Archive of Our Own

When Xiao finds you, it is in the bamboo forest, as it always is. He searches between the stalks looking for signs of movement—a bent stalk here, some flattened leaves there—while the lightness of his feet never betrays the grim weight inside his chest. The night is dark, and the bamboo rises like metal bars around him. Paths he has trodden after you many times seem narrower, harder to follow.

The last time he saw you, you told him to leave out of shame. I don’t want you to see what I’ve become, you said. He thought it foolish that you’d suppose his opinion of you changed for it, but still, he had gone as you asked him to, because he can never deny what you ask of him.

Looking for you as he does now, he wonders whether it was the wrong choice to make.

He locates you, eventually, by the Sandbearer tree. Of course, he thinks with the crumpled shadow of a smile. Even in madness, you return here. Perhaps the dim memories of kinder times still flicker somewhere in the depths of your subconsciousness; perhaps you—or whatever is left of you—still feels a tug of familiarity towards this place. 

For a moment, he sees you again as that young, bright beacon, and his heart throbs with the fading gold image of those precious lost days. 

The first time Xiao met you, you were a nervous addition to the yaksha’s forces. Outgoing as ever, even in times of war, Bosacius always made a matter of introducing the recruits to the rest of the troops. ‘To welcome them to the family’, he said whenever asked why. Even when, centuries later, the yaksha’s forces grew smaller and ravaged by karma, Bosacius kept this tradition until the day he vanished. 

Xiao never saw the point in such a thing himself: it was unlikely anybody would remember these yaksha’s names or even see them again beyond lifting their body from the battlefield when they were lucky enough to recover it. Nevertheless, under Bosacius’ insistence, he watched as you, like every other yaksha, was taken forwards and introduced to a half-hearted assembly of gathered warriors. This was back when the yaksha were newly formed, and victory still seemed within reach. 

“They may be small, but they’re a brilliant shot with a bow,” Bosacius declared, his booming voice reaching the furthest stretches of the makeshift training camp. Given how the adeptus dwarfed your quivering body, Xiao wouldn’t have guessed it. “Modest about their capabilities, but it’s nothing a little time can’t fix, and I’m sure you’ll adjust quickly, no?” He addressed this last part to you and waited for you to say something. You seemed to miss the implication of the silence, because your eyes remained fixed on the floor and your shoulders hunched close together. You had horns reminiscent of a deer’s which Xiao couldn’t help but compare to your nervous stance: you looked terrified out of your mind, ready to bolt at any moment. He wondered how suited you truly were for war if you could barely handle this crowd. 

Bosacius cleared his throat. He clapped you on the shoulder and asked to break the growing silence, “Well, then, is there anything more you’d like to say?”

You mumbled something barely audible which must have been a ‘no’, because Bosacius nodded and said no more. You immediately scurried away from the assembly with your head hung low. A slight pang of sympathy rose inside Xiao as you went: he’d seen enough of these kinds of skittish recruits to know you wouldn’t last long in battle. 

The crowd dispersed, and Xiao thought little about you until he passed by the archery stalls on a patrol around the camp, where he spotted you shooting at the moving targets. Curious, he hung back and observed you for a moment. Your posture was steady and your draw was swift and clean—signs he recognised as those of a skilled archer—and you hit most of the vital areas drawn onto the targets with success. Occasionally, your arrows strayed a little too far out, likely due to the fact that he could see you still shaking. You mumbled a curse as your last arrow embedded itself in one of the target’s wooden jaws, an inch or so above the marked ‘fatal’ spot on the neck.

It seemed Bosacius had spoken the truth: though you lacked confidence, it would be incorrect to say you didn’t have the potential to become a formidable warrior in your own right. When you were focused, your shots were fast, accurate, and if on flesh, deadly. Perhaps you’d survive a few battles yet.

He moved past the archery stalls to survey the rest of the camp, before heading to the bamboo forest nearby to train himself once it grew dark a few hours later. Bamboo was good for practice: it varied in strength, and grew back quickly when cut. It was not for training physical strength, but agility. If Xiao imagined the leaves as blades, he could duck between them, light on his feet, sending stalks falling in wide arcs around him. 

Usually, he trained until dawn, but today, only an hour or so after he began, he was made to stop. His ears had caught wind of a faint tune travelling down from deeper inside the forest. He lowered his spear and cocked his head to one side, narrowing his focus on the sound. It sounded plucked, but he couldn’t place the instrument. 

Could it be a human? he wondered, but shook his head as soon as the thought arose. No, the scouts would have reported any human activity nearby. This place ought to be uninhabited. 

Yet this melody was certainly not his imagination. He knew of nobody else besides himself who played an instrument among the yaksha, so who could this be? Warily, he followed the tune, stepping quietly through the forest as an assassin might as he approaches his target. Once close, he stopped. The sound came from just beyond here. 

