Chapter Text
April showers smell of the Earth’s richest perfumes and the blanket of rain that trinkles above it all, white lines splashing against stoney pavements, beautiful and wonderful and wild like the afternoons of April, the breeze of wind carrying the glorious lilacs throughout the nation, singing songs and causing synesthesia in those who are lucky enough to witness it, with the smell of comfort vanilla and soft petals of purple and red. Red. Red. Reddest of hues that dance among the butterflies and grass, swaying in the breeze. He knows these flowers—the flowers of memories and tranquility. Flowers of which he keeps pressed neatly between tidy notes of paper, their names and diction written around the plastic that coats the dried up petals. Their smell is gone and they’ve stopped dancing but he can remember how alive they looked; the lilac bares a bud of four petals connected at the center, their purples hues vary from violet to the shiniest shade, almost pure white, deceptively frail and supposedly harmless; their scent filled the air as demons crawled out of the sun, ran straight towards their caves and mountains and trampled on the delicate gifts of the Earth—he remembers this.
And April was the month of new beginnings—a sweet promise that things would be better and everyone could start anew; the empty promise of a king to his people, of a tyrant digging his staff into the heart of a defenseless fool and of a son who wanted nothing more but the few words (devices of which mean nothing anymore, now noise to a hollow mind clouded with the mocking embrace of a fool); the sound of a knock on wood and the drums of a god furious by all the hypocrisy and deceit he’s faced all these years seem so distant now, but they always brought the memory of red petals—redder than the eyes that gazed down on him on a full moon, on the day of departure, on the evening of April—it was red and red and red. Red was blood that he’s seen spilled against his hands and others—the stains of which he has not gotten out of white petals, but he lets them stay. He lets them stay.
What comes with each petal is a distant memory—images of fleeting moments, slow chanting voices that whisper in his ear, calling him a series of names but they are all meaningless, useless and worthless and he always catches a glimpse of red before it all fades away.
April showers bring the smell of burning copper feasted upon when the crushing weight of the world cracks and crumbles tired old bones, a taste that plagues on a numb tongue, smoke that sinks under tired eyelids and brings tears to red eyes. Always red.
He can’t bring himself to hate it.
He caresses the petals of pink and white and red, all colors that are associated with his life, all the colors of everything he’s gone through. The corruption of colors spreading on each blossom and petal and bringing out the worst of the memories lodged deep in his head. Such delicate creatures, little beings that find comfort in the soil during a hurricane and stand up proudly during forest fires, untouchable by the natural forces set out to destroy those deemed unworthy in the gods’ eyes.
Méihuā; when the plum tree blossoms, the gods and mortals alike welcome the start of spring, staring with wide eyes as the petals spread their arms, a beautiful array of white with the darkest bud of pink underneath it, stems of yellow that resemble a bird’s tail, beautiful and wonderful for the world to enjoy. The flower was dubbed one of the Three Friends of Winter, for it blossomed during the coldest of seasons but brought forth the comforting thought of spring soon arriving, red lips spreading into a gentle smile that promised a cursed demon that his punishment would soon be over. The orchid and chrysanthemum could never accomplish the same exact thoughts and emotions that the plum bosom could do; a knife to the heart that twists and twists and bleeds onto white petals, tainting them red before being handed to a young boy. Méihuā. The plum blossom of spring, a symbol of perseverance and hope; a gift to someone special at the cost of memories and peace of mind.
Red eyes stare at the decaying blossom, the vase resting inches away from a weeping face and calloused hands take the warmest blanket of spring, sewed messily, the patterning so awful and uncoordinated—these hands place the blanket on the weeping boy’s shoulders and embrace him warmly.
He does not hate the red.
He does not hate the fire.
He does not care for the forgotten memories.
Li Nezha, he whispers to the boy, Spring has arrived.
I had a thought, dear
However scary
About that night
The bugs and the dirt
“Were you watching?”
Thorns were given to roses for a reason—to protect the petals and bud from anything that could tear it away with one swipe, a means to protect and save but they weren’t subtle, either. The flower will bloom and preen and dance with the swaying breeze, let its perfume smell waft through the forest and bring forth white, translucent butterflies, the touch of dainty fingers tracing the red petals in appreciation, and the thorns were never hidden. They would not reach out to stab and the unpurest of reds spill on their beloved bush; the thorns would watch carefully as tender hands caressed the baby rose and retract themselves, a murmur of appreciation for the color and scent but never once do they try to harm it.
A rose is but a victim, the most common of flowers for love and devotion, the charred coal coat that covers them is a gift for death but the cleanest of whites are innocence in a beautiful form.
He wishes for strength to comment on them and their most wonderful design, but his own voice is trapped somewhere beneath the searing blood that rises thickly, a puddle of crimson that clogs his words and drowns out his voice as he turns his head and lurches forward, wretched sounds of coughs and wheezing pouring out of his mouth, his lips stained red in the aftermath. Sun Wukong’s vision blurs and nearly fades to black. He coughs again and something cold presses against his throat, lifting his chin up and turning his head back to where it was, a crouched figure covering the sunlight.
He smiles, “Were you... watching?”
Wukong sees them, a wave of white fur upon shades of light brown and grey. The cold metal against his throat subsides, the staff brushes away strands of fur and something small escapes the King’s eyes, liquid and warm.
“I was,” Beng says mildly, “little sunflower, you are so stupid.” The gibbon leans down and calloused hands take Wukong’s face into his. It smelled of something sweet yet when he opens his mouth, all he has is a bitter taste on his tongue, a whimper that causes Beng’s hands to squeeze his face tighter before loosening. A sigh leaves the older monkey’s lips and he brushes his thumb alongside Wukong’s cheek, a trail of something small and wet spreading along the skin.
“Were you proud?” Wukong asks, lifting a hand and dropping it unceremoniously on top of Beng’s, dragging his arm down and forcing his hands away from his face. First too warm and now too cold, an indecisive weed not knowing what they want; Sun Wukong’s body is broken and twisted, but his mind refuses to let him sleep through the null pain and accept the help of his general. Of his friend. Ever beloved blooming bluebells and bittersweets, the gratitude and support of something he knows he could never have. A friend. A family. A reason to fight other than victory and triumph and the sound of drums subsiding.
“I’m not—Ba will help you.” Beng’s eyes are focused on Wukong’s eyes. Something flashes through his expression and he squeezes them shut for a moment. He slides his hands under Wukong’s arms and pulls him up to his feet, a gruff sound of pain coming from the King, the smell of roses turning sour and decaying in seconds (when he glances down, looks at his broken pieces of armor, he sees an outline of his body on top of a thorned bush—); Beng nudges Wukong’s face with his nose, cold and startling, a gesture of comfortness that Wukong finds unsettling for some reason. “I suggest you pay a visit to Ma, let her know of your concerns. She deserves a proper goodbye,” Beng decides. “Heaven is getting impatient with your antics and who knows how long it’ll be before we have to be concerned about a war.”
“There won’t be a war,” Wukong responds, steadying himself as they walk through the forest. “I’ll talk to them. I bet, hah, it’s just a misunderstanding. God to God, we’ll talk it out. Leave it to your king, okay?”
As though Wukong hadn’t spoken, as if his words were nothing more than the whisper of the wind that tugged at tufts of white and grey fur, Beng’s face goes blank and his eyes are set to the horizon, towards their mountain and home. The chitter of smaller monkeys, the worried coos of babes clinging to their mothers and fathers, staring longingly at their king does not faze Beng. “Sun Wukong,” Beng says quietly, “We’ve lost sight of Liu Er. Heaven is furious with you for your methods of immortality. You’re bleeding out in my arms and I don’t even know if we can handle another fight right now.”
“Beng, I can’t die .”
“And yet you bleed.”
Wukong frowns, spine straightening as they reach the entrance of the waterfall. The water is covered with stone steps and water lilies. From his peripheral he can make out the bodies of monkeys resting in piles on top of one another, slumbering at ease, undisturbed by the hushed exchange of the two. Wukong scrubs the back of his hand across his mouth, wiping the blood from his chin and turns his head to Beng, glare deepening.
“I can’t die,” he repeats, “And I told you I’d take care of this on my own, Beng. I can handle this.”
Beng’s expression is a blurry image; Wukong’s eyes turn unfocused and he lulls his head to the side, ears flicking at the sound of rushing water, the smell of recycled rain filling his senses and making the lead against his tongue grow heavier. Beng lowers him to his knees and Wukong retches before opening his mouth and vomiting out a spill of red. Red that could have been petals of roses but, no, it’s the darkest shade of crimson that stains the water and turns it an ugly color. None of his subjects wake up, none of them hear his suppressed scream and it’s only until Beng touches his face that Wukong realizes it’s over.
