Chapter Text
-…-
There comes a day, in every horse’s life, that we’re told the sun and sky have no place for us.
That our dreams are set by the setting star and cast to die as children.
On that day, we were crowned, robed in fine cloth enamoured with glistening Chicken Bloodstone. It’s a fortunate gem, that in cultures plenty served strength and vitality, beliefs that existed outside of the TianHui. Servants of the Saima Practice, a ‘religious’ ambition following the overseas horse racing phenomenon, came to take their measurements, meticulous, almost infectious, until each foal was dressed presentably on this special day. It fit like a thin curtain, like you weren’t donning wrappings at all, yet as if the clouds were lifting your spirits afloat. Although in the real sea, of horses, of their bejeweled impatience and boisterous hunger, I suppose it felt more like a uniform culling of candidates. With every touch, both biased and unjustly, there were bound to be flowers amidst the bones, flowers some of the servants spent their little more time tending to and watering.
One of the servants, who had ‘the honours’ of fitting me, was someone particularly infirm with her hands. Maybe it helped that I was of age to put on certain garments on my own, and polite enough to keep my lips shut and let her do what she needed to, that she figured I could be one of those special flowers too. Aptly befitting, she reached beneath her sleeve and slid a tiny branch right above my ear, adorning it with a flimsy little plum blossom, one of the flowers you could just so easily pluck from nearby pastures that speak for a resolute perseverance.
I did remember to thank her, as she did me, granting me my honours to know her name, Lady Tanli.
Not a moment sooner or later, the servants then led us back down the halls by hand, though we were encouraged not to, nor did we have any actual obligation to do so. Against the dust and toil these paved roads brought, swaths of young and proud foals were paraded down this winding path, leading nowhere but starward. Flooring, that sat beneath my bare feet, sprinkled with a healthy mirth, in festivities so far from home. That each house could be fashioned in shimmering glee and vibrant gleams, between each windowsill a hanging vine of cropped starlight, and with every spark of threaded confetti exploding into the air in the arcs of gravity. Ringing all around, the clasps of sizzling crackers and choirs resounded, with tongues and teeth so gentle and warm as the day we truly were born. I would see those my age gathered by the festival booths, feasting upon the savoury finger food, racing one another through the corners and neighbours who celebrated with, immersed in the street opera all bathed in fortune’s glee. This nation-wide celebration met all our eyes as if its colours were a mid-heart laugh, in the colour of the people, collective, weaving crowds together as the most magnificent of silken robes.
There were many flowers that grew where I dwelled, those tenacious blossoms of the streets, born to take whatever came their way and make beauty of it. Watching them dance in the waves of brilliant ardour and frolicking with all, it was as if they called for some trees to accompany them, to make the streets brighter, to revitalise the air we shared. At times like this I felt that they were nature’s graffiti, that chaotic rebellious element cheering us on in unity.
And so upon this fireworks morn, those blooms of brilliant light were our planet’s ode to the sun, our gift of flowers onto the skies. Next to the glamour and tremor, me, little me, preferred instead to continue being led by Lady Tanli. The colours never stopped amazing and stupefying everyone in their vigorous dances, but there always was this beauty to our home. There wasn’t any real need to celebrate it, albeit maybe due to the countless harvest festivals back where I grew up, or maybe little me was just a little shy to roam about the big city all alone. So, I carried onwards the road of candles, through every crack and weave that Lady Tanli so warmly showered onto me.
But, it’d be lying to denote any disinterest I had with any of the proceedings.
Against my goodwill, I had taken a short stop at one point, caught by the glare of a projector screen propped by the town centre. It was the last time I’d wish to trouble Lady Tanli, as in her eyes I could’ve warranted a fair guess how much preparations for all these festivities had toiled away at the servants.