Xiao pushed aside a leafed branch and peered through the underbrush, squinting between the trees. To his surprise, the one his eyes landed on was the young, timid yaksha from before, sitting on a stone in the grass. Your bow and quiver were propped up against a Sandbearer tree, exchanged in favour of a pipa. Your fingers struck the strings with effortless speed and fluidity which spoke of years of mastery. The way you held yourself exuded quiet confidence, so stark a difference from the timid, withdrawn stature you had worn before. A smile was settled comfortably over your features, and a sparkle danced in your eyes. Adept as you may be with a bow, Xiao could not help but feel it was this instrument which was truly your calling.

As you played, your eyes drifted across the surrounding forestry. They met his in the underbrush. Your fingers fumbled and a wrong note cut harsh through the air. In less than a moment, you were holding your bow, arrow notched and aimed at his head. You may be quick, but Xiao could see your arms were trembling, and fear had fast replaced that confident glimmer in your eyes. 

He stepped out from the underbrush. His movements were slow, careful not to risk igniting your fear. Xiao raised his hands before him; once you saw he carried no weapons, your frame relaxed somewhat, but distrust was still written in every line of your body. You had yet to lower your bow. For whatever reason, he was struck with the desire to calm you.

“I mean you no harm.” He spoke slowly, approaching you as he would a wild animal. “I heard your playing and came to investigate. That is all.” You swallowed, but didn’t shift your aim. He scoured for something to say which may calm you. His eyes fell to the pipa lying in the grass. “I… play an instrument, too.”

Your eyes widened, this time with a hint of curiosity which broke through your apprehension. The tension in your bow fell by a fraction as you loosened your pull on the string. “R-really?”

Xiao was struck by how small your voice was. Just how young were you? Nonetheless, speaking to you seemed to be working. He continued. “Yes. The dizi.”

“Oh.” You shifted in place, bringing to mind a skittish fawn. In that hushed voice of yours, you said, “I… I never knew any other yakshas played music.”

He dipped his head. A few seconds of silence passed. Xiao searched for something else to say. “Your bowmanship is good,” was what he landed with. “I saw you in the training field earlier.”

You stiffened and looked away, covering your face with your hands. “Y-you saw that?” 

“Is there something to be ashamed of?”

“My shots are usually much better,” you said dejectedly. “I was, um, shaking too much to aim properly.” 

“On a moving battlefield, you do not need complete accuracy,” he pointed out. “Your enemies are larger than your training targets; as long as you can hit them, you have fulfilled your duty as a yaksha.”

You said something from behind your palms. Even with his acute hearing, Xiao struggled to catch it. 

“What?”

“That’s exactly it,” you repeated, toeing the floor. “I don’t want to be on the battlefield.”

He blinked, dumbfounded. “Then why did you decide to join the yaksha?”

You mumbled below your voice, “I couldn’t watch everyone else do their part in the war while I sat by and watched.” 

“So you are afraid, then,” he concluded. You shook your head with a quiet laugh. 

“Who wouldn’t be?” 

“What of?”

You frowned at him like he was missing the obvious. “Death, of course. Of something happening to me which means I can never return.” You paused, eyeing him with suspicion. “Why aren’t you afraid?”

“I am one of the Five,” he answered. The meaning spoke for itself.

Your jaw fell open. Still gawking, you asked, “W-which one?”

“General Alatus,” he replied, with a gesture towards the mask hanging at his belt.

“And your real name?”

“…Xiao.”

“Wow,” you breathed. “So you’re so strong that you… don’t have to fear death?” He nodded. Your fingers twisted at the hem of your clothes. “Then… what are you afraid of?”

Catching him off-guard, the question struck him dumb. Memories of blood, snow, corpses burst behind his eyes. He was a quivering young child, looking so much like yourself. His shock must have shown on his face, because you lowered your eyes and apologised moments later. 

“…I am afraid of losing my flute,” he offered as an answer to lighten the mood. You looked away with a momentary smile twitching at your features, and curiously enough, Xiao felt on his face one of his own.

“You must be very courageous, if that’s the only thing you fear.” The words ‘unlike me’ hung silent but heavy in the air.

Xiao shook his head. “There is nothing courageous about facing what you do not fear. Bravery is born of staring into the eyes of what you fear and refusing to surrender.” 

“…Even if you lose?”

“Even if you lose.” 

Your eyes fell to the floor. Despite the comfort he’d attempted, you still looked unconvinced. Your fingers drummed an anxious rhythm on your bow. Xiao tilted his head to one side, wondering at your character. You were hardly in danger in the present moment: why was it that you were still on edge? Was the mere thought of the battlefield enough by itself to make you uneasy?

