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The mask settles over his eyes, the gears turning altogether silently — just ordinary mechanical rustling. Such is nothing new in Xianle...
(Xianle is gone)
...drenched in whale-oil light and bleeding amber. The mask does not obstruct his sight, even allows him to see in the dark, if he forces himself to open the eye of the curse...
(useless, powerless, filthy)
...and move, spitting on the desire to curl into a ball by a dirty wall. The past cannot be recalled, the past cannot be changed, and even the Heavenly Emperor himself could not answer such prayers. Praying is useless; sleeping is too painful and dreary, for one is always forced to wake.
Better if they were nightmares, thinks the Royal Protector, habitually touching the invisible severed thread that once ran along his wrists to the tips of his fingers. In nightmares everything is familiar — both wounds, and pain, and even the fact that no one will ever come. In those dreams that the damn Abyss sends upon him now, there is still Royal Protector, wearing crimson behind the prince's shoulder...
(who is no more, no more, no more, no more, no more, no more no more no more nomorenomorenomorenonononono)
...and shot through with crimson from veins to the bandages beneath his clothes.
Had he not been cursed, would he have ever met the divinity? Had he not been cursed, would he have been allowed to see the divinity every single day? Had he not been cursed, would they have stitched him to the divinity with a crimson thread, so that His every wound would never touch Him, but open instead upon the filthy little beast He had caught in His endless mercy?
The advisor had said then that it would be better for Him not to retain the curse by His side; the lady empress-mother, laughing, had whispered in his ear — the beastling possessed good hearing! — that the curse would one day save His life, because one who by his very essence was created to attract misfortunes would protect far more reliably.
A crimson-crimson thread, a charmed needle piercing through every vein upon the body, stitching his blood to the blood of the divinity; a silken crimson thread, a needle of white deer horn, the venomous emerald hatred in the eyes of the rejected one who would never stand so close to Him. The snow-white chamber in the depths of the palace remembers every howl that died down into a rasp, every torn breath, every movement of the thread beneath the skin.
If it were necessary to endure this once more so that He might live, the white table would not have stood vacant for a single moment. If it were necessary to endure this a hundred, a thousand, a hundred thousand times — the table would not have stood vacant. Why is He no more?
(because you are useless, slow, weak, weak, weak...)
Misfortunes and wounds pass Him by; in any situation He always remains whole. Songs and legends are fashioned of Him — they say the Heavenly Emperor Himself blessed the golden child of Xianle, granting Him the strength and fortune of a thousand rulers who came before Him across all lands of the earth; at night He laughs, and that laughter spills like silver coins from an open window. The Protector sits below; the guards have long since grown used to the beastling being permitted everywhere — such is the command of the lady empress-mother, confirmed by the emperor — and pay no attention, barely even kick him when they see him nearby. This is good. The fractures will ache less and heal faster, so that He need not fear falling — for it is almost painless, is it not?
This is envy and hatred, and emerald eyes, so akin to His, yet devoid of a single drop of His warmth. The blow lands upon a half-healed gash from a training sword, and the beastling curls into a ball, protecting his belly and chest out of habit. If he survives not — 'tis no grand loss, one more filthy creature, one less, yet who then shall shield Him from misfortune?.. The green-eyed one could never become the Protector, he is far too weak — even the beastling scents that — but when the lady empress-mother delivers him a slap across the face (hatred, hatred, HATRED!!!), the green-eyed one begins to whimper like a beaten pup.
The beastling is taken to the physician and compelled to change his bandages anew, so that the wound might heal faster. The elderly physician shakes his head but silently hands over the dried herbs that must be consumed. The beastling would cast them aside, but He must be protected; the beastling requests hot water from the kitchen and a bowl wherein this bitter dregs may be steeped.
Upon one of the days, the lady empress-mother takes the beastling to her wing and compels him to stand before her. She frowns, inspecting the beastling from all sides (within his head it beats desperately — only do not banish me, I will do whatsoever you wish, only do not strip from me the right to be His shadow!), folding and spreading her fan anew and anew.
The beastling spends the night within the chamber for the personal attendants of the lady empress-mother. In the morning he is taken by a man who informs him that if within a year the beastling learns not to be a worthy servant for Him — the beastling shall be replaced by a more suitable person. He who shall bear the title of the Royal Protector must possess exemplary conduct and speech.