“I’m more worried about your pain, Wukong,” Beng mutters, his body tensing as the grass rustles and a panicked gasp fills the monkeys’ ears; Wukong has no time to speak at the words uttered to him, for a pair of hands take hold of him, a voice of worry and concern filled the air and Wukong finds himself staring up at a tearful expression; they take Sun Wukong into their arms and weep softly into his fur, embracing him with the words of kindness—kindness. Kind. A friend. There’s the faintest smell of jonquil flowers, blossoms of sympathy that shiver above him. Oh, it’s Ba, Wukong thinks sullenly to himself. They’d come with spare clothes and towels but never a hint of white fur. Of course.
We’ve lost sight of Liu Er.
They lost sight of him.
Of course.
Geraniums; of folly and stupidity, the message is clear when the flower rests on top of the bandages and cloth in front of him. It’s often said that one shouldn’t trust or care so openly, so honestly, and Wukong had only smiled and laughed at the warning; his smile is still present, small and timid and the murmurs of I’m sorry leave his lips as Ba wipes a cloth against his forehead, trying delicately not to hurt him while they bandage him up; they were always the nicest of his generals, the kind heart that Beng kept so close to themselves and Wukong could only watch in wonder as the two grew closer and closer, a bouquet of arums that the King admired. A gentle hand grabs his cheek and wipes tears off of his face. When had he started crying? He’s unsure. Wukong looks up at Ba and finds nothing but sympathy; the smell of geraniums intensifies and he forces a smile on his face.
“Beng said I should go visit Ma,” Wukong breathes, feeling Ba’s hands peel the stained fabric off of him. The open air stings the wound and he hisses, biting his tongue as Ba whispers an apology, grabbing bandages to wrap them around his waist. “Do you think I should listen to him?”
“He needs to go,” Beng says, sparing a glance at the king. “He needs to, Ba. We both know how this will end.”
“I haven’t talked to her in years. What do they care if I live or die at the end of this?”
“You said you couldn’t die—”
“Beng, you know what I meant.”
“You’re a reckless fool! Just the same as the stupid child who left us for seven years—Do you even have a plan if they don’t accept you?”
“I am not a monster and they know it. I’m not. I am going to talk to them so fuck off and let me—”
“I’m trying to focus,” Ba spits, their hands trembling with unease. Wukong and Beng quiet down. The sound of the wind fills the silence; Ba is shaking, their demeanor falling as jonquil flowers fall from the trees, laying on dying grass fields, a river of white buds that lead up to the three. Beng takes one of their hands and holds it gently, removing it from Wukong’s wound and he murmurs an apology against the skin, closing his eyes for a mere moment. Beng takes hold of the bandages and continues to apply them for Ba, the gibbon’s grey eyes staring at the bleeding wound with tears threatening to fall from the sight. Ba shakes their head and lets Beng do the rest; the two work perfectly and whisper to each other in silent conversation.
Wukong pretends to be ignorant, for their sake. He takes his time opening his eyes; lets them have their privacy. He welcomes the drums yet again, for their sake. Always for their sake. He does not know why he hears a low flute in the midst of it, gentle yet high pitched, annoying, but he does not care much for the meaning behind it. Geraniums, they cloud his mind. Geraniums are cruel and awful and he does not know why he sees them when he thinks of him; of white fur and gold and purple and red. Why was it always red?
Exhaustion blooms at the base of Wukong’s skull when he opens his eyes, watching as Ba and Beng tense in response. They stare at him; one serious, one worried. “I will handle this on my own,” Wukong tells them softly, an underlying threat in his voice. Ba’s shoulders shake but they say nothing, eyes focused. “I’ll pay a visit to one of my old friends, let him know of the situation. I want you two to find that coward and bring him back to me. I don’t want to lose him in the middle of this.”
“And if you don’t return, Wukong?” Ba whispers, their voice hanging by a thread. A petal threatening to fall from its stem.
“Then I want you to leave Flower Fruit Mountain.”
Beng’s eyes widen at the words, and for the longest second, he and Wukong stare at each other. The trees rustle feverishly when the King moves his generals’ hands away from him, staggering to his feet with masked uneasiness. He hears Beng voice beneath him, “You can’t do this.” He almost sounds broken.
Wukong exhales. “Watch me.”
In a single leap, the Monkey King summons a gust of wind, a hurricane of white petals surrounding the waterfall’s base, wakening the subjects of his kingdom, and a golden flash of light appears when he begins to fall; his cloud wastes no time and it takes him towards the home of his brother, the screams of panicked voices, shattered cries of come back and wait, just wait! growing quieter and quieter.
He can still smell the roses by the time he reaches the mountain.
I never had a mother or a father to care for me. I had two generals, Ba and Beng; Ba was gentle and kind but their words were strong and fierce, one of the best people I’ve ever known; and Beng was my right hand, my most loyal advisor, he’d be the reason why I was unscathed for so long. Adjusting to life without them was difficult, far too difficult. I plant jonquils and geraniums in their names. For their love and for their warnings and for their lives. Always in their names, do you understand?
Father is a cruel man.
When he was born, he opened his eyes and heard the whispers of the village, gathered around him and stared down at his tiny body; they whispered evil of him: This… thing, is it even worth praying for? Would the Gods be alright with him being here? He was born in such a cruel way, great General, should he even be allowed to stay—Ah, but I suppose he is just a babe, now. The sound of thunder, a crack of lighting tearing apart the sky above him while cold hands brushed away newborn tears from his cheeks. I suppose the Emperor shall make use of him some day. And if he is not of use to you then I recommend leaving it for the wolves to feast on; let him be useful for another pitiful creature, yes?
That voice had been cruel and sultry, meant to get under your skin and bring out the worst in you; but he’s always associated it with irises. A bouquet of them grew outside the protective spell surrounding his home—his father’s home. His mother tried to take care of them for his own entertainment, bringing them in when she entered his room and handing it to him without addressing the massacre of sheets and pillows in his room. She kept them hidden from his father, for his steps were that of a soldier’s, too heavy and thunderous and capable of killing the tiny things.
“Look, little one,” his mother told him upon gazing at the array of irises, her red lips drawn into a pretty thin line, smiling in a kind melancholic demeanor. She said, “They are persistent, these flowers I grow. They are strong and beautiful, much like you. They’ll grow to be one of the most powerful blooms in the valley. Do you know why?” He said nothing, staring at the wilting flowers, wondering if she’d been trying to cheer him up, back then—but she’s sometimes right, when it comes to life and her teachings and the way she looks at him pitifully as though he’s done some great sin. Always right, never wrong, you can never do no wrong, he’d scream in his mind, glaring at her and ripping the petals off the green stems of the little plant.
And Father is cruel. He is no flower and never tried to be one, never at all. He swore to all the gods that his child would be a great descendant of him, that he would once face the greatest deity in all the lands and defeat him swiftly. Father worked tirelessly to make that lie a truth; raising his voice and saying words too complicated for a child to understand, frustration rising when said child could only do so much before growing exhausted. Tired and weak, he would drop to his knees and cough, wiping sweat from his brow but Father would not rest.
Because Father is a cruel man. And he forced his child to train until the sun casted shadows on all the trees inside his home.
But this has been the normal, a bouquet of hyacinths; where Father would come late at evenings after a great battle smelling of strong herbs and the thickest scent of lead and copper, the kind that made Mother usher Nezha away to stay inside his room, and Mother would comment on the smell and how it was wretched and vile as she tended to him; how Father smells so sickly and awful and he would know that she was not in the right heart at the moment, try to comfort her and care for her in a way Nezha could only understand as sympathy. Father never lost his temper with her, never with Mother or the other civilians that came to complain about the smallest of problems their homes were facing. Yet, he’s always seen how powerful his Father’s temper could be. It was wicked and it shook their home feverishly, a temblor that seemingly never stopped, no matter how hard he’d try to breathe calmly; his eyes would be wide open—dark red eyes staring at the wall adjacent to his bed, and he’d tell himself Father was asleep and Mother was asleep and that he could sleep without bitterness but that was never the case. Not once did it ever occur to him to close his eyes and dream of dandelions—for the weeds were stronger and beautiful even if they were dangerous for the hyacinths, even if it killed them slowly.