“Are you… truly so afraid of death?” he asked. Your head dipped in a nervous twitch of a nod. Xiao scrutinised you more closely, and it was then that he realised why he felt so strongly this odd wish to comfort you: it was like peering into a mirror. You resembled him closely, painfully so, as he had been all those years ago; a timid, scared, lonely thing, isolated from love and with nobody to rely on. He wondered what you must be escaping from that made you prefer the battlefield over staying.

Since Rex Lapis gave him the chance to begin a new life, Xiao knew that, had he been given a chance to protect the child he had once been, placate its fear, reassure it even slightly, he would have done all he could. Now, faced with one who looked so much like himself, given the chance to do just that, he knew he would go to the ends of the earth to prevent you knowing the same life he had.

Stepping forwards, he met your eye and vowed, “I will make sure nothing happens to you.”

The little smile you flashed him was fleeting. “It’s difficult to keep promises on the battlefield.”

Xiao shook his head. “I keep my promises.”

You are curled up by the base of the tree. Your legs are drawn up into your chest like you’re protecting yourself from an invisible foe. Not cowering, he notices. He distantly recalls something he said to you, once, about courage and the refusal to surrender. 

He still stands by those words, but he regrets—always regretting—telling them to you. You did not need to be brave. Cowardice would have been kinder.

Your hands are clutching your head as wreaths of black smoke rise from your body. In the silence, he can hear you caught in a sound somewhere between a whimper and a groan. 

His next step breaks a twig. Your head snaps up. Bloodshot eyes fix onto him from across the clearing and you leap backwards, hackles raised as you pace like a caged predator in front of the tree. He searches in vain for a glimmer of those wide, expressive eyes he used to know, and finds nothing.

Wherever ‘you’ are, it is not here. It is not the thing which has stolen your body and is staring back at him like a stranger. 

Xiao raises his hands in front of him, approaching as he would a wild animal. He can not be certain at the moment which movements will provoke you to flee and which to attack. In his right hand he holds not a spear but your pipa. Your eyes dart to the instrument. From your reaction, he can not be certain you recognise it. 

After a morning of training on a warm afternoon, you were sitting by your Sandbearer tree again, contentedly plucking a tune on your pipa. Xiao found you sitting by the trunk when he followed the familiar sound again. The sunlight peeking through the canopy fell like gold leaf across your face. He lingered behind the trees and listened, careful to keep quiet and not alarm you like the last few times. You were growing more comfortable around him, but there was progress yet to be made. 

As he waited there, his mind wandered to your bright melody. By chance, he had brought his dizi with him today. On a whim, he pulled it out and joined your music with a line of his own. Your playing stopped abruptly. By the time Xiao realised he was the only one still playing, your initial shock had been transformed to awe, and he found you were staring up at him from the tree, rather indiscreetly. He lowered the flute and raised a brow towards you. You coughed and lowered your eyes to the ground, drawing your limbs into yourself. A twinge of guilt surfaced inside him: he hadn’t meant to disconcert you.

“If you’d like,” he began, and you raised your head slightly to look at him, peering at him with wide, watery eyes, “I can teach you how to play the flute.”

This brought you out of your shell. “Really?” you stammered out. He nodded. 

“Wait here for a moment. I will make you one.”

Bright curiosity shone in your eyes as you watched him walk a little way into the woods, where he stopped at a bamboo stalk. He summoned his polearm and cut off a length of bamboo, then skillfully hollowed it out and scored the surface with holes faster than your eyes could follow. He inspected his handiwork, made a few corrections, played a note, made a few more corrections, and returned to your tree all in the span of no more than half a minute.

He handed you the makeshift flute. “It is far from perfect, but…”

“It’s amazing,” you breathed. 

Xiao inclined his head, glad that you liked it if nothing else. 

“Hold it like this.” He demonstrated, placing his left thumb and three fingers over the fingerholes in the lower half of the flute’s body, followed by the right in a similar position just behind his left hand. “Your two thumbs and the little finger of your right hand support the flute. You should be able to hold it with just those fingers if you lift the others away.” You followed his example. The flute wobbled a little, likely more down to its haphazard creation than your own mistake, and stabilised a moment later.

“Now bring it to your mouth horizontally, with the membrane hole—no, the one to the right of that—under your lower lip. The flute you’re holding doesn’t have a membrane, so it will sound different to mine, but it can still be played.” You nodded, adjusting your position as he spoke. “Relax your shoulders.” He inspected your form for a moment, and, satisfied, instructed, “Now try to play a note.”

You swallowed and tried to do so. The note which sounded was low and feeble, barely audible above the passing breeze. 

“Use steadier breathing, and aim your breath deeper into the instrument.”

You tried again. The sound shook less, but was still quiet and airy.

“Harder.”

Almost there. 

“Again.”

This time, the note came forth clear. 