"My dear son," the lady empress-mother smiles, yet the smile touches not her eyes, "this child shall be your bandu*. He must remain by your side always, even whilst you sleep — a chamber adjoining yours hath been set aside for him."
An entire world is reflected within His eyes. The beastling drowns in them, sinking willingly to the deep, to the black floor of pupils that slide with curiosity across blood-crimson raiment; this is not love, this is not devotion, this is not anything that possesseth a name. It merely seemeth that the beastling no longer requireth air, nor water, nor sustenance — only to know that He is smiling, that His eyes shine all the same, that He is joyful and knoweth no pain.
Even if he is cast out, he will find that crone who performed the ritual and demand she bind them anew, as many times as necessary, to take upon himself everything that might dare touch Him with intent to cause pain.
The guoshi produceth a rod, and the beastling stands obediently, asking no questions. Within His eyes dwell guilt, and anxiety, and dread; but wherefore is He afraid? This is not so grievous as the fracturing of bones, or the drinking of poison meant to incinerate one’s inward parts; if one but gazeth into those eyes, dissolving within them, there is no pain at all, only distant echoes akin to the touch of stinging leaves.
Blood shows not upon crimson.
In the evening the divinity compelleth him to lie upon the bed, his back turned upward; the scent of healing ointment filleth the chamber, and the beastling faileth to thrust His hand away (cannot bring himself to thrust it away). The touches upon his back are weightless, well-nigh tender, and the beastling becometh a cloud ascending toward the Heavens, a winged serpent losing the earth beneath his feet, if only this would never end, if only it would never ever end; is there aught more beautiful than the way He traceth with His fingers each mark of the blow, each scar remaining upon skin grown grayish from the latest poison?
All the beastling can say is, "At least You are sitting within my chamber right now, and Your cousin is envious, for You are not with him," and the divinity laughs, and His hands tremble; the beastling embraces Him, freezing at his own audacity, and breathes in the scent of His body, of incense, of the herbs wherewith the raiment was layered... if only it were possible to breathe no more, preserving this scent within his lungs forever.
The beastling stands behind His shoulder, as is befitted of the Royal Protector. The beastling hath become a Lord — henceforth he shall remain so until death, his own or His (yet the second, as it seemeth to him, must needs signify the first). Now he need not bow to the ground, as the green-eyed one compelleth him to do (jealousy, hatred, jealousy anew), and now not even status shall have the power to estrange the beastling from Him.
Yet He nonetheless deemeth the beastling clumsy, easily wounded, and somewhat strange; all is well, 'tis as it should be, so that He might not ponder upon why the beastling beareth so many wounds. "I parried badly," "I fell within the garden," "I forgot the blade was whetted," "I mistook the berries"...
The divinity calleth him "a calamity" when they are alone, and slowly, slowly draweth a many-toothed comb through black, heavy hair. The fire spreading within him eclipses any pain of all that the beastling hath ever endured; the touch of His hand upon his hair, the quiet voice, the way He lightly gathereth his hair with His own snow-white ribbon...
...soft lips touching his cheek with unpracticed grace, and it seemeth 'tis but a dream, yet all transpireth in waking life, and the beastling dissolves into His breath.
The imperial couple resteth within pavilions of white marble. The Royal Protector catcheth with his eyes every shadow, every movement, and this is hindered neither by the crimson eye veiled by hair, nor by the heart-rending, uneven and raspy breath of the divinity, who hath slept not for the second night nigh. The Royal Protector toucheth His elbow, guiding Him almost imperceptibly in the needed direction, yet He marketh not even that He is being led like a submissive puppet.
All through the third night, the Royal Protector embraceth Him, rocking Him like a child, for he cannot take upon himself the pain tearing Him to pieces; an hour or two after midnight He groweth still, and seemeth to fall asleep, yet His slumber is far too shallow, and the Royal Protector remaineth until morning, ever and anon sinking into a brief, precarious slumber that fleeth each time He presseth closer, shivering in search of warmth.
That this pain cannot be taken upon himself is unrighteous. The crone promised that any pain of His would pass unto the beastling — wherefore did she deceive?..