Hyacinths; there is a flower field somewhere down the mountain side, near the forest, and it blooms every couple months; the colors are of blue and purple, a bundle of petals tied to a long stem, dancing with the breeze’s gentle touch, a ballroom dance of sorts between mother and child that edged on for hours and hours until sundown, and then the flowers would sleep in a tender embrace. When Nezha first came about the field, he’d been smaller and still clung to his mother’s arm as they walked through the field, not stopping to admire the playful ritual of wind and flower in front of them. He’d coo at them and Mother would slow her step, grazing elegantly through the grass, never harming the flowers along the way. She leaned down, one day, and let him touch the petals and whispered, “Just like you and me, child. We’ll dance like this, too, one day.” And he’d believed her. He’d believed her every word and he smiled at her, all excited and impatient for the day to arrive.
Now it’s the twelfth hour of the day, when the sun is high on its peak along the distant mountains, and Nezha sits at the entrance of his father’s home. He’s grown a bit now; his eyes are a dark shade of red, almost maroon, with the marking of his father’s blessing clear on his forehead, his hair is longer and he hesitates to tie it more than the two red ribbons placed neatly atop his head, often fiddling with the ends of the red when no one’s looking to try (yet fail) and calm the anger that often rises from inside him; a boiling point that once led to his room being destroyed beyond repair, scriptures and novels that Mother had gifted him torn to shreds and set apart for kindling of a fire later that night—she’d tried to act amused, at the time, but now she simply reminds him with a calm voice to never let it happen again; a rose’s thorns digging into a daisy’s stem.
Mother’s voice carries in the distance, cries for his given name, and settles uncomfortably at the pit of Nezha’s stomach, for she sounds so sweet and gentle and loving, but it’s the same voice that asked of him to try and be understanding to the people that cast him out as a threat and a menace to others no matter what he does or say. She made a face of sorts at his tone and voice and part of him believed— hoped that she would have said something to defend him afterwards, but she simply asked if he’d rather go outside for a while, to clear his head, glancing back at Father and waiting on his word. He’d raised his chin. Go. Begone. Leave. Yes, he supposes not all flowers were kind and loving as he thought they’d be, and he supposes petals needed the support of stems to survive, and without them they would crumble and fall off the flower entirely, leaving behind a barren thing. But Mother is strong on her own, she does not need to use Father to support her, so he supposes that it’s simply another thing, another reason he can’t quite understand nor does he ever plan on doing.
He watches the clouds, but he finds the animals more exciting, even if they’re only birds of black feathers and white specks of ash on their bellies. Nezha tries to pretend he’s one of them, flying around and being free, a strong connection to the wind and her glorious breeze, the comfort of cool air against his skin and the fact of knowing she would never let him fall, even if he closed his wings entirely.
But the moment fades; the sound of laughter grows stronger from the far off distance and Nezha’s dreams are disturbed by the noise, gone and no matter how hard he closes his eyes and tries to envision long red feathers with golden marks it never appears again, never the same and completely new and foreign.
He hisses something wicked under his breath then stands up, dusting his knees and shoving his hands into the pockets of his pants, sparing a glance towards the locked door of his home—his parents’ home—and he takes the first step down the mountain trail. Fourteen steps in, he spreads his arms and balances himself on the jagged edges of the path, hopping over the larger pieces of rock, catching himself from falling after one great leap. He feels better, pretending to be something else, and that Mother and Father are happy for him.
Just a little further, he thinks, taking a step and then another. He uncovers secrets as he jumps over the rocks, finding a nest of larks and sparrows, a bundle of water lilies resting on a lake so far away, only visible from a distance; her water is blue and clean and the pads are full of blossoming white petals, stretched upwards to greet the sun and Nezha waves at them excitedly; “Hello!” he says and takes the next step downward, already straying away from Father’s preferred path. But Father was busy with Mother so he smiles, feeling mischievous, and looks around as he stands on top of the biggest rock on the path, wishing for a better view of her clear waters and pretty white petals.
His friends, the lilacs, would tell him not to do it. His friends try to warn him and say, Nezha, be wise about this —his friends cry that it is a bad idea, watching with withering petals of blue and purple as he spots a lengthy gap resting between one side of the mountain and then another. He’s not sure what to call it, a large hole in the middle of the road that lets a river pass through it—he’s not sure what it is. But he’s excited and he wonders if he can make the jump; the river’s not too wide but it flows rapidly, taking pieces and pieces of rock along with it and he finds it a bit frightening, which he hides behind a determined expression. Nezha gets down from the rock and walks away from it, his steps wobbly and shaky as he keeps his gaze on the river.
Just one leap, he promises, just one jump and you’ll get a better view of the lily pads.
Nezha readies himself for the jump, chest tight and eyes focused, and he starts a steady walk before speeding up more and more and more until he’s reaching the edge of the rock and—
“What are you doing?”
Nezha stumbles as he stops.
He breathes unevenly and looks up, startled.
Light, golden hair and even brighter eyes greet him abruptly. It’s a human; he bears choppy short hair, with tufts that hang on either side of their face, the expression of curiosity and wonder resting delicately on his features, a sedge hat hanging from a string around his chest and garments of golds, reds and royal blues adorned him. A human around Father’s age. A human who he did not recognize from his few times escaping towards the village at the foot of the mountain. A human who smiles at him as though he were a normal child. He stands in front of him, arms crossed but relaxed and casual (not condescending or angry or bitter nor does he look disappointed or angry with Nezha, not like Father’s eyes when he admitted to causing mischief to the village kids—); something twinkles bright in their gaze when they stop forward towards Nezha, humming quietly as he takes in his surroundings, his eyes settling on the rising river.
“Who are you?” Nezha asks.
“Were you going to jump that?” The human beams, taking a step towards the river without a trace of fear. “I wasn’t sure you would, it seemed so big from up there… and you’re a small one, aren’t you? Still too young to be away from your parents…” He looks down at the water, head bowed, and Nezha can see the patches of blood staining the back of his neck, almost hidden by the golden silk and red scarf worn around his shoulders. It’s strange and suspicion rises in the youth, yet he makes a noise of confirmation and blinks in childish wonder when the man laughs wholeheartedly. Not mocking. No, not at all. He doesn’t seem to think of him as a fool, either. “Are you still going to try?”
Nezha takes a breath. His brows furrow down into a frown. “No, not anymore. I don’t need to show you anything.”
“Oh.” His voice remains gleeful. And instead of looking away from him the entire time, the man looks back at Nezha, their grin widening as they tilt their head, “What were you trying to do anyways? There’s not much else on the other side, just more rocks and a worse path.”
Nezha bristles. Because he knows that’s not true; he has wandered enough times on his own to know that there is beauty behind the rough exterior, and his mother has taught him well in knowing that truth. Something bitter and angry settles at the pit of his belly and he tries to tell himself, no, this isn’t right. Mother taught you better than this, damn it! You are not a monster. You are not to lose your temper. You are to be perfect and calm and look at him in the eyes and speak in a nice voice. But his thoughts, for however loud they were, provided little comfort. So when he speaks, his voice sounds mumbly and quiet, laced with an angry tone, “I was trying to get a better look of the lake.”
“The lake?”
Nezha looks up at the sky, when the clouds start passing over them in slow dragging motions, their white shapes calming in their own little way, but the lack of birds or animals in sight make it difficult to find that comfort to speak up and stand his ground against this trespasser. He makes a small noise— Maybe he’ll go away if I tell him, he thinks gruffly and looks at the demon, blinking rapidly when he finds them waiting patiently. Nezha lifts a finger and points to the rocks, keeping his eyes focused in that very direction when he feels the human shift to follow where it points; it’s weird to be acknowledged and listened to like this without any means of repercussions for being impolite or rude; his heart rate races a bit as he speaks up, trying to keep his voice even, “There’s water lilies on the lake. I wanted to look at them.”
But the human—he does something unprecedented.
It builds such a strong memory and a strong feeling inside Nezha.
Golden eyes crinkle at the edges from a bright smile and a soft voice says, “Let’s go see them, then!”
And Nezha can only stare, wide-eyed and breathless as this stranger takes his hand and tugs— tugs , not yanks—him along and encourages him to run alongside them. They run, fast, and jump when they reach the edge of the rocks. Nezha feels himself about to fall but the demon pulls him up carefully and holds him against their chest, landing swiftly on the other side of the raging river, whistling with glee when they reach it safely. They put Nezha down and nudge him gently, long silky sleeves swirling happily as they walk to the edge.