Xiao nodded. “Good. Now move your fingers so they cover these holes instead, like this.” He looked at your hands. “Middle finger down, not your index. Lift your index finger.”

“Sorry.”

He shook his head. “It is just another way of making music. There is no need to be nervous. Lower your shoulders, or the stiffness will constrict your breathing—good. Now play again.”

This note was better than your first attempt, but he could tell your nerves had slipped back in. 

“Remember what I said. You want a steady sound, so you need to breathe steadily, too.” You tried again. He sighed. “No. Take a deeper inhale beforehand. Watch me.” You watched closely, and took his advice without complaint. “Once more. Relax.”

Finally, after some time, the notes you played were consistently bright and full. He nodded approvingly. “Very good,” he said, and you glowed under the praise. 

“I think I’m better suited for stringed instruments,” you admitted with a sheepish smile, lowering the makeshift dizi. Hardly a moment later, your eyes widened, alight with an idea. You all but blurted, “Wait, what if I teach you how to play the pipa?” 

Catching yourself immediately in your own excitement, you covered your mouth and apologised quietly, withdrawing into yourself once more. Xiao observed this with an inward sigh; he was slowly managing to coax you out of your walls, but even now you had yet to be fully confident around him. Gently, he lowered one of your hunched shoulders and said, “I would like that very much.”

That little smile of yours flickered across your face. “O-okay.” 

You lifted the instrument from the tree trunk and handed it over to him; Xiao received the pipa carefully, aware of the attachment you held for it. 

“Okay. Um.” You hesitated. “So, you need to put it on your legs, like—yes, like that, but a bit higher up—and then the fingerboard sort of goes across your left shoulder.” 

Once the instrument felt comfortable against his shoulder and not slipping from his lap, he looked down at the strings and prompted, “How is it played?”

You gasped. “Oh, hang on, you’ll need to take my plectra for that. It’s good I have a spare pair.” You dug around in your clothes for a moment before you presented him with four ring-like accessories with points on the end. He took them from your palm and slipped them on the ends of his fingers. Interesting, he thought, inspecting the plectra closely.

“You, um, pluck it, by the way,” you explained. “W-which you could probably already tell. Your right hand does that. The plucking, I mean. Your left hand goes on the frets. Try, uh…” You rubbed your neck. “Could I take it for a second, actually? To demonstrate some techniques. They’re hard to explain.”

Xiao complied and handed the pipa over to you. You thanked him quietly and positioned it on your lap as you’d told him. The fingers of your left hand pressed down on the fretboard, your right hovering above the strings. You took a breath, then rolled your fingers over the top string in a rapid tremolo, keeping the sound continuous while your left hand slid up and down the frets in a simple yet elegant melody. You slowed your hand a minute later and plucked a final, low note. 

“This technique is called lunzi. It’s… just a long tremolo, really. Here; you try.”

His eyebrows rose at your phrasing of ‘just a tremolo’, but nonetheless he took back the instrument and did his best to mimic your fluid movements; an attempt which fell flat almost as soon as it started. The strings were dull and refused to respond as they had to your touch. 

“Um. Wait.” Xiao stilled his hand. “Sorry. Just… you need to pluck outwards, not inwards.” You reached over and demonstrated, making almost a flicking motion with your finger. “And then you do that with your whole hand. Like this.”

He watched carefully, realising his previous error. No wonder the strings had sounded so different. “I understand now. Thank you.”

“You can start slower if you want, too. I did it quite fast.”

Xiao tried again. His fingers were naturally quick, but the roll itself was uneven. He frowned and attempted to strike slower but with more force. You stopped him soon after with a soft apology.

“Your hand is a little stiff. That makes it harder to maintain a smooth sound. Go slowly, but keep your fingers relaxed.” A smile passed over your face. “I… suppose I know what you meant about being relaxed earlier, now.”

As Xiao played, you leaned inwards, squinting at his technique and offering advice where you could. By the time you lifted your head, you had moved terribly close to him, your face only a few inches away. Noticing your proximity, you flushed hotly and leapt backwards, stumbling out an apology. Xiao observed your reaction with a quirked brow and waited patiently for you to recover. 

“Maybe that technique’s a bit difficult to start with,” you admitted. “We should probably begin with single notes. I can teach you a melody instead. Can I… show you?”

Xiao gave the pipa back. You settled it comfortably on your lap and began to play a simple yet elegant melody, slowly paced, which unwound the tension in his shoulders and soothed his mind. Once finished, you returned the pipa to him. He looked down at the strings which you had so skilfully manipulated, now awaiting his own instruction. 

“Where did you hear this melody?” he asked.

“I… composed it myself,” you said with a bashful shrug. “I call it ‘Sojourner’s Sweet Dream’.”

