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Warning(s): G, none
By the gloss of the silvery moon, Rèn's dreams trespass between the borders of dreams and nightmares. They are two threads that entwine, snag, fray, knot... and bleed red.
The hóng xiàn, Jǐng Yuán had told him idly. The Red String of Fate.
Hóng Xiàn… could he cut it? His mind traitorously migrated to the time when they perched on an outcropping of stone and imbibed pútáojiǔ, cheeks warm from intoxication and familiarity. The Imbibator Lunae would quote passages of poetry so solemnly, so distantly. Rèn would listen quietly, but nothing could defeat the murmur of longing that brewed hot and cold in his breast.
Hóng Xiàn… could he braid it? Dān Héng fought with a brilliance that befitted the Vidyādhara, the echoes of the long-dead Aeon contained in the immortal’s brilliant poise and footwork. Rèn refused to admit his admiration in the one he was steadyingly teaching the forging arts to, but few could deny the way his gaze crept over when he and Jǐng Yuán spurred with one another, the two generals creating a masterpiece on the battlefield, a fray he longed to be apart of. They were a daydream, a spectacle; one he couldn’t dream of missing.
Hóng Xiàn… could he dye it another color? Kafka’s voice had been soothing and kind when she’d found him, passing between a blur and a dream as she treated him with the gentleness he was unused to. She charitably led him through these new and blurry phases, something other than the cruel impalement of his master’s sword driven deep into his flesh. Rèn remembered the spearpoint that had driven through his heart again and again, the puerile Silver Wolf quietly asking why he was crying. Absently, he touched the tear tracks that stung his skin and burned his fingertips at the realization.
Hóng Xiàn… could he tie it to someone else? His nights were disturbed, sleep unable to be found. The moon that had once brought him so much solace had become lonesome and taunting. It wasn’t a cruel taunt, mocking him from afar. It was forlorn and beautiful, reminding him of the one he’d so adored, whose beauty he yearned to touch but wondered if proximity would taint and defile. Rèn wondered if there was a price to be paid for coming too close to Imbibitor Lunae, of coveting the moon himself.
Hóng Xiàn…
Hóng Xiàn…
Hóng Xiàn…
Rèn gazed at the bracer that adorned his forearm, an article he rarely removed. It made him feel a myriad of things: resentment, rage, longing, bitterness, sorrow, a yearning for someone he’d never see again, who had betrayed trust and vulnerability so terrible they felt like thorns constricting his heart with every labored beat.
Perhaps it was why he longed for death so ardently. A pretender wore his dearest’s face, and the one he adored more than anything was dead and gone. The bonds forged had long since been broken, tossed haphazardly, and strewn like exposed seeds for the carrion crows to plunder and scavenge with how little there was left.
Rèn had become a scarecrow, a mockery of the man he’d once been. A general, a weaponsmith, a teacher, a comrade, and a friend… but no more. What point was there in living if what he’d become could barely be counted among the living? A monster, a Nameless… a thing. How could he be called alive if even the one he loved was no longer whole, too?
Despair was an unwilling name to designate the stasis he was in. Bitterness, vengefulness… those sounded angry and productive and like they could compel him to one final goal. But, despair? Despair was roots in the earth and feet on the ground. It was a refusal to continue, the antithesis to anyone who might ever dare call themselves a warrior. A warrior fought for their loves, their friends, their family, their community…
Except, he didn’t have those anymore, did he? To become a Stellaron Hunter was a means to an end, a stepping stone toward the release he so desperately craved. Kafka could give him that, and then—finally, then…
Maybe he would find more than rest, more than salvation or peace, but a paradise. Rèn didn’t know what would come after for someone like him, but he hoped it would mean boastful contests of strength with Jǐng Yuán, sunrises and sunsets with his disciples, long nights spent reciting poetry and drinking beneath a grinning moon with Inbibitor Lunae when the activity of the day and long since wound down and the lights of the stars from their celestial perches accompanied them through their somber but heartwarming exchanges with the moon.
He yearned for the past like a lover, for his was dead and gone and nothing but a taunting phantom remained. His rest would be long and sweet.
And maybe, just maybe, those beloved from the past would be there with him. Perhaps it would be more than just an afterlife playing his happiest memories in succession, but a new world among those scattered across the cosmos where they could create a new life together. A world that had no right to exist, that no simulation would entertain nor Aeon grant for the wish of a lone, desperate man from a sea of faces that lived across every world and held prayers more worthy of being granted than his could ever hope to become in his wildest fantasies.
Rèn brushed his fingertips along the worn material of the bracer, memorizing every scuff and dent and chip like it was an old, familiar friend. And maybe it was because it was all he had left of him. Of those small, sturdy hands that held the spear he’d painstakingly crafted. Of those cool green eyes that shifted between hues of gray and blue in just the right beam of light, or slant of darkness when they glowed ethereally through the gloom. A gate to heaven he would never trespass through again; a pristine memory that would grow old and fade with time.
Narrowing his eyes with a malcontent frown, he screwed them shut and prayed something close to death would finally claim him.