And Nezha remembers how beautiful the lake was from this view. It was blue and clear and gorgeous, untouched by man or demon, and he remembers feeling an intense warmth around his eyes when he saw the lily pads. They were beautiful and young, with white petals and a yellow center, and he remembers something warm running down his cheek.
And from that memory, Nezha can feel the touch of someone’s hand on his head, and a quiet voice saying, “Oh… buddy, why are you crying?”
He remembers sobbing right after, unable to properly speak.
I don’t know, he sobs internally, I don’t know.
When I first met him, I believed him to be a fool. He talked too much and laughed too loudly; he was too unlike Father and too annoying to truly be a General. ‘I come from a military background, yes, but I wish I hadn’t’, he said to me and I didn’t comprehend how important it had been at that moment. I simply wanted to go home and forget about the whole ordeal.
I had gotten my view of the lilies and felt satisfied with myself, albeit frightened of how Mother would react to me conversing with a stranger, how Father would look at me this time (with disdain? Bitterness? Would he finally acknowledge me? After such an act of misbehavior?); but regardless I wanted to go home and rest.
So this human—he takes me by the hand and gently guides me back up the mountain. He lets me climb on top of the jagged rocks and keeps his hands out for the small chance that I may fall. I tell him not to underestimate me and he smiles, a kind gesture that Mother kept solely for me when we were alone, and he says, ‘No, I know you’re capable of doing it on your own. I just want to be there in case you need me.’
The smallest thing he could have done is tell some lie, admit that he was only doing it to keep himself looking as the ‘hero’—he once told me it was possible he would have done it if he’d been younger—but he never did treat me so poorly. He walks by my side, never in front or behind me, and keeps his distance of five feet. He tells me small stories, of another general with white fur and a pair of ears so sensitive they could hear the souls of the underworld whispering about the living. He tells me of this Marshal, so strong and brave and how she taught him everything she could when he was younger. He tells me of his two generals, trusted allies, and he tells me of a time where he would see them as family.
I ask, ‘Are they your family?’
And this human—of golden locks and high status of what I assumed to be from a faraway kingdom, brought to the world by a miracle of the wind and energy consumed from within a rock, a being rejected by all that came across him, a soul titled as a bad omen by the blinded justice that lifted her blindfold upon judgment day—this person smiles at me and helps me down from the highest rock, looking at me as though I were something wonderful and pure and good, uncaring of my nature and background; he looks at me with a kindness I’ve learned to associate with the warm touch of spring and the cool breeze of autumn, always just right and soothing and a comfort, regardless of when it’s given.
He is not perfect.
He was never meant to be.
I thought of him as a golden soul, wandering without a purpose, content with himself even as the Jade Sword swung towards his neck, piercing the skin and tearing it from the body. He seemed happy with himself, not worried about perfection in his image and I believed it to be weird, how quickly he changed throughout the years.
I wonder if it has something to do with his… No.
It is not my place.
And even if I wanted to spill these secrets, my mind refuses to remember.
But, in spite of this, he places his hands behind his back and walks me to the entrance of my home, eyes shining with mirth as he speaks: No, they aren’t. And they will never be my family. I was not crafted for the purpose of being happy with the thought of a family; I was never meant to have a family in the first place. I was born from stone and wind, they gave life to me and said, Go forth and present yourself to the gods, find the true calling of your nature. I ran for miles and miles, watched the flowers change from spider lilies to those of tiger breed; the smell of sweet perfume soon turned sour as I walked and walked through the forest and came upon a mountain filled with fruit. There, I found my generals. My sweet generals who had a life before me and they did not need me. They do not need me. I am irrelevant to them and my title of Golden Prodigy means more to them than ‘brother’ does. They love each other, one of the purest kinds of love I’ve seen, and I do not want to ruin that with my uncouth words, my yellow eyes of wolf, my sharp teeth of demon, my physique of a monster. No, they are not my family. They never will be.
And then, when he looks up at the door and the words written on them in golden letters, he tells me, ‘Stay here, I’ll be back.’
I watch him go through the door with a noble grace, that of a soldier readying himself for a battle. I stare at the grass and wonder if it will die shortly, as the wind seems to be losing its warmth by the passing days. There, I crouch down and pluck the greenery with my fingers, mumbling to myself that Father will greet him well and Mother will support whatever he says. He will be back and he will be fine.
Childish wonder and innocence.
I don’t remember it well.
But the door was not interested in keeping their voices muffled; I hear the sound of something breaking, the rising anger in Father’s tone, the sound of a blade of sorts unsheathing—no, not a blade, something deadlier—and a fatal scream of something in pure rage, unfiltered and barely controlled in tone. My hands shake and I tell myself: it’s not my fault.
The wind changes its course as the fight drags on and my face gets warmer. A drop of rain tickles my nose but the sky is clear, silent and steady. Another raindrop and I wipe feverishly at my face.
It was not my fault.
No, it wasn’t my fault.
The door slams open and I straighten my spine, eyes casted towards the entrance. Out comes the General, a vase of sorts thrown his way and shattering when it hits him in the back of the head. He stands tall, eyes clouded by a shadow as he dips his head in a low bow, hands opening and closing as the smell of burning carnations follows his every step. He walks towards me, eyes glaring and dangerous—and then he softens. He softens and kneels down to my eye-level, tilting his head as he studies my features, a sort of fondness shining in his gaze. I flinch; he presses his thumb at the edge of my eye and wipes gently, taking away warm tears. I hadn’t noticed that I started crying again.
So he cleans me, tears a piece of cloth from his sleeve and wipes my cheeks. I stare at him, mouth clamped shut, and I start shaking my head when he starts to speak: You are so strong. Did you know that? You are so strong Li Nezha and I am sorry for not seeing it before. How many nights have you spent under a roof like this? Oh, child, I’m sorry for not seeing it earlier.
I didn’t understand these words.
I didn’t like how it made me feel.
Human? Alive? Mortal?
Loved?
I didn’t know it, at the time, but it’d be the worst mistake of my life, my next words.
I tell him, ‘Are you leaving?’ I feel tiny and small, no longer the boy deemed as dangerous by the farmers and market sellers from the villages.
And he says, ‘Yes’, and swiftly, he dives a hand underneath the sleeve of his hanfu and pulls out a small white petal. And with this petal, he blows on it gently, and with wide eyes I watch as the petal forms into a flower.
A camellia of pure white.
I feel myself start to tear up again as he hands it to me.
He tells me: When you hear the bell ring from the mountains—when you hear it ring and declare that the war’s been won, pull a petal from the flower and I will find you. I will find you and take you with me—do you understand? Wherever you are, I will find you. Pull the petal and give it to the wind and I will find you. Hide it from your father, hide it from your mother. This is for you to use to escape—do you understand me?
I nod, my head spinning with fear and confusion, my mouth dry from lack of words.
He puts his hands on my shoulders and says, ‘I am your friend, small one, and I will do everything in my power to protect you after the war is over.’
And he leaves.
And I wait.
And wait.
And wait.
Not once does the bell ring. Not once do I hear the chime of victory.
I stand at the edge of the mountain and watch lily pads turn to rot.
And the bell doesn’t ring.
And my white camellia remains untouched.
White camellias ; purity and good fortune, the flower of many meanings with colors being diverse of reds and pinks and whites, but I know what it means in truth. I sit at the edge of the mountain and wait for the sound of a single bell, waiting for the first chime, but the wind is still and the forest is quiet; the flower of love between parent and child, a flower of patience and understanding. I press the blossom against my forehead and whisper, ‘Where are you? Where are you? Where are you?’
But the bell doesn’t ring.
And Heaven is restless.
They call for me, years later, and the flower’s dead in my hands.
Why were you digging?
What did you bury
Before those hands pulled me
From the earth?
“Never thought I’d run into you here, my King.” The smell of nettle is strong and fermented, it wafts through the air like a vicious poison, uncaring of who stands in its way and spreads through the forest like a snake; it slithers through Wukong’s fingers and he remembers its meaning instantly. Cruelty. Wukong blinks at the demon that stands next to him, staff drawn at the ready as the drums of war wage on, singing along a ravenous lullaby for the King of Death, taking with them the souls of the innocent and helpless. He scans the demon’s lithe frame—he wears his armor, of silver and gold with black and dulled yellow, a red scarf hanging from his shoulders. His armor is light. And there, just faintly, the King can make out the outline of the moon on his chest, a symbol of his alliance, broken away from the sun.