“It’s very beautiful,” he said. You mumbled a small ‘thank you’ in reply. “How do you play it?”

“Well… your first finger starts on this fret, then your third finger goes here, and you pluck it with your right hand’s index finger—try not to touch the instrument with your arm—then put your fourth down…”

Eventually, under your guidance, Xiao grew confident in the melody. He played the ending note and glanced up to see what advice you had for him. To his surprise, your eyes were closed, and you were swaying gently from side to side. You opened your eyes to meet his: this time, when you smiled at him, it didn’t disappear.

As he approaches, he wonders, Are you still in there somewhere?

He wants to believe so, but all he can see is a creature who has ravaged your mind and tainted your heart and worn your face to taunt him. He’d known you for your kindness, your timid nature, the nervous but unwavering care you held for others. All of these traits he looks for in the dangerous sway of your body as he approaches you, step by step; but if they are there, he cannot find them. Do you think he is going to hurt you, or, judging by those tensed muscles, are you about to spring on him?

Either way, he knows you—the real you, not this false likeness—would never have done any of these things. The thing looking at him now is less than adeptus, less than human, a mindless creature caught between hatred and fear.

With you, at least, it had never been hatred.

He takes a step forward. The thing that isn’t you flinches. He ignores the painful contraction in his chest when you back away as he realises he doesn’t know whether he recognises you anymore.

I don’t want not to be myself anymore, you had begged him, and he had refused you: yet another choice he wonders whether he should have chosen differently. It is his own fault, his own selfish inability to let go, that has led you here. You wouldn’t have wanted him to see you like this; but he hesitated for too long, and now he has left you no choice. 

You promised, the mask of your face seems to jeer at him, mocking him for daring to think he could ever love without loss. You promised to keep them safe and look at where that got them.

Xiao shakes away the thought and lowers himself onto the stone you used to sit on. Your eyes are still fixed on him, unblinking and hollow. He sets your pipa on his lap, like you did years ago, and taps into the memory of a sweet dream you once taught him. First finger, third finger, fourth finger…

On the dawn of your first battle, Xiao found you pacing the archery stalls of the training ground. Some monsters had been spotted by scouts in the area, mutated from the remains of a fallen god. Xiao knew these kinds of creatures to be many in number but weak: as long as one maintained their stamina, few casualties would be suffered. 

You, on the other hand, knew nothing of them, and had no idea what to expect. Your quiver hung around your waist, stuffed full of arrows. You raised the bow and pulled back on the string, then lowered it and released the tension, again and again, practising your aim. 

He walked over. You brightened up when you saw him, if only a little. 

“How do you feel?” he asked; a needless question, but he knew conversation often settled your nerves. 

“Terrified,” you admitted with a nervous laugh. “I can b-barely,”—you swallowed—“hold my bow without dropping it.”

“Remember, you won’t be on the front lines. I have fought similar monsters to these before, and they don’t have the range to attack from a distance. As long as you maintain a distance, you will be safe.”

“‘Safe’ isn’t a word I’d ever use when describing a war,” you replied in a small voice.

A warhorn sounded in the distance, alerting everybody to their posts. Xiao took hold of your shoulder, his grip firm. You jolted. You were shaking like a leaf: he could practically taste your fear from here. His eyes, boring into your own, burned with conviction. “Remember what I told you. Nothing will happen to you.” He enunciated each word. “Is that clear?”

You swallowed and set your jaw. Meeting his eyes, stiffly, you nodded. 

Satisfied, Xiao inclined his head. He stepped back and summoned his mask over his face. Throwing you a final glance from the corner of his eye, he said, “Fight well. I will see you after the battle.”

You jump when he plays the opening note of the piece. This instrument was your lifeblood once, and he doesn’t know what you see in its place through those bloodshot eyes of yours which scares you so much. (What do you see in his place?)

Even so, as he plays, slow and deliberate so as not to make a mistake, he can see your frame relaxing from the corner of his eye, as he once did the first time he heard the melody. The tense line of your shoulders gradually falls. You tilt your head to one side, a gesture which once betrayed your curiosity. 

What, he wonders, are you feeling now?

The moment the enemy had fallen, Xiao pushed his way through ranks of yaksha until he found you. Save from some minor injuries here and there, you were untouched, sitting on the ground by your bow. He breathed a sigh of relief before heading closer. You looked up when you caught sight of him and shot him a smile of exhaustion. 

“Are you alright?” he asked when he reached you.

“I… I think so. I don’t know,” you replied. “I’m not hurt, but I feel a little strange.”

“Strange?” He crouched down beside you to inspect you closer, but saw nothing out of the ordinary beyond your face being a touch paler than usual. 

You nodded. “I don't know why. It doesn’t feel like an injury, more like… a headache, almost. But not just a headache. It feels hateful. Like there’s something angry inside my mind.” 