Whence came they?!
The vine upon the blade is dyed crimson, even as the stone beneath His feet.
Crimson vine.
White berries.
This is not painful.
Wherefore is this not painful?
Wherefore is this NOT PAINFUL?!!
...a crimson thread, hanging limp upon His fingers.
The green-eyed one smirketh, satisfied and ravenous.
He speaketh aught, yet His voice is drowned within the silence.
Wherefore is this not painful
wherefore is this not painful
wherefore is this not
painful
painful
painful
painful
painful
The plague, brought by wandering rats and ships, hath laid siege to the capital. The gleaming terraces of the Xianle Palace are vanished, the hanging gardens have drowned within oily, tallowy smoke, and a gray plague-smog hath settled over the city forgotten by the Heavenly Emperor.
The mask covereth his face as the Royal Protector maketh his way through the sewer pipes toward a frail little boat; where it is possible to disembark, it smelleth of singed wool and blood, and he can at last crouch within a far corner, having barked something unintelligible unto the strange folk who demand some manner of answers and actions.
What manner of answers do they require?
That He is no more? That crimson vines entwine the city, and plague-rats devour it from within, for the city hath betrayed its sovereign and lord?
That the white flowers upon His grave shall never bloom, for they are woven from shreds of cloth and have not taken root from within His body?
What other manner of answers do they require?..
The man arrayed in black speaketh no needless words. He simply offereth a choice — to accept that which shall aid in destroying those who slew Him, or to refuse and do all by his own strength.
Rumors there were that the ancient gods, who had dwelt a millennium before the birth of the Heavenly Emperor, gathered unto themselves servants in such a manner — promising them aid in their deeds in exchange for eternal service. But what mattereth it in which eternity the Royal Protector remaineth, if He is no more? This one is nowise better nor worse than fire, or ice, or the eternal remembrance of Him; in this one, at the least, it shall not be so agonizingly heavy to draw each new breath within a world where He is not.
Moreover, the man arrayed in black bestoweth a heart, entwined with a slender black thread and measuring the seconds with the precision of the finest timepiece. The man arrayed in black promiseth that the Heart shall speak the truth of those upon whom it is directed — and, with a grim smile, vaniseth.
The crimson threads, severed well-nigh a year ago, reach toward the black one, as though they might find a replacement therein. They nudge against one another, intertwining into a knot that seemeth durable, yet crumbleth the very moment the Heart is set aside.
The Heart whispereth — "please, do not kill him" — and this whisper seemeth unto the Royal Protector agonizingly familiar, even unto a tangible, physical pain somewhere beneath the ribs, where it should have hurt when the blade entwined with the vine pierced His body; the Heart swelleth slightly and subsideth once more, as though it drew a sigh. The bone gears upon it turn with the implacable precision of falling sand and the mercilessness of time itself.
For the first time, the Royal Protector summoneth the rats, commanding them to devour all whomever their eyes, filled with plague-fury, behold before them. The Heart keepeth silence.
"He is a good man," the Heart pleadeth desperately, "please, I beseech thee, do not..."
The blade parteth from beneath the fifth rib. That voice cannot be, and therefore it is of no avail to heed aught that it speaketh.
(please, do not fall silent, speak unto me, speak with His voice, aught at all — revile me, tell me of how good all folk around are, only do not keep silence, please, do not keep silence)
"I know that thou dost not truly desire this," the Heart sigheth at last. "Thou art but in pain, art thou not?"
The Royal Protector longeth to hurl it upon the cobblestones with all his might and smite it from above — with aught whatsoever. The black thread reacheth toward the crimson ones, striving to fuse with them, to draw together in some manner the mercilessly severed ends. The rats hem in the Royal Protector from all sides, and within their muzzles he beholdeth the reflection of his own face.
"Either thou art foolish, or thou art mad... yet there is no great difference," the man arrayed in black sitteth within the void, leaning against the skeleton of an immense whale. "Hath it truly not spoken unto thee even yet?.."
The Royal Protector draweth the Heart from his pocket; the bone gears are marred with cracks from an ill-fated fall from the third tier (for he had been forced to land upon that side where within the pocket the Heart lay), the black thread is well-nigh torn asunder on one side, and upon the living, pulsing flesh — dry and bloodless gashes.