“I’m not staying long,” Wukong says, golden eyes drifting towards the horizon. “I have an audience with Heaven. Apparently the Jade Emperor has grown tired of my mischief. I’ll try to come back half-dead if only so you can pose yourself as the superior warrior.”
“Wherever did you learn such a way of speaking, my King? Something from your earliest memories, I presume?”
“I would advise you not to bring up the past I can no longer remember. They were taken for a reason, Méihuā.”
The macaque laughs, turning his body half-way to face him. Wukong does not move.
“Regardless, I’ve no doubt that you will come out victorious. After all, death is your closest ally, second only to the wind—how is the wind doing today? It smells of rain, something wicked. Perhaps the odds will be in your favor if the army is struck with lightning. And, my King, use my name if you are to mock me,” the shadow demon lifts his hand and Wukong’s ear flicks at the rustle of armor, “we’re closer than that, aren’t we?”
“We aren’t,” Wukong says, voice steady and monotone. His chest rises and falls in repeated patterns, he keeps his eyes fixed on the horizon, and maintains the beat of the drums in his ears. Then, “I have one final task for you, Liu Er.”
Liu Er’s lips part in silent surprise before the light in his eyes turns into delight, an expression foreign to Sun Wukong’s eyes. “You used my name! I shall take your request, then, my Great King. Oh, I can only imagine the battle that’s waiting. Shall I be your right hand?”
Wukong breathes. “I want you to leave Flower Fruit Mountain.”
There’s a suffocating stillness that follows.
If he strains hard enough—He can hear the sound of something breaking, a fragile thing that’s held tightly between two limber hands, confident and clever and ever trusting that the wind will catch the item if it were to ever fall from the demon’s hands, a smile full of mirth and wonder as the demon dances with the swaying acacias. Wukong’s hands grip his arms loosely, and he tries to appear comfortable; the sound of glass breaking next to him, the acacia petals falling from their stems and leaving behind a decaying carnation of gold, beautiful and heavenly as it blooms within an instant, emotions laced with words of spite and pettiness. Sun Wukong finds the details of his own armor suddenly interesting. Far more so than Liu Er’s sharp gaze.
Wukong doesn’t look up towards the shadow demon; doesn’t have to. He knows what expression would greet him if he did.
“No,” is the only word that leaves his moonlight’s lips. It’s too much and too little at the same time.
“Then you are no longer my general.”
Before he jumped through the water and condemned himself to be the crown sacrifice, the Monkey King sworn to become the greatest disciple of Master Puti, the king of the macaques and gibbons and civilians that dwelled in his kingdom, he was told of another life. Or the promise of one, so to speak. Back during the years of living with Puti, he was asked if he wished to know the ways of immortality and, eagerly, the King had agreed. It put him in a position of knowing that, if he chose to become what he wished, he would be hunted down, no matter how pure and innocent he pretend to act, the Jade Emperor would not seize his attacks nor will he retrieve his soldiers and allies as they circled him like vultures—it was a given chance that Wukong’s life would become a path of chaotic energy, a hurricane of jacarandas with the loss of their joy and virtue. But, had he chosen not to crave the immortal life, he would have become someone new. What type of demon would he be then? He does not know.
But he thinks of it often. He thinks of that hurricane of purple and violets and lilac that followed him no matter how fast he ran or how far his cloud would take him—he thinks of how it comes to him now in form of a staff aimed at his head, parries with a black-colored rod, a pillar shrunk down to fit in his hand. Liu Er is made out of glass and Wukong watches it shatter into pieces, forming into a mosaic of purple, black and gold, the expression of a broken man incapable of change and emotions seeping through the cracks in the form of liquid gold. Wukong twists his hand and sends the demon flying until his back crashes into a tree, the King’s staff tucked carefully under his arm as his former general spits blood from his mouth like venom.
“Fuck you,” Liu Er mutters bitterly.
The King stares down at him blankly. “Leave before you force my hand.”
“I’ve been with you for years! I’ve been with you longer than those two pathetic idiots have!” Lies are spilled to a canvas, painting a scene of blood on a field of acacias. “You’re nothing without me! You—I saved you! Wukong—Sun Wukong, I have been with you for a hundred years, I was there when you were crowned king! I waited for seven years for you to return from achieving your immortality! I have never left your side!” Lies. Deceit. Wukong sees his arms tremble from his peripheral. The Jade Emperor must be getting impatient. “I am your greatest general!”
“Then why were you so easy to break?” Wukong says finally, tilting his head up to the sky.
It’s clear.
The clouds are moving out of his way, creating a cyclone. A path straight to Heaven’s court.
“Tell me, Liu Er,” Wukong lets go of his staff and it shrinks down to the size of a hairpin, golden eyes meeting the purple of irises, poisonous yet beautiful, an expression of malice and heartbreak greeting him in earnest, “Was it not you who swore you’d listen to my every word? Did you not wish to hang by my side for the next millennia? Did you not swear your loyalty to me?”
Liu Er stares at him.
“Answer me.”
“I did.”
“I revoke it then. You are no longer my general.”
“I can’t let you do that, Sun Wukong.”
The wind howls quietly, urging him to leave. “You’ll die.” Wukong’s voice loses its glamour; the sweet peach blossom sprouts a flower layered of tender skin, sweet flesh but the animal’s teeth sink into the pit and spill its poison, an acid that consumes the taste of spring and replace it with pollution; Sun Wukong is a demon well aware of this poison. “You are one of my best friends, my most trusted allies. But you will die. You can die, Liu Er, regardless of whether or not your name is in that damned book—have you gained immortality in the same ways I have? Do you know of the secrets that my master whispered to me when I was younger? Liu Er, do not look at me with those eyes. Do not let this fill you hate. I am not abandoning you. I wish for you to be safe. I want you to leave—survive without me in your life. I am not the best person to be around.”
When the King turns, he holds his head high and steps onto the golden outline of his somersault cloud, feeling the breeze of his beloved friend tug at his scarf and clothes, the call of the drums. History will depict it as a monstrous day, they will leave out the peaceful sound of the cicadas, the blue of the sky, the green of the grass; they will leave out the soft tremble of Liu Er’s voice, caught up in his throat, the way he screams and grabs at Wukong’s leg, sinking his nails in and allowing for his demon to reveal himself, turning his eyes into a silhouette of the moon, the mosaic illuminated by anger and hate and confusion and Liu Er says, in the most broken voice he can muster, “I love you. Don’t leave me.”
And Wukong will allow historians to leave these words out, leave out the stoic expression he bares and the way he lifts his head and lulls it to the side. The King says: “I do not know the meaning of the words.”
“Don’t leave me.”
“May your life be good.”
“I love you.”
Wukong watches Liu Er become a single blur on the ground, the wound of the drums becoming a loud symphony in his ears. The clouds soon cover his path, a ground of white tainted peach by the setting sun, the King’s eyes singular golden slits as he says, amused, “No, you don’t.”
When the Monkey King arrives at the court a hurricane of jacarandas greets him.
They burn slowly, quietly, and then fill the air with poison.
Erlang struck my shoulder blades.
We were equally matched and the Jade Emperor’s fear never subsided, it stretched on through our fight, sending the worst ripple through the oceans and muffled only by the sound of metal slamming against itself.
Mine was a weapon created from a pillar from a dragon’s palace. I took it and made it mine.
And with that weapon I created a name for myself; the mountains knew of me and the wind became my closest ally, the lavenders showed their distrust openly towards me in waves pushed by the breeze.
But the lily—white and yellow in color—would greet me with open arms. I would climb down from the tree tops and kiss the petals of these delicate buds and sunbathe with them when Ba and Beng were busy perfecting each other’s lives; I would watch them craft a bouquet filled with carnations and roses and promises I knew would be kept for all eternity, their smiles so warm yet suffocating but the lilies made it easier. They made it easier.
And then I met you.
I can’t remember your face.
When Erlang struck me, I was already trapped by Laozi’s ropes, tight against my wrists and legs and I could hear the giggles from that wretched God’s voice, boisterous and arrogant—when he struck me, it was between my shoulder blades. He said it was so I could no longer transform. I could not hear him over the noise that filled my ears.
I opened my eyes and looked at Nezha—the God was slack-jawed, eyes wide and his laughter died instantly.
He looked heartbroken.
I can’t imagine why.
Laozi was quiet. He turned away from me before I could ask what they’d do to me.
Erlang murmured words of sorts and his dog bit me on the leg.