Xiao frowned, disliking your description. He had overheard some other yaksha speaking of similar symptoms; but these were likely a result of adrenaline after a battle, he reassured himself, or of prior stress. “Whatever it is, it will pass shortly.”

“I hope so,” you mumbled. “And you?”

“Me?”

“How are you?”

“Oh. I am well.”

“You don’t feel anything funny?”

“No.”

You smiled weakly. “Good.” 

His finger slips, and he strikes a wrong note. You flinch backwards as all the coiled tension returns to your body. He takes a breath to steady his hands, which have begun to shake without him noticing, and carries on. Now is not the time for mistakes.

The piece is short, so he repeats it over and over again until you calm down once more. Please, he wants to beg you, come back to me, but he is not certain you’d be able to hear him. No doubt the screeching cacophony inside your head would drown out what little he can scrape together of his voice. He wants to drop the instrument, to simply reach out and hold you, but he holds himself back, as he always does. He thinks you would hate him if he touched you when you’re like this.

Xiao would never forget the day you came to him after Indarias died. Until that moment, ‘headaches’ had been spreading like plague throughout the yaksha; Xiao himself had begun to feel them, too, but they were disregarded as post-war symptoms. Even when some yaksha went mad, it was drawn up to their inability to cope with the increasing pressure which came on the battlefield.

When Indarias fell, the wave of fear which rippled through the yaksha was tangible. Whatever these ‘headaches’ were, they had brought down one of the Five. Soon later, the yaksha had developed a name for the affliction: karmic debt, they called it. The price to pay for their aeons of slaughter, for daring to face the deadly hatred of gods.

Xiao knew he could withstand the symptoms of this karmic debt. His devotion to vanquishing these monsters was second to none, and no degree of pain would hinder him. For a yaksha such as yourself, who had never held his dedication nor matched his mental fortitude, he was not so certain. Though he didn’t let you see it, Xiao worried for you. He had sworn to keep you safe, but how could he protect you from an enemy inside your own head? 

You shared similar sentiments, because you called on him one night with both a confession and a request. 

“I can feel that I’m losing myself,” you confided to him in the hoarse shadow of a whisper. There was no wind in the forest that night, so quiet as it may be, your voice cleaved through the suffocating silence like an arrow. “With each passing day, I… I can feel it.” You raised your eyes to meet his. “I’m slipping, Xiao. This ‘karmic debt’… I’m not sure how much longer I can last.”

He pressed his lips together. “Don’t speak like that.”

“It’s true.”

His jaw tightened, but he had nothing to say. 

“Just… promise me one thing.”

His throat was dry as he nodded. 

“When I start going insane, kill me.”

Silence.

Firmly, he replied, “No.”

Your face fell. Your eyes, always so large and bright, swam with disappointment. “Why not?” you asked, and your voice was barely the imprint of sound. 

“Any other promise I will make you. Not this one.”

“Please,” you begged, holding his arm. “Every other wish of mine, you’ve granted. Why not this one?”

He shook your hand off. “I will not harm you,” he reiterated sharply. There was no room for opposition in his tone. “I will not say it again.”

“But I’m not even one of the Five. I’m hardly importa—”

“Don’t say that,” he snapped. 

You shrank away from the edge in his tone. He had never interrupted you before, much less raised his voice at you. In a trembling voice, you mumbled, “At least… at least take my pipa before something happens to me, then.”

He narrowed his eyes at you. If you gave away your instrument, it was akin to a goodbye: one he was not—and never would be—willing to make. You caught his hesitation and set your jaw in agitation.

“Look. I’m going to die, Xiao,” you hissed. He stiffened. “Don’t try to pretend I’m not because that won’t make it any less true. But I want it to be by your hand, because I wouldn’t want to die anywhere else. I won’t ask anything else of you again.” He opened his mouth to interject, yet you ploughed on, sparing him no time to speak. “I’ve seen how the other yakshas died, even those in the Five. Alone, and in pain, and terrified out of their minds. I don’t even recognise them by that point. I don’t want…” Your voice wavered. “I don’t want that to happen to me, too. I don’t want not to be myself anymore.”

His jaw was tight. He repeated coldly, “I cannot make you that promise. Never speak of this to me again.”

Your mouth pressed into a thin line. You withdrew your hands and, in silence, left him alone in the forest.

The next morning, he found your pipa leaning against the tree. The next time you saw it, he was playing it to you.

Xiao thinks something died between you then, the first and only time you made that request. After his refusal, you grew more distant from him with time. 

He had thought it unthinkable, when you told him what you wanted. Of all the blood he had stained his hands with, yours was one he would never dare touch, not even a drop. When he’d sworn to keep you safe all that time ago, he had meant what he said. 

