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When Nezha was younger and first began learning to harness his abilities, he was not very good at it. His control was weak, and it felt as though his powers were covered in oil, slipping through his fingers when he wasn’t holding them just right. It was frustrating, and Nezha used to get overwhelmed quite often and easily. He’d grown, though, and he’d become incredibly proficient with his abilities.
Then the incident with the Samadhi Fire happened, and Nezha felt weak again. Wukong never fails to best him, and it’s a little more discouraging every time they clash. The whole situation had been entirely out of his control, which always scares him, but it had ended well, even if it shook him up so badly he didn’t stop his constant training until he collapsed a few weeks later.
Azure Lion killing the Jade Emperor was much harder to cope with. For starters, his injuries were, though not deadly, very, very severe. The stitches were uncomfortable, and he didn’t ever have the time to properly deal with them, so they were left to fester. He could tell they were infected just a few days after the whole event. Then there was the toll of containing such immense power. No matter how big the container, it would always be trying to break free.
The infection plus the constant use of his powers caused a terrible strain on his body, one that would most likely become dangerous if he didn’t rest soon. This is all to say nothing of the mental repercussions failing his duty was causing. He couldn’t sleep, even when all he felt was crushing fatigue, because he didn’t deserve it at all, and whenever his eyes closed, the spike in Anxiety was so overwhelming he awoke anyway.
When the world became stable again, almost at the cost of MK’s life, and the danger was gone, it finally caught up to him.
No one noticed him crash to his knees, nor did they notice him sway forward, cheek hitting the ground. His injuries were painfully crushed between the ground and his bodyweight, burning and aching and stinging. And no one noticed. For a good minute, no one noticed, over the sound of their own relieved crying. But when they quiet, his strained, wheezy breathing becomes audible.
“Nezha?” He thinks it must have been the Dragon Girl who said his name, but he isn’t even sure, too busy trying not to hyperventilate as his body begins to fail him. He can feel whatever magic that holds him together beginning to unravel, weeks of constant overuse weakening the threads to the point of breakage. His Glamor must be gone by now, he probably looks like a child again.
“Nezha, what’s the matter with you?” He can recognize his father’s voice anywhere, half-dead or not. “Get up.” Their relationship being on the mend doesn’t mean his father isn’t still his father, and personalities don’t really change. Nezha’s arms don’t move, even when he tells them to, and all he can do is softly whine as his eyes go blurry.
He’s falling apart, literally and figuratively. Body and mind.
Someone’s hands slide under his chest, drawing a gasp, and he is carefully flipped onto his back. The sky above him is no longer splitting with cracks, but it does little to calm his nerves. He trembles harshly, he can feel it, the magic leaving his body as the cold seeps in.
“Look at me,” Someone commands, their hands on either side of his face. It looks like the Pig Man, but his vision is really too fuzzy to make him out properly. Someone else is removing his shoulder pads and unclipping the buckles beneath. His armor slides away, and someone swears.
“Nezha.” His father takes Pig Man’s place. He looks mad, and Nezha feels tiny. “Have you been tending to your injuries? How long have you felt ill?”
‘Years,’ Nezha does not say. ‘I’ve felt like this for years.’ They wouldn’t understand, especially not his father. It doesn’t matter anyway, because the only noise he is able to make is a punched whimper of pain as someone touches his still injured chest.
“Is he gonna be ok?” MK sounds terribly scared, and Nezha almost feels bad.
“Of course,” Wukong scoffs, sounding stupidly sure of himself. “Nezha wouldn’t die from something stupid like this.” It doesn’t feel stupid to Nezha. It feels very symbolic, if anything. Of course the product of his failures would finally do him in. This is retribution, this is his penance. He let the Jade Emperor be killed, and he will die because of it.
The silence that reigns following Wukong’s words is damning. No one is sure if he’ll make it through this time.
“Why is he so small?” the Dragon Girl, probably, asks. No one answers her. Do they know? Wukong must, because he’s fought Nezha while he looked like this. Does it even matter?
“Nezha.” His father is trying to get his attention, he can feel the hand against his cheek, tapping lightly. Nezha can feel himself slipping. He is like a tower of blocks, or a knit sweater. You remove one block, one row of stitching, and it all comes apart in your hands. He is coming apart in his father’s hands, and there is nothing anyone can do to stop it. “ Nezha! Fight!” But he’s too tired, too spent.
He really, really doesn’t want to fight anymore.
His whole life, he’s been doing his job, doing what others asked of him. He’s never once gotten something he wanted. Every time he did something for himself, there was a consequence, often involving hurt. He doesn’t want to run, or fight, or hurt. Not anymore. He wants to go away.
He closes his eyes.
They didn’t see him fall. They didn’t even see him weakening. No one ever checked on him, not once. They’d been wrapped up in their own problems, and besides, Nezha is not one of their friends. He isn’t part of the group. Why would anyone even question if he was alright?
Wukong can feel it, or, at least, he thinks he can, as Nezha’s life begins to fade. There’s something in the back of his mind growing cold as the tiny body cradled between Li Jing, Macaque, and Pigsy gives up, gives out.
Nezha’s wheezing begins to quiet as his lungs fail, and he grows very, very pale.
Wukong always assumed the death of the Lotus Prince would have been a grand, dramatic thing. He would die in the midst of battle, a blur of red and pink so quick you can hardly see it, being caught by just the right spear at just the right time. He wouldn’t have been small, and it wouldn’t have been the result of some foolish self-flagellation and neglect.
He would’ve thought the death of a God would be brighter, more Earth shaking. But it’s just the same as anyone else's, in the end.