From there among the awe, captivating both child and adult alike, was a screening event honouring the Saima practice. Littered all over the venue was a history rich in our nation’s horse races, footage from all across the country, all across our past, yet none quite like this one. A race that served no more of a purpose than to be witnessed, and still through it nothing quite like this at all. They ran, dancing in graceful arcs, limbs in constant motion, painting this picture colour alone could never achieve in our wildest dreams. They brought a wordless interpretation of beating stars, of the soft strings in clouds, in a way the audience could understand no matter the dialect, no matter the language barrier. And their race wasn’t simply ‘running’ — there’s a manner in which they stirred the dirt around them, the brewed concoction of soil and soul. It’s kick and sweep, whirling the breeze into the skies as the earth took new form with every collision. Wavered, drifting in ceaseless suspension like luminous dragons crossing a night sky, they captivated all. To we, who knew nothing at all, who understood none of it, and yet who cheered, who jeered and rooted with all our hearts without rhyme or reason, this was Saima as we knew and dreamed of it in our hearts. It was nothing the world had seen before, where horses raced without that grail of bets lined along their performances. It was home to the greatest extremities, from the greatest to the fastest, from the wittiest to the strongest, with a fair track to duke it out and settle for gold, where one ran for whatever one yearned. The rhythm of the game, the delectable taste of triumph, the breeze in your ears that reminds you of all you carry your legs for.
Watching these strangers from faraway lands, from their walks of life around the world, without an ounce of intimacy to be had for any of them, I wondered for the beat in my heels. Watching these racers, who’d looked just as you and I, flying high beyond the world our eyes saw, in these wings spread apart, rising and falling with the sun, I asked if I could fly. This spectacle, this act of witnessing alone and I was dreaming again.
[“SHE ROARS. SHE HUNGERS. SHE’S BREAKING THROUGH! SHE’S BREAKING THROUGH!!—”]
“Will I fly?” There I dreamt.
That small, mediocre screen was the perfect stage upon which the brightest of glimmers danced, and I begged to watch those lights for infinity if I could. It was like there was always something new, something exciting, something thrilling, a unique moment and beauty in all of existence.
There she was. Brilliant. All-powerful. She who was victory, She who stood as the final all-encompassing light, that enabled the people to believe in something new, that inspired those who chased the back of the sun, that taught the world hope in its starless sky.
The greatest.
[“FEARSOME FATE CLOSES IT IN! RIGHT HERE AND NOW, SHE’S TRANSCENDED! THE GREATEST!! THE ONE AND ONLY — FEEEEAAARSOOOOOME—…”]
That was the story of how the sun had met the sky. The Horse Race Tests.
Lady Tanli smiled, perhaps because of me, my still-childlike wonder ever evident, dazzled and in awe from the spectacle, playfully stomping the floor without thought, allowing me to take as much time as I wanted to gaze into the sun’s rays. We could wait. The world would have waited for us. It wouldn’t have had a choice.
On this one specific day, we alone were above commandments. We, as little foals still ripe from womb, were above the norms, the hierarchy and royalty for just this one ceremony. To the easy eye, it felt like a fostered celebration dedicated to the youth of our great lands, of all great lands. Every village, every town and sparsely known corners of our land offered up their offspring, all these horse children with one united goal as a nation.
To prove that there is meaning in our way of life, that with it there is certainty in belief that we could shine just as bright. To we who ran and lost, to we who ran and got lost, and to we who ran and won.
To prove there was still some sunlight left for shining stars from the far side of the world.
…
…
Nearing the town’s oasis, by the end of today’s festival where the swaths began to flock and trumpets erupted, a tiny voice crept from the bottom of my throat. I’d long forgotten what I’d said, or asked, but I remember only being met with a little chip from Lady Tanli, one that told me I was ‘four days due’.
We’d push through into the stands surrounding the oasis, cheers raised into a country’s harmony, sung through our collective will to be seen. Here, at the pinnacle of the Saima tradition, our greatest and only pride, horses prestigious and young of our blood gathered by the Radiant Dial — the one true weight of our devotion to the Saima Practice. A singular obelisk that teetered closer to the ground with every year of spectacular inadequacies, it remained our sole measure for the ‘speed’ of the sun. Sparks and confetti whirled through the wind, stirring that inert hurricane buried deep beneath the runners’ engines, within the crowd’s hopes and dreams, brought forth into the daylight and crying aloud. Here, clouds part for the brightest of our generation, set forth in our grandest race — our Yangzhui, the Great Chase.
Gates in motion, our future setting off to conquer the setting sun.
A nationwide marathon spanning the full 34,000 metres of the TianHui, across a singular tarred road stretching through the plains and hills, through the lands governed and watched over by the graceful love of the sun. Here, we chased not the grandeur, nor the title of our century, but the final rays of the sun. There was never any competition or rivalries. There were never any doubts or calamities. The Yangzhui was our nation’s hope, a fire lit with love that grew in unadulterated heat and flare, our journey to touch the heavenly flame hanging high among the clouds. It ran against everything the Race Tests overseas represented, with its own following, its own ‘bets’ and ‘losses’.