This was before he was forced to watch, day after day, as you succumbed slowly to madness in pain, mistrust, and loneliness. The brightness of your eyes faded into what he sees staring back at him now: a stare of little more than an animal fuelled by primal fear and hunger, barely recognisable as your own. If there is any flicker of recognition towards him in your gaze, he can not locate it.

Still, you do not run from him, and for that he is grateful. 

He sets down the pipa once you have calmed down. Still, your eyes follow his every movement, darting between him and the instrument once he’s placed it on the floor. He lowers himself into a crouch: the smaller he is, the less of a threat you will see in him. (He pushes down the thought that you see him as a threat at all: if he lingers on it too long, he is afraid he will fall apart.)

I won’t hurt you, he wants to reassure you, but his throat chokes and prevents him from speaking the words. He has never been good at lying—he hopes he isn’t lying. Instead, he holds out his hand. Come, says the action. He hopes his eyes look warm. There is no need to be afraid.

You narrow your eyes on his palm. Your gaze is wary, flicking from his face to his hand. In turn, he regards you patiently. Tentatively, you take a single step forward. Then a second. Shrink back as soon as you do. Xiao doesn’t move. However long you take, he is willing to wait. For you, he will always be willing to wait. A third step. You shake your head, backing away with a confused cry. Are you still in there somewhere, fighting to take his hand, or is it only the demon speaking?

It could be for hours that he sits there, hand outstretched, waiting for you to take it as you waver back and forth and back again. By minute fractions, the space separating you diminishes. You are confused, he can see in the twitches of your head, and panicked, and distrustful. How scared must you have been, alone in the dark all this time while demons ate at your mind? Why had he not tried harder to be there for you when you began to lose your footing? 

With the next step, you reach out your arm towards him, then withdraw it just as fast. It is like the first time he met you here, vacillating between reclusiveness and openness, replayed in a dark mirror which turns everything upside down. 

All the time he’s spent with you, and he is back at the beginning again. 

You dare to reach out again. This time, your skin makes contact. He’s shocked by how cold your fingertips are. 

Lightly, slowly, he closes his fingers around your hand. You flinch, but don’t draw back. Pulling by your hand, he coaxes you closer inch by inch until you face him only an arm’s length away. Your pupils are dilated and tremble inside watery eyes which scan over his facial features with an emotion he cannot place. 

He doesn’t know whether or not you are in there, but when he closes his arms around you in a shaking embrace, you make no effort to resist him.

Months after you made your request, and only a few before this very moment, Xiao became convinced you were hiding from him. He asked after you, but you had never been known for telling others of yourself, and his questions were met with shrugs and apologies. Some said you may already be dead, but Xiao knew this could not be true: he would know it if you died. 

He began to search on his own around the areas he knew you lingered in, but the archery stalls and the forest were empty. He searched the whole camp, overturned every stone, yet you were nowhere to be seen.

One day, whether it be by chance or by fate, he found you at the outskirts of the forest. You were turned away from him, but he could tell by the shaking of your shoulders that you were crying. 

He felt himself freeze. In all the time he’d known you, despite all your fear, Xiao had never once known you to cry. In that brief moment, he didn’t care for distance or conduct or the fear of loss which had always prevented him from being completely open with you. He was overtaken with the need to pull you into his arms and wipe away your tears. 

But Xiao stopped himself, as he always did. If you had been purposefully avoiding him, an embrace may not be what you sought from him. Instead, he advanced slowly, unsure how you would react to his presence. The fact alone that he was unsure hurt him more than he would like to admit.

His shoe scuffed the ground. Your head whipped up at the sound. Fear flashed in your eyes and you leapt off the ground. Hardly a moment later you were on your feet and running from him, desperate to get away. 

“Wait,” he called after you, in a smaller voice than he’d meant. 

With your back turned to him, you paused—but your legs were tense, ready to run again at a moment’s notice. His heart felt like lead in his chest. Were you afraid of him?  

“I haven’t seen you recently.” He swallowed. Took a step closer. “Why?”

“I told you before,” you replied, not turning to look at him. Despite your tears, your voice was hollow and devoid of the furtive eagerness he knew you so well for. For a moment, Xiao was taken with the horrible sense that he didn’t know you anymore. Not like he used to. “I’m slipping. I’m trying, but I… I’m not strong enough. Not like you are.”

Gently, he said, “And this is why you’re hiding from me?”

A moment of hesitation. You nodded, so subtly he almost missed it. His throat was hoarse.

“Do… do you believe I think less of you for it?”

“…No.” Your hands tightened into shaking fists. You hung your head. “Please go, Xiao. If you won’t kill me, then go.”

“Is that the reason you have been avoiding me?” 

“No.” 

“Are you afraid of me?” 

“No.” 

“Then why…?” The rest of his sentence went unspoken. Why are you so distant? Why do you doubt how much I care for you? Why are you afraid to even look at me?

