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Nezha didn't even know why he was here.
Here, in the dull and lifeless island of Speer, in the island where people of the Phoenix flourished, danced with the fire, and burned into ash—the Dead Island. Bones of those who once thrived here were buried under the sand.
The bones of the girl he once loved might be buried under the sand too.
Knowing that made Nezha’s heart ache. Knowing that Rin died by his hand made him drown in remorse. But he was well aware that it was who Rin killed herself, and he knew for what reason.
Yet, all of the thoughts in his mind told him that he killed her.
He walked around the island with a million thoughts and memories coming back to him. Guilt was pooling in his chest. He hoped to get it to go away as he stepped on the pale sand.
“Fix this.”
A voice echoed. But it didn't come from anywhere. It felt like it came from Nezha's mind, but he wished it came from her. No one was there, yet he felt inclined to look anyway. Nezha immediately turned around, seeing nothing but the desolate sand and bones scattered here and there. He kept walking.
Nezha has fixed this. After years of meticulous planning, pondering about the future, and devoting his time to saving his country, Nikan was finally prosperous, free, and beautiful.
He wished that everyone he once knew could see that. But he was alone. He had many other wishes. Wishes that would only be wishes, nothing more.
He wished that his father finally told him that he was proud of him, he wished that he could talk with Venka and Kitay like they used to when they were kids…
He wished to see Rin. To just see her. He didn't even have to hear her voice to feel satisfied. Seeing her was his greatest wish. Just a simple glimpse of her.
That might be why he was looking for her.
“It’s not for you. It’s not a favor. It's the cruelest thing I could do.”
Good, Nezha thought to himself as he walked, if it was for me, if it was a favor, I would’ve broken in front of you. I would've cried for you to stay.
Nezha never cried about Rin. Maybe in his sleep, at his most vulnerable state. But he couldn't recount a time he cried about her. He was too numb, too tired. He couldn't even try crying.
Grief was like an unbearable disease in his chest that was ripping him apart, but it wasn’t enough to kill him. It was torturing him and it was constantly there; it developed to be a part of him. His thoughts felt heavier every time he remembered the last time he was on Speer.
Nezha hated remembering that time. Yet, he couldn't stop looking back to it. After all, it was the time that made Nezha keep going, giving him a boost to save Nikan. He remembers Kitay’s dead body beside him, the sounds of Hesperian dirigibles approaching, the feeling of holding Rin’s tiny, lifeless body that was still warm, and knowing that it would be the last time he would ever see her. It was still so vivid in his mind.
When he got off of Speer and reported what happened to Rin and Kitay, the Hesperians were elated. It was news worth a massive celebration.
He remembers how the Hesperians praised the Maker for helping them remove Chaos in Nikan. He remembers how songs worshipping the Maker were played all night long, the songs playing over and over again that even if he hated those songs, it was stuck in his head.
He remembers the plays that people were starting to make based on what happened to Rin, how he immediately thought that these plays would just be propaganda for the Maker. He could remember how everyone—generals, soldiers, even civilians, congratulated and thanked him for killing the ‘monster’; he couldn't even remember his thoughts during this.
He could remember how everyone practically laughed at how Rin died. And all of these things made him so sick to the stomach that he vomited that night after Rin and Kitay’s death.
Nezha reached a familiar location. A square table and three chairs; a tea set and writing materials on the table. He didn't even want to look anymore. The mere glance of these harmless things brought unwanted memories, crashing into his mind like a massive wave.
This was the place where it all ended and the place where it all began. Where Nezha began to be truly alone, where his journey to save Nikan began, where Kitay's bones laid, where Rin’s bones were buried under the sand.
He felt like his heart was being squeezed.
Nezha stood there quietly, memories of having conversations with the people he cared about going through his mind. He was reminded of Sinegard days; competing against his classmates, having stupid feuds with Rin, and climbing up ranks to the very top. He was reminded of those short yet sweet moments with Rin, practicing with her, talking with her, how he kissed her.
But he was also reminded of the times he hurt her. How he stabbed her in the back, how he fought against her, and how small she was as she faded away.
After a few moments of mindlessly gazing upon the table, spacing out and thinking deeply, he realized something.
The teapot was steaming. The table was unusually tidy.
Nezha immediately approached the table further to investigate the tea.
“What the fuck?” Nezha muttered to himself, opening the lid of the teapot. The light smell of longjing tea went through Nezha's nose as the hot steam touched his half-scarred face.
Instinctively, he looked around and faced west—he immediately felt sick in his stomach. A small sailing boat was on the horizon, slowly, but surely, getting closer.
This wasn't reality, was it? Obviously. Rin was dead. He killed her. He watched her tiny figure slowly die in his arms. He felt her get cold. Reality or not, the feeling of guilt, fear, and sadness was real. He felt bile in his throat as he saw the sailing boat move closer.
Nezha didn't know what to make of this. What should he do—what could he do? Should he try waking up? Should he try stabbing himself? Should he wait until the boat arrives?
His eyes flashed red. His head started throbbing. Before Nezha could make a decision, he opened his eyes, seeing blood on his hands. His hands were shaking, his chest felt tight—he could hear someone choke and writhe.
Her hand. His bloodied hand. The handle of the knife. Her red eyes burning out as she dies slowly.
Nezha hated it.
He hated how he was left alone to remember. He hated that he was the one who had to save everyone. He hated how he was left alone to suffer. He hated how he was left alone to regret.
He hated how he never had the chance to say that he loved her.
No, he had every chance. He had every chance and he never took those chances. He didn't know why. He wished he knew why. Either way, he hated that he never took the chance.
Now Nezha was on his knees, holding Rin's body.
This was the sick nightmare that he never wanted to relive, that he wanted to forget.
But he was experiencing it again, in the supposed escape of dreams. And this time, everything that he didn't want to process in the past, was processing in his mind.
Nezha felt it all. Like it was the first time happening, and it was sick. It was disgusting. It was awful. This was a form of torture that his mind inflicted on himself.
Sticky blood poured onto the ground, spilling on his shaking hands, dripping on his clothes. Her blood was still warm, and he found himself wanting to cling to that warmth. But everything, tragically, always ends up becoming cold.
And all of what Nezha was seeing with his very eyes, his teary eyes, made him wish he wasn't here.