I tilted my head all the way back; my eyes searched endlessly for fur of white, grey and yellow, my mind beckoning for my generals so I could soothe and calm them, tell them I would be alright, for I was incapable of dying. But the wind whispered to me, ‘Oh, Great Sage, they are long gone now.’
So I asked the wind, my eyes burning all of a sudden, ‘Who is screaming?’
And the wind said, ‘You are, Monkey King.’
I screamed.
And I only quieted when we got to the Heavenly court, my throat dry.
Their voices are a blur.
I remember trying to break free of the ropes but they would only burn against my skin and sink further and further in until they were tainted gold, my pain masked by my quips and laughter and mockery of their attempts at taking away my life. I laugh at the blades that threatened to pierce my skin as the blood trickles down my hands; I grinned as fire washed over me unable to singe my golden fur while my hands burned from the rope that rubbed against my skin; the Daoist God spoke calmly to the Jade Emperor as I mocked them for trying to use lightning against me, quieting down into a wide grin as Nezha stared at me with wide eyes, his own smile becoming strain as we both made a quiet pact to ignore the screams that longed to escape my burning lungs.
I remember speaking to the smaller god, for a brief moment. I told him, ‘You remind me of someone, I met him a while ago. A couple of years. He was young and rowdy. You remind me of him greatly.’
‘Please,’ Nezha whispered back to me, ‘Please don’t make this harder for me.’
And then, we were interrupted before I could ask him what he meant by that, before I could ask what those tears were for, before I could learn the truth about him and I.
‘You have made a mockery of this Celestial Court, brought nothing but chaos to our Emperor, and dubbed yourself an unofficial title.’
I kept my mouth shut.
I thought of Ba’s hands on my cheeks.
‘You gained immortality through methods we cannot forgive—you were a curse from the moment you opened your eyes.’
I wondered if they were okay. I wondered if they were with Beng.
‘You’ve poisoned this kingdom and its valleys with your ignorance and vile ways of life.’
I couldn’t remember Ma’s face anymore.
‘You immorally erased your name from a sacred book! You’ve given your supposed kingdom the longevity of life against their will. You’ve wronged your own people and forced them to live on with it.’
I wondered what they’d say if they saw me.
Beng would probably scold me for letting them loosen the ropes without much of a struggle instead of fighting my way out of them—no, no, he wouldn’t do that. No, Beng would ask if I was alright. He’d gotten soft from spending time with Ba and, in a way, I suppose their influence followed me, too.
Ba would cry. They always cried when they saw me hurt. Hurt; coated in dandelions and smelling of pollen as I covered my cuts and bruises from fighting with my Sworn Brothers, leading them into traps and securing my place as the strongest false god. A true god. They would wipe my face clean and ask about my day. They would cherish me. And I would push them away, scared to give these emotions a name. Scared of calling them a single word.
I would guide them back to each other—Ba and Beng would lose themselves in grey and black eyes, murmur words that chrysanthemums have only ever dreamed of making a reality and I myself would be forgotten in the background. I would stand by—do you know why?
Because Qítiān Dàshèng (The Great Sage Equal to Heaven) shows no emotion. He is a King and a terror and a menace, unable to sympathize with others, his apathy pure and strong. He looked up at the Jade Emperor and spat words out at him like an archer’s arrows, aiming for the heart and chest and head; the court would listen and watch in shock, Laozi’s eyes strained on him and ignoring the tender wounds around his wrists where the rope had been. And the Great Sage had let loose the stable horses and ate all the immortal peaches and drank the immortal wine and swallowed the pills of immortality—he did all of that. And I was him.
I am him.
I do not wish to be him.
I do not wish to be that demon anymore.
I do not wish to be the demon that drove away his people and genera—friends. My friends. My friends, I am sorry. My friends, can you hear me? I am calling out to you, right now. Ba; my dearest friend, I'm sorry for pushing you away. You were my greatest comfort during storms I could not chase away with a wave of my staff, during the nights were my eyes denied me sleep and I stared at an open sky surrounded by grief in the form of marigolds, and you sat by me and sang to me and helped me fall asleep at sunrise. Ba, my friend, forget me as soon as you can. Beng; my wisest advisor, my great friend, I am sorry I did not listen to you all those years ago. I am sorry I was not a better friend. You came to me gifting me with advice and confidence that I could become a good king—I ignored you and I am sorry. Beng, my brother, take care of yourself. Ma, if I could remember your true name and face I would mourn you for the loss of everything you’ve built alongside me.
Liu… li…
…
I cannot speak your name.
I cannot say your name.
The furnace is said to be capable of killing me.
They’re going to put me inside of it.
A furnace made of elements and the fire will eradicate the world of me within forty-nine days, they’re saying.
They’re going to kill me.
Laozi, let me say goodbye to my generals.
No…
No, my generals do not need that during their moments of peace from me.
They do not need that from me.
What could I say—I do not wish to appear selfish by saying I saved myself because I crave a chance at life, I wish to become a great king and a wonderful god and a better person but who else is there to give me a reason not to join the marigolds on that field by being turned to ash? Spread across the valleys and fields, carried by the wind and being sent through mountains and lakes—Lakes, yes. Lakes coated in floating pads of green, the most beautiful petals of white on top of them.
The lilies.
The lilies .
The bell.
The bell .
My camellia.
The child—
Jade Emperor! I beg of you.
I beg of you to let me send a lily to someone special.
Or a petal.
A patch of fur from my scalp will do!
Do not bring the furnace here—don’t bring the furnace!
No!
Jade Emperor, I have caused you so much chaos and panic and I have deceived you, yes, but I am not a bad person. I am not a bad person, I am merely misguided. Guanyin, great Goddess of Mercy, please let my last words be to a boy, no, this is not a trick, please, I can assure you—
I have been awful! Is that what you wish to hear? To hear me begging to have my life be spared! Let me go! I was born as a cursed being, I know of this! I scared you, Jade Emperor, from the moment I opened my eyes but a child is nothing if not the empty vessel easily subdued to influence. Was it not you who sent down two soldiers—guards—men to check upon me and inspect that I was harmless? Was it not you who did not interfere with my quest for immortality? If my methods of learning were wrong why didn’t you tell me!
I have raised a kingdom all on my own!
I have lost myself to the idea of cruelty and isolation because you cannot fathom the idea of talking to me!
Speak to me!
Talk to me!
Why am I the villain!
I never asked to be the villain!
Answer me!
Will you erase this moment from history? Will you erase my tears and cries and pleads of mercy?
I am not a monster. I was never a monster!
Speak to me! Speak! Speak! Speak! Speak !
Why am I punished! Explain it to me!
My insatiable bloodlust; why is it a part of me? What did I do to deserve it!
Ple..
Please!
Plea…
Please!
Don’t throw me in!
…
Am I not speaking?
Can you not hear me?
Can you hear me!
Erlang!
Erlang, tell them to stop!
Nezha, I apologize, please! Empathize with me! You must understand— Nezha !
Nezha—
What do you know?
Nezha, don’t look away from me!
Do you have the answers? Do you?
Nezha!
Nezha, please!
Laozi, do not throw me in, please!
Please, I must talk to the boy!
Please, what have I done wrong!
Pl…
…
.
.
.
.
There’s smoke in my eyes.
I can’t get it out.
.
.
.
.
I acted like my old self again.
I lunged for Erlang when I escaped.
.
.
.
.
.
Buddha… Can you even hear me?
Can.. anyone hear me..?
.
.
.
.
.
I thought I’d won.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Liu Er… I can’t apologize to you enough. Please don’t come for me.
.
.
.
.
.
.
When the sweet pea sprouts from the earth, it sways to the sky with bright and beautiful colors, awaiting a life of prosperity and joy, ready to define blissful pleasures, Good-Bye and Thank You For a Lovely Time with its petals. But right as it blossoms and opens its eyes—a mountain falls down on top of it and crushes its body easily, turning it into mush that lays there, locked under a seal unable to be removed by anyone.
And I lay there, my eyes leaking like a broken faucet, unfixable, immobilized and torn apart by the weight of the world on my shoulders.
I blink hazily at the sight of patches of green, just out of reach from me.
I whisper, ‘I’m sorry.’
.
.
.
.
.
.
Five hundred years felt like an eternity.
Was it you 'mid
the fire and the ember?
Were you there to
bedevil and beguile?