"Hast thou still not understood?.." — the Outsider sigheth heavily. "And yet thy god believed he lived a perfect, happy life, and that fate had sheltered him from harm. He seemeth never to have understood why it was thou who wast made Royal Protector... and even unto this day, he hath not understood. As, in truth, neither hast thou."
The Abyss is too loquacious and too mad to trust its embodiment, and therefore the Royal Protector only watcheth, without removing his mask, as the Outsider draweth near and carefully, well-nigh tenderly, taketh the Heart.
"A fragile artifact this is, thinkest thou not? A single ill-aimed bullet, a single fall — and a gear shall break, yet within it are enclosed the ashes of him who was a divinity unto thee. Art thou certain thou desirest to continue in such a manner?.."
It is not meet to trust that which the Abyss speaketh. It is not meet to yield unto its whispers. It is not meet to accept its gifts and its marks.
The Royal Protector, having launched himself from his place in a mad leap a moment before, cradleth the Heart within his palms, pressing it unto his breast like an infant.
Mankind speaketh such droll things, saying, "he holdeth my heart in his hands"; the Royal Protector had ever thought it to be but an expression, nothing more.
Yet within his hands beateth His Heart, the gears turn, and the voice — His voice, mournful, filled with an obscure pain — whispereth again and again that all is well, that it did not hurt Him when He died, and that He hath no need of vengeance. To curl into a ball around the Heart, shielding it with his body from all sides, to cover himself with a blanket, and how good it is that the mask doth muffle the sounds of breathing and hideth his face.
"Remove it," He pleadeth upon one of those nights. "Please... remove it. It seemeth unto me that I am forgetting thy face."
The straps pressed unto his hair yield but faintly — over the past weeks, the mask seemeth to have grown into his face. The Royal Protector teareth it free, wrenching out entire strands that hang from the straps, and for some reason the Heart keepeth silence for well-nigh half a minute.
"I fell from an apple tree, and a branch should have pierced my cheek," He saith softly at last. The Royal Protector toucheth the small, well-nigh indiscernible scar beneath his cheekbone, and for a moment the pain that hath been gripping his heart all this time seemeth a fraction less. "And the way a blade should have cleft my brow... and the stone that flew from beneath the hooves of a horse..."
In the treacherous light of the train-oil lamp, not all the scars are visible. Perchance, that is even for the best.
Time after time, the Heart pleadeth with him not to slay those who were guilty of His death. Time after time, the Royal Protector yieldeth unto Him, unable to go against His will.
"Yield Him unto me," the green-eyed one well-nigh hisseth, and upon his left hand is displayed that selfsame mark of the Outsider. "I hear His voice, and He ought to belong only unto me!"
The Heart, lying within his pocket, shuddereth, and the Royal Protector feeleth it even as he feeleth his own body. The crimson threads and the black one cling unto each other desperately, and no longer by a voice, but through an inward sense, the Royal Protector discerneth that which is well-nigh sobbing — "Flee, please, flee, I cannot endure with him, I beseech thee, flee, please..."
The green-eyed one hath blood as crimson as that of all the rest. Yet the pain, for some reason, groweth no lighter.
The Heart crumbleth to ash within his hands, remaining but as a black thread and a few bone gears upon his palm.
It is not painful. The Royal Protector smileth. If he should direct the blade between the fourth and fifth ribs even now, and fall with his own weight upon the hilt — death would be swift. And perchance merciful enough to allow him to behold, yet once more — if only in memory — His eyes.
A cool palm settleth upon the mask, softly unfastening its straps.
"All is at an end," the vision smileth, lowering itself beside him and pressing its brow unto the Royal Protector's. "Thou knowest... I... I have missed thine embrace so right well..."
Perchance it is somewhat droll, yet the Royal Protector’s hands tremble even as they touch His palms.
And it is somewhat painful.
Even but a fraction.
Bandu (from Chinese 伴读, bàndú) — Historically, a royal study-companion or imperial playmate. A youth from a noble family chosen to study, play, and grow up alongside a prince or high-born child, serving as both a peer and a loyal confidant.