“Please. I want you to go.” He could hear the strain in your voice as you fought to keep it steady. 

“Once you give me a reason to, I will do so.”

Your shoulders stiffened. Even now, Xiao knew your mannerisms like the back of his hand, knew that you were passing your reply back and forth inside your head in uncertainty. 

There was a tremor in your voice when you finally answered, so softly he almost missed it, “I don’t want you to see what I’ve become.”

Xiao froze. He was struck, then, with the need to speak words which he had never voiced before; words which were raw and vulnerable and would burn his throat to say. He lingered, teetering on the precipice of love.

Clenching your jaw, you said, “You said you would leave.” 

The words died on his tongue. Xiao walked away as you wished, not daring to look back at the distance stretching between you. 

He folds you into his chest, holding you gently but close. Your skin is feverishly hot and your breathing fast and shallow. He can feel your heartbeat pounding through your ribs in an erratic pulse, the way you shake with fear and madness. His fingers graze your scalp, stroking back and forth, soothing you as one would a child. You press yourself closer to him like you’re trying to hide. 

Your heartbeat gradually slows to a regular pace. He feels you lean into his arms, your own arms coming to wrap around his torso, holding him like he is the last bastion of safety in a world which has fallen away beneath your feet, and one you want to stay with forever. (He, too, wants to stay forever.) He steels his heart as he guides your face to rest in the crook of his neck and places his hands lightly on your cheeks. Eyes falling closed, he savours the warmth of the embrace. 

A sharp crack, and it is all over. 

Xiao feels you sag against him. Your neck lolls onto his shoulder and is still. He takes a shuddering breath and cradles you closer, closing a fist around your hair. His heart pounds like the beats of a wardrum in his chest, so hard he can barely breathe. For a while he stares blankly into the distance: he doesn’t dare look down. 

There may be no tangible blood on his hands, but Xiao can feel it, sure and true, sticky between his fingers.

Slowly, he stands up, careful not to disturb your position in his arms. You almost slip from him as he rises, your limbs hanging loose where he doesn’t hold them. He can hear his own breathing, far too loud, as it shudders past his lips. 

He walks forwards some paces. The world swims in strange angles around him, dizzying and unfamiliar. Those few steps are the most difficult of his life. It is like he is learning how to walk again, unsure where to place his balance on this shifting earth, not knowing whether he drags his feet or the grass simply snags at them as they lift. He walks slowly, because he knows that should he stumble, you will fall from his arms, and he will not be able to pick you up again. 

When he reaches the Sandbearer tree, he lays you gently down on the ground, trying not to think about how small your body is. (You were barely a child when all this started. All of you were. You hadn’t known what you were getting into—none of you had.) The moonlight bathes the peaceful planes of your face in silver. The shadows hang soft across your face, like cobwebs of another time he can banish with a brush of his fingers. The illusion of movement stirs your expression as these shadows shift with a single sigh of wind. Your eyes are closed; you look as though only sleeping. 

Xiao turns his head away. He hopes that your dreams, whatever they may be, are sweet. 

Some hours later, his fingernails are caked with earth. A mound of earth rises beside a deep pit, dug from nothing but cupped palms and unwavering persistence. Roots break through the pit here and there which he hasn’t been able to break. He tried, but they were too firm, so he left them there. 

He turns towards you, still sleeping silently in the moonlight. He looks back down at his filthy palms and, disgusted by them, wipes them on his trousers: he can’t touch you with such dirty hands. The dust cakes away from his skin, but he can’t get the rusty stain off them, no matter how hard he wipes, even when his palms are raw from trying. 

He swallows and kneels down beside you, lifting you up from your legs and the back of your shoulders. You aren’t as warm as you were a few hours ago. The weather is hardly cold tonight: why are you already going cold?

Reverently, he lowers you into the hole. His arms tremble, but not from your weight. You weigh barely anything at all. He tries his best to avoid resting you on the roots. If only he could have gotten rid of those roots. 

It looks like something is missing. You are missing something. He looks around and his eyes land on a flower growing near the base of the tree. He doesn’t know what kind it is, or whether you would have liked it, but he picks it anyway. He tries to tuck it behind your ear, but his fingers are shaking and it keeps falling off, so he places it on your chest instead. Dazed, he steps back and pushes the mound of earth over you until it is filled up, but there is still some left over on the side when he is finished. Oh, he thinks, of course. You are taking up some of the space now. He lifts your pipa from the grass and props it up against the tree trunk. Then he sinks to his knees and cries. 

No matter what you become, he had wanted to say that last time he saw you, I will love you regardless. 

If he had said so, would it have changed anything? 

No, he supposes. No, it wouldn’t have: Xiao had always known this would end with him putting you in the ground.