When a gypsophila is born the world wonders what wonders and joy it will bring, admire its petals and colors wonderfully and treat it with the care of a mother, not daring to pluck it from its stem and tenderly water it with drops of the cleanest spring rivers and tend to it every day. A Baby’s Breath is just as wonderful and the people gush about the flowers as if they were newborn children, ready to be adored and loved for all eternity. The living prefer flowers because they’re replaceable, you can grow more and more and find yourself surrounded with a garden of white petals of innocence that stretched on for mountains and mountains, and they soon die. But they are easily replaced. When a child dies a mother weeps for years, uncontrollable and forever longing to embrace her baby boy again—yet the moment a flower dies the gardener throws it out into the wild and lets the trees use its corpse as compost. The servants forget to water the beautiful rose and find it dead by midday, shortly replaced with a camellia of higher status. When the boy becomes a General of the emperor then his father decides his work is done and pays no mind to him anymore, commands him to leave his home and travel to his post without hesitation—“To finally have a purpose to your life,” he says curtly and the boy’s mother agrees to it. The boy agrees after getting yelled at, the sound of fabric tearing and the smell of hair being singed enough to draw his attention to reality. The rose is dead and wilted and the king demands room for the new bouquet of begonias. Beware , the flowers say and he leaves quietly, without much of a fight.
The wind follows him.
Nezha watches as Heaven sends down soldiers and celestials to pick up fruit and trees from off their homes, collecting citruses and stone fruit for reasons unknown, their eyes focused and their mouths sewn shut. He’s glamoured when he meets them, a mask of a human boy placed on top of the face of a murderer and killer. The wind is restless and it sends adornments of silk cloth into a frenzy of uneven movements, the small goddess clicking her tongue and chastising the wind itself for all of this trouble but Nezha pays more mind to her basket. It’s filled with dahlia flowers, the darkest shades of pure crimson fading to black, and several small pellets of copper. He asks her, once he’s closer and has to tilt his head back to look at her properly, what they’re for.
The goddess purses her lips, eyes gentle and soft. She picks up one of the dahlias and lowers herself down to meet Nezha’s gaze, her presence becoming dangerous. The wind tugs at her perfectly combed black hair and tries to unruly it, she raises a hand and extends the black flower to the demon boy. She says, “These are for a cruel person. He is trapped now and he has gone days without eating. But we are kind enough to try and find food for him; the Buddha himself has requested something special for this demon.”
She speaks to him without a light in her eyes, her voice is kind but monotone, it makes Nezha relax and realize she does not see through him. “Something special? What kind of demon deserves that?” He asks and the goddess stays silent. The wind whispers words to the demon god and Nezha takes the flower with a quiet ‘thank you’, an apology leaving his lips when he realizes of his mistake and quietly begs for no punishment in return. But the goddess simply smiles and brushes his hair in a motherly manner and bids him goodbye. Nezha tries to ignore the way she cleans her hands and grimaces subtly in her steps when she picks up the basket and heads towards the mountain, accompanied by small petals of pink color, a trickery of kindness and good deeds.
You know who it’s for, the wind says softly, braiding the loose strands of black hair from Nezha’s scalp.
“I do.”
Nezha stares at the flower in his hand and starts plucking the petals off, ony by one, as he walks through the valleys on bare feet with the wind as his only friend, now. It sometimes stop moving with him, does not go into the caves that draw out the boy’s curiosity—but that’s alright with him, for he does not wait for the wind to finish up it’s flurry of gusts and winds and hurricanes and drifts off to sleep against the hard stop steps. No one is near him and the wind keeps him cool enough that he does not sweat and overheat; he requires no blanket for his godly fire is growing steadily and uncomfortably, but it keeps him warm. There’s red stains on the rough rocks from the opened cuts on Nezha’s calloused feet and he wishes they’d close up soon.
The demon boy looks up at the white moon and feels disdain towards it.
He does not know why he misses the sun.
See, your face wasn't
quite as I remember
But I know that
wicked shape to your smile
A voice as soft as flowers from the fields asks him, “Are you alright? Do you need help?”, and Nezha flinches in a decidedly startled manner, whirling around to face the source. He sees naught but a demon, and that demon—he supposes they’re a sort of pilgrim or messenger, for their luggage is minimal and their face is too soft and warm to be anything of a soldier’s—did nothing but stare at Nezha, awaiting a reply. They do not push or ask again, instead shifting their grip on the basket they hold in their arms, long and weaved with precise fingers, several crowns of flowers decorating the edges. Daffodils. He can smell jonquil somewhere in there, too, and it relaxes him in the smallest amount. Nezha, his eyes set into a scowl and lips pulled back in annoyance, only stares at them, even as his face becomes coloured with embarrassment from having been caught off guard, unsure of what to make of the tender grey eyes that wait for him to speak.
“Are you all by yourself?” They ask, placing a bundle of crimson fruits into the tiny makeshift bag with such gentleness it made the demon boy wonder if they were a parent of sorts. They had short hair and a fair face, a similar breed of demon from the one that screamed his name in agony, pleading for mercy at the court of the gods with his own golden chains dragging him down to the depths of the earth (golden fur adorned with golden armor and a red scarf that split in two, a feathered cap and a wide grin that illuminated his world with empty promises—); he nods and watches with unsettling uneasiness as the demon’s eyes turn glassy, droplets of morning dew threatening to slip down their cheek.
And then Nezha is given a small bag of food and drinks without hesitation. He stares at it with wide eyes and the wind quiets him before his open mouth can even get an insult out. The demon speaks in a low voice as they guide his hands into theirs, slowly closing each finger over a beautiful yellow daffodil: Young master, you are a good child, I know. The wind has spoken of you to me and my dearest—I know who you are. I know of your background, of the fire and the thud, I know that you are journeying to the mountains to control your flames. But isolation is cruel. I have lost my friend to it and he took a piece of my heart when he left us. Two friends are gone from my life and I do not wish the same upon you, young boy. So take this and eat and drink and remember that if you are ever in need of more to simply follow the river upstream. I will be there and so will my beloved. Take care, little one.
They brush a hand down Nezha’s glamoured cheek and he fights the urge to lean into the touch; a mother’s embrace. They leave and he’s left alone with the fruit and drinks and wind.
The wind whispers, ‘Did you like them?’
And he says, “They reminded me of him.”
The wind asks if that is good or bad and he says he does not know yet.
Flower Fruit Mountain is just a couple of miles away.
Bury me as it
pleases you, mother
At sea, or deep
within the catacomb
Before I was elected to become the General of the Jade Emperor, the killer of Ao Bing, the dead god of lotus markings, I had another life. The start of one, at least, when I was much younger. No, it was the promise of one. Before my death, a man walked into my life and promised me safe haven with him and his generals, a marshal who’d teach me how to channel this anger and agony and turn it into something of power and another who’d give me all the compassion and care I’d need. He had beautiful golden locks of hair, peach-like ends at the tufts that hung from his shoulders, long and elegant, regal yet dignified; he looked at me as though I were nothing but a boy in need of love and joy and bliss. He promised me he would come back and, every day, I waited for the sound of the bells and the smell of camellias to overcome the one of the burning lotus inside of me.
The work of preserving the knowledge of gods was a noble one, their history and memories, all of their actions written down by someone—a historian, who tells the tale of how Li Nezha watched as Qítiān Dàshèng was struck between his shoulders, ignores the way that tears threatened to slip through the pained boy’s eyes and turned into a waterfall when the golden gold of chains coiled around his neck and pulled him down to the depths of the Earth, covered by a mountain and sealed away from the world like a hidden weapon. They ignore the whispers of, ‘I am sorry, I am so sorry, I send your family my regards, I am so sorry,’ that erupted from the boy general once everyone had calmed down and he’d returned to his post.
Locked away from the judging eyes of the minor deities and priests that were starting to recite his name in praise, now, speaking truths and deceits in the same sentence.
I never went to visit him in the first three hundred years. I read up on everything there was known about him, trying to let rage and bitterness fuel my distaste towards the trickster, but I learned that he and I were far too similar for my liking. My mouth grew disgusted with the taste of bile coming up from my stomach and my hair became tousled and stiff when I emptied my worries into the nearest lake, polluting it with the withering petals of white lotuses, tainted with the red of my blood.
My days (and my nights) were spent pacing around the libraries of the gods, trying to find excuses to go forth and taunt the Monkey King for his insubordination that caused the uproar of the century, the one thing that made him be feared and hated throughout the land, but I found naught but a tale of a young demon who grew and grew, trained to become stronger to protect his kingdom and then the singular book seemed cut short. As though it’d been cut by a sword.
