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It is bitter on her tongue when she nibbles on the stalk of qingxin.
Strange, for after so many years, one would think that she would have gotten used to such an unpleasant taste.
She feels like a stranger, to watch over Liyue like Xiao — it was never her habit to watch over the mortal realm, at least not as carefully as Xiao, who cradled it like an aloof father. Silent work, dirty work, work with no semblance of mercy — for what he did such things, she did not know.
Shenhe only knows one thing, and that is the law of self-preservation.
Shenhe does not seek validation. Shenhe does not seek admiration. Shenhe does not seek problems, really.
She just minds her own business, and does her own things.
Fleeting, like the silent snow that falls on the first day of winter, easily forgotten. She vanishes after the lightest touch of a finger, and is left behind for better things.
“You need not do this if it bores you,” Xiao says, voice cold.
Shenhe knows what he intends to convey is understanding. She speaks the same language as him, after all.
“Then I shall take my leave.”
Those words do not signify a harsh rejection, but rather, it’s simply a way to convey her intent. There is no need to beat around the bush, nor is there a need to placate him with pointless platitudes.
She turns away, and begins her hike back up the mountains from Wangshu Inn.
She sees the colour of the Sandbearer Trees, with their leaves some iridescent shade of yellow-gold-red, and turns away.
This is something nagging at her heart, even though she knows it should not exist.
Familiarity.
(Red, the only colour she has ever known.)
~ * ~
Red, like the dusky skies of Liyue.
Shenhe sits atop the mountains, and waits for her father to pick her up. She has been waiting, waiting, waiting, with the white crane behind her silently watching.
“One has already told you that to wait is futile.”
“Just a little more,” she begs, staring down from the mountains, fervently searching. “I know he’s still looking for me.”
Cloud Retainer does not respond. She does not even sigh in disappointment, like all the other villagers had.
“Very well then, little one. We shall wait together.”
Shenhe remembers such a scene, when her father left. How she had waited, just like this, praying for his return. And how such prayers were answered, when he came back, with a surprise for her.
That’s right. He still loves her. He tried his best for her.
She waits, and even as the crane’s wing comes to envelope her frame, she keeps waiting.
Shenhe clings on to the littlest embers of hope that flicker in her chest, glow and struggle, and then fade when the sun finally sets again, for the fifteenth time.
~ * ~
Red, like the ribbons that adorn her hair.
She smiles into the water as she ties them to her body, to feel some semblance of fleeting emotion before it binds her completely.
Tranquillity.
And with such peace, comes a blanket of snow.
The same smile is reflected by the water, but she feels none of the warmth.
Her shoulders sag, and the smile drops. Her eyes deaden, hardened by the cold, and she freezes the lake out of spite.
That ugly face is still reflected.
She scowls, and the face only turns uglier.
Call it fate, call it destiny, call it whatever the gods have pre-ordained — the curse of the stars and the calamity it insinuates bursts out of her.
Seething, her ribbons drop off her, slipping away as she lunges towards the mockery that lies in the ice. She swings her polearm with wild abandon, until the ice is no longer, the water is gone. Even so, her nature is not so easily controlled.
Without the ribbons, she cannot help but continue, swinging and slashing and slicing until it leaks red. Her blade does not discriminate between friend and foe. She faintly remembers what Cloud Retainer had once told her: wear your ropes well, or there will come a day where you dance along the bloody path of massacre.
And as Shenhe spins, blade catching on soft flesh, she feels… nothing. There is no joy, no pleasure. Just an action, blurred and hazy — she does not quite register what is happening now that her inner nature has been allowed to run on its murderous rampage.
Lives, so easily lost. Crushed under merciless fingers. So fragile, so elusive, one moment here, and gone the next…
A red rain, with new ribbons of red adorn her — and only then does she calm down.
Despite her soul having been bound, she feels her heart drop. She feels… horror.
“One has told you many times.” Shenhe whips around to see Cloud Retainer, displeasure apparent in her voice. “To always be careful. The ropes are worn for a reason.”
Cloud Retainer does not even call her “little one”. Shenhe knows what this implies.
“My apologies,” she says, even though she knows that apologising does nothing for the souls lost.
Cloud Retainer does not have much else to say. The crane turns away, and flies off.
“It seems that our training is inadequate. It is late, little one. Rest now. We shall intensify your training tomorrow, lest you undergo such a rampage yet again.”
Shenhe picks up the red ribbons, and carefully secures them around her body. She feels her heart quieten, and when she looks back to the bodies, her guilt is washed away.
Any notion of giving them a rite is forgotten. Shenhe remembers to live life, by only preserving herself. She draws away, departing, forgetting the few things left which make her human.
~ * ~
Red, like the eyes of the demon her father summoned.
He never loved her, perhaps.
