?“

You shouldn‘t ask. You don‘t want to hear it.

You want to hear it more than anything.

Danny looks up from his hands, blue, blue eyes gazing into yours with a mix of regret and a tender warmth that makes you want to gouge them out. „Davos, I do care about you. I always have. I‘m sorry that I ever made you feel like I didn‘t. But I - I do.“ He swallows. There are tears shimmering in his eyes. You‘ve never seen him cry before. „I love you.“

It‘s the gut punch you thought it would be, taking all of your air. You‘d rather he‘d smashed your skull in with a rock. It would have been kinder.

„You‘re the first person to ever say those words to me“, you say, slowly, carefully, with as little emotion as you can manage. „Once, they would have meant the world to me.“

He gives you a shaky smile. „I should have said it sooner. But I - I couldn‘t. Not for a long time. You‘re only the second person I‘ve ever said it to.“

Of course. Colleen.

Here you are again - the second choice. As always.

„I wish I didn‘t love you“, you whisper, as close as you dare get to saying it back.

(You don‘t ask him if he means it the way you mean it. You‘re not a masochist.)

„I understand.“ Still smiling, Danny wipes the tears from the corners of his eyes. „Now what do we do? How do we move forward?“

„We don‘t“, you tell him honestly. „Maybe you can, but how can I move forward when I‘m stuck in this place?“

He falls silent for a moment, hands clenching into fists before unclenching again. „What if it didn‘t have to be that way?“

***

You curl up around the black, black nothingness in your chest. There‘s something growing in there, a single, pesky weed, pale green and fragile. You‘ve never seen it before. It‘s not something that can thrive in K‘un-Lun‘s harsh mountains. You think it is called hope.

That night, you don‘t dream of wings. You dream of deep brown eyes, and smooth scales beneath your fingertips. The Serpent on your back writhes and sheds his skin, and wraps himself around your heart protectively.

The future stretches before you like the body of Shou-Lao, infinite and unknowable.