Or a spear.
My excuse to leave my post, my position of power, was that I grew bored of being an emperor’s guard now that there was no real threat anymore. ‘He’s sealed away, isn’t he? Then why am I here?’ I told the other guards and gods that stepped out of my way, flinching at the sight of my sash wrapping itself around my shoulders protectively.
The wind became my companion; it pulled me towards the mountains with the strongest grip, pushing me down rocks and letting the sharp edges sink into my heels, reminding me of my place as a once false human, whispering the consequences of my sins as demons became restless, clashing their weapons together and sinking their teeth into defenseless babes, their screams and cries for their mothers echoing in my brain on repeat. A broken record that refreshed to the point of the calmness, the volume of the storm driving me near insanity as I danced cautiously around this other pair of demons: lily and birchwood. They greeted me kindly, the youngest of the two, but then, I realized all too late that my unmasked appearance would be too much for them; they granted me with kindness that almost drowned out the blooming lotus fire inside me and I ruined it by speaking my name, telling them the truth of my journey and I could only watch in horrified awe as the birchwood I saw as my own family rot and break sharp glass over my head, staining the grass with vivid pinks and reds of royal blood.
At the time, I was angry; I retaliated and shoved them both away from me, summoned my sash and demanded explanations for the outburst and the wind itself struggled to throw me off course, begging for me to calm down with shrieks of agony akin to that of children as I held my fist above the man’s face my own breath burning into small flames. I trembled feverishly before realizing what I’d done, before realizing that the crowd that’d come to witness the fight were the subjects of the king that’d become a dormant weapon for the chaos he’d created, before realizing I nearly killed again.
That was a long time ago, but the images of the two gibbons remain in my head. The sword I’d broken with my bare hand when the youngest of the two came in to defend him, the tears that seeped through her eyes when her teeth sinked into the palm of my hand, the empathy I felt when the flames from my hands burnt her mouth and tongue and sent her screaming in agony. They screamed and cried next to the unconscious mountain colored monkey and I fled, grabbing my sash and ring and running on bare feet towards the mountains with a blazing river of fire pointing towards me, accusing me. But the question becomes:
When did I meet you again?
I was there for years after your imprisonment, always too far away for you to sense me, to call my name, to notice I was there. I saw the way the guards came down from heavy to feed you, listened to the muffled cries as the iron pellets got lodged in your throat and the molten copper burnt your mouth and tongue, never enough to kill you but just enough for the pain to seem endless. I thought of accompanying you, of walking up to the guards and asking them to cease on the command of the Third Lotus Prince—but I never did. I watched. And watched.
For years now you’ve traveled with a monk and a pig and a river spirit and a dragon; for years now you’ve been tended to by a kind hand and a gentle voice that whispers the upbringing of your demise, the screams of your pain coming forth as the most wretched screams I’ve heard over the centuries. You knew the Kings and Queens and Emperors and Empresses of young and old, smiled and laughed and kept this façade of a painless joke, walking around and giving everyone a hard time, casting advice and pretending it never bothered you when they ignored you. When they abandoned you. When they called you a weapon of their making. When they looked at you after you casted away a demon, her claws long and skeletal, the whispers of the dead chasing after her corpse when you locked her away—when they looked at you as though you’d just massacred innocent men and women in front of their very eyes.
I was there.
I watched closely.
I’m sorry.
I look at you now, broken king, and I ask for your forgiveness for not being able to turn my head quickly enough towards the east and prevent the crime committed against your kingdom. I apologize to you for not being able to sympathize with the lives of your sworn brother and your truest of friends and the one spirit you saw as a mother; I did not see them the same way you did, I cannot think of an excuse to justify my actions, just know that I am not proud of my actions, of my waiting and waiting and waiting for the day you would snap and become that wretched beast I fought at the start of this petty war. I am not a child and I must suffer the consequences of your choosing, Great King, but you must know that as a god I am not one to back down from a fight. I am not going to stand idly by and let you have your way, I will not let you land the first hit simply because you have lost everything dear to you. I am neither your friend nor your enemy but I—
But I…
I cannot bring myself to hate the demon that came to me and treated me as though I was human.
So, come, Sun Wukong, tell me:
What is your answer?
But these bones
never rested while living
So how can they stand
to languish in repose?
“F…Five hundred ..”
The pristine white flowers of the Garden were oppressive to the bleeding battle scars from the King’s brow and lips, coughing miserably into the floor as the young prince watches with reddening eyes, memories of a Heavenly court coming down to rest on his shoulders with every inhale and exhale—Sun Wukong can feel it even without looking, the way that Nezha’s guilt becomes visible for the world to gawk at and make a fool of him. In the past, Wukong would have taken advantage of the fractured walls around the little lotus and casted a light to the weakness he’s displaying. It heaves a weak laugh from him, making it hard for him to breathe with the smoke in his lungs, the tips of grey and ash that get into his eyes.
Sharp-tongued, the Prince continues with his story, informing him of all the consequences and acts and wrongdoings he’s done since their last battle, his voice soft and quiet, laced with anger and the slightest hint of regret that coils under the sockets of Wukong’s eyes and threatens to paint them red and red with tears and bitterness from his own sympathy. He feels angry when the boy tells him of what he did to Beng, what happened to Ba, the reason why his mountain was set on fire and why his Generals were no longer found under the ash and rubble from the broken shelters and charcoal trees that collapsed into useless piles. Wukong no longer tries to hide away the tears that have been yearning to leave his body when Nezha says, with the smallest ounce of regret, “I heard you. For five hundred years, yes, I heard you screaming for help.”
“For five hundred years?”
“Yes.”
Wukong laughs; he can hear the certainty of it all, the way Nezha does not flinch nor lower his gaze in shame, instead looking down at him with the gaze of a boy who’s been torn apart and pieced back together to perfection in the worst of ways, the smell of ash and burning rubber following the god wherever he goes and Wukong can’t help the tired scream of laughter that escapes his lips, causing him to curl in on himself as the yells of his own name echo through the mountain path. Bajie is calling for him. Sandy is calling for him. Tripitaka is calling for him. Master is waiting. He sobs pitifully, envisioning the last words he spoke to his generals before fleeing, the last words he’s ever said to them, the memories that start to slip from his mind the more he tries to force himself to remember, feeling miserable as he parrots his own words (“Five hundred years” are spoken softly and angrily, a caged animal waiting for the chains to loosen up for his escape—); Sun Wukong lifts his head and stares at the victim of the system, the product of years of neglect and lack of love, the results of the war between man and god that’s raged on for the longest of centuries.
He snarls.
There’s a movement.
And a spear sinks through Wukong’s stomach and pierces the other side of his body.
Historians will eradicate this moment and remove it from the collection of tales in the two gods’ lives; Nezha is the Third Lotus Prince the angry, ravenous demon who does not care of the consequences, who murdered in cold blood and refused to listen to the good man and woman who raised him, the young god that spread fear throughout the nation and killed himself only to be brought to life and suffer eternally as they whisper rumors of his ill tempered manners; Qítiān Dàshèng is the demon who was born from stone, an orphan who went on a rampage and became the most feared demon in the Heavenly court, the chaos driven immortal god who is worshipped only by those who refuse to see him for what he truly is, a monster that spreads his poison and lack of sympathy to everyone near him, the murderer of innocents and the most cunning assassin.
Diphylleia; I will show my true self to you, is spoken as the blossoms of the flower bloom from the droplets of crimson and gold that spill into Nezha’s hands, the boy god stiffening at the embrace of Sun Wukong. The monkey hugs him, whispers to him, “I’m so sorry you had to hear that,” in the quietest voice he’s ever known. The wind quiets the echoing yells for the King’s name and instead only bring light to the words that are repeated over and over like a broken cassette—
Nezha whispers, “I have to go,” blinking away the rue that forms at the corners of his eyes. Regret. Sorrow. Repentance. Wukong catches the petals with his thumb and brushes them away from the child’s cheek, watching with saddened eyes as the god looks close to breaking.
“Go then, I’ll find you,” Wukong whispers back.
White clovers bloom around the two calamity gods.
A promise.
Nezha stares at Wukong, his bottom lip trembling as he rips back the spear lodged in between Wukong’s ribs, watching with wide eyes as the molten blood paints the white clovers into a beautiful coat of gold and crimson. The rain that follows is a shower of sunflowers, broken and royal and delicate petals torn from the stems.
And then the King falls.