It does not hurt when she thinks this. It is some form of clinical evaluation, objectively seeing the facts for herself. She wanders the place she once called home, now adorned with snow-white cobwebs, and layers of ashen dust.
Perhaps, her lonesome fate could have been avoided, if she just resembled her mother a little more. Things she had told herself to forget, come rushing back the moment she chose to step into such a place, laden with nostalgia, with horror and existential dread. Things that threaten to uproot her careful training, her practised control — she does not know why she chose to dig such a grave for herself.
She meant nothing to her closest kin. She was merely a tool to aid his obsession, something to be disposed of when her usefulness had been exhausted.
It is disappointing to remember such things, but when she clutches at her ribbons, her heart is stilled.
A stranger in her own home, she roams, curious, careful, collected. Studies the libraries of ancient books, weathered away by moths. Brushes away the dust from a scroll, hoping to see something about herself, but the ink has long faded.
She puts it back where she found it, with some uncharacteristic gentleness in her motions.
Does she still care, then? Why does she seek to preserve it, if she does not?
She wants to rip off those very same ribbons which keep her from killing everyone staring at her, whispering about her, and to finally feel, feel; what is this emotion which digs at her chest? What is this annoyance she wants to crush under her fingers? What is this evil she cannot exorcise from her own body?
She wants to burn them in the same red fires which danced before her eyes as her father prepared that ritual. She wants to know, she wants to know, what is it, what is it, what is it?
She clutches at the ribbons once again, battling with herself, and eventually lets go.
She cannot know.
Her grip loosens. Her hand returns to her side. She can only stare, as if committing this sight to memory, because she knows she will never return.
When she leaves, she does it resolutely. She does not falter. She does not turn back.
So why is it that, with every slow step she takes, it only feels heavier and heavier?
~ * ~
Red, like the colour of her hands when she wakes up from her sleep.
Another nightmare. A child with a cursed fate, bearing the star of calamity. Someone destined to be alone. Someone… No, no one. For who is she, if she is not allowed anywhere, if no one is there to perceive her? Does she even exist? Is living like this even existence? Is it truly living?
Something in her wants more. There is more to this than desolation. There is more to this than the loneliness that never seems to end.
Whenever she turns, she acquires many names. Adeptus, if she had done what is considered good by the people of Liyue. Demon, if she had faltered, stumbled, failed, or acted a little too cruelly.
Human, if she… No. She was never human to begin with. Or at least, no one believed her to be as such.
She wonders, when was such a fragment of her identity lost? Was it when she slayed the demon on her own? Was it when she combed her hair with the white jade comb? Or was it gradual, insidious even, with each homicidal rampage she partook in, and forgetting to honour the lives lost in the way?
She wants to despair, but realises she cannot. Not with these ribbons binding her soul, and not if she wants to maintain that facade of being human.
To feel. Is that not a part of being human as well?
Shenhe does not know. If Cloud Retainer holds no answers to such questions, then how could Shenhe be expected to have them?
Shenhe waits, and waits, and waits, for an epiphany to hit her. She waits for a sign in the stars, the very same things which promise her cursed future, her lonesome fate, and asks if she will ever be human enough for Liyue to accept.
~ * ~
Perhaps this is why she gravitates towards some people.
A certain someone with a pure-yang spirit, who knows all too well how it feels to repress and hold back one’s desires and emotions. Though not as deadly as her own temper, Shenhe finds relief and solace in such a person.
“Xiaoyi!”
Her nephew, but only by technicality. Chongyun, she remembers, the only one she will go through countless troubles for, the only one she will forget her motto of ruthless efficacy for, the one she cherishes just like she had once cherished her father.
“A’yun,” she says, smiling.
That same smile is reflected on his face, and for some reason, she feels warmth.
Family.
Her younger brother, but only by her definition. Chongyun, who knows her heart. Chongyun, who fights alongside her. Chongyun, who binds her to the mortal realm.
He tells her about the new date she will be reinstated into the family, an auspicious date, he emphasises, with a grand reception. Everyone has been waiting for your return. The paperwork has been done. You’re going to be accepted into our clan again, our lost disciple. My mother’s meimei. My xiaoyi.
Shenhe wants to tell him that she has no need for such things, but stops herself. For a moment, she becomes what she despises about others, for she holds her tongue, she is no longer straight forward, she now beats around the bush.
Something inside her tells her not to say it. Because that will shatter the careful illusion she has put forth, the way the ice on the lake broke and the reflection was ruined. Something tells her that that smile she cultivated will fall, if only for a moment, and Shenhe does not like having her efforts go to waste.
(After all, Shenhe is tired of being the only one waiting.)
“I look forward to it,” she says; truth, but only by technicality.
That smile she cultivated — it grows on its own.
Perhaps, the crane has already returned home.