This was our story of fighting back against the cruel back of the sun, and all the same an expression of gratitude for its light at dawn.
It had been our story, running strong, for 341 years now.
A monumental task for us who dreamed, and who had never once raced with all our hearts on the line.
So must come those four days, of waiting amongst the people as everyday life began to sliver its way back down the stands. Days of sending off our voyages, every high noon, retrieving them by nightfall in steel carriages and reuniting families, our story set to jot yet another page in our joint efforts, to carve yet another set of names down history’s halls.
All things considered, failures all accounted for, the Yangzhui has always been regarded as the single greatest piece of literature ever conceived in our eyes. It’s one thing to persevere in the face of utter futility, but with each and every family name so well preserved, and remembered dearly, vividly, alive and well, ever running towards the same goal together, one back against the next, one helping hand to the next, we’ve earned our keep with humanity. It’s a nursery rhyme we sing to our young. It’s an anthem for soldiers coming home.
And on that fourth, fateful day, it was spelt out in the skies above — in her beautiful cyan clear.
“Lady Tanli, will I fly?”
I had feared colour before, but before the people, and before the sky above, I began fearing other things. As a child, no matter the inspiring choirs of our ancestors, no one liked to lose. That idea of feeling inadequate with the rest of the world, as small as it may be in the grand scheme of things, was still a gigantic hurdle to face walking into the oasis to greet the Radiant Dial.
This was where we had been set to part ways, as she returned to royalty as I to history.
Holding onto her one last time, in those hands so gentle, I sought to return the plum blossom I’d been gifted the day we met. Reaching out to a servant like this in broad daylight was disastrous to my standing, but what else was I to do?
What was the right way to approach departure from all that was earthly?
“Who knows, Fuzao?”
Stepping into the stage alongside my fellow brethren, whose names I’d surely be better acquainted with after today’s loss, colours seared the air once more to that boisterous ringing of cheers. Standing here where the crowd wasn’t, stanced by this towering sundial, 34,000 metres had never seemed so unreachable. The world felt big, tremendously more than it usually did, leaving me behind in worth and stature, hopefully not in consequence either.
The gates were awkwardly narrow to accommodate all of us, and it didn’t help that I started feeling the blood coursing through every last corner of my body. Like it was supposed to be ‘excitement’, or ‘thirst’, yet in its stead I find a gaping fear for all things beyond the reach of my feeble arms. My world that I could reach, that I could at least know was all I wanted for myself. Soon, my ears pulsated down to my toes, the ever-quickening stomping of my heart powering through so ahead of the pack. Seeing those around me adopt so many postures, the grit in their eyes, the drive to have their part of the legend marked in sweat and blood, I searched deep, never wishing to surrender to the idea of a hollow will.
To heart, rather, I’d only have a plum blossom to my name.
There would be marks, and sets, and then we went.
…
…
In the year of the final Yangzhui, you will hear my name.
They will tell you stories of the toppled stone pillar, of a run that finally conquered the sun.
They will preach a name of the future, that carries the nation of TianHui and all its people.
They will crawl all throughout the world, spreading a story finally finished, the greatest story of one who swallowed the star of the heavens.
In the year of the final Yangzhui, you will hear this name — but not for the truth of the tale.
As it had been written, I was the first ever horse to cross those 34,000 metres before nightfall. That much is true.
As it had been decreed, I never faltered for a breather even once. There was nothing that impeded my pace. That much is true.
As it had been worshipped, Fuzao ripped the fire from the sky and tore it into what he called ‘hope’, ushering in a new era for the Saima practice. That much is true.
But I never managed to touch the sun.
I was never enough.
I collapsed at the finish, where an exasperated timekeeper would then go on to record ‘a triumphant roar of victory.’ This was the part of the legend where I’d ‘pluck the sun and eat it’, something only that starry eyed bystander could’ve ever concocted. But right there and then, I veered off course. Where there should’ve been help, where there should’ve been a stranger throwing me up in their arms, celebrating the dawn of a new dynasty, I’d finally found the secret to that gaping inadequacy.
It was a pure, unjustly rage.
I crunched the soil beneath my feet, rising back up, quivering my jaws into a bleed. Courses of boiling streams swam even wilder through my blood, my whole body beating in unison with a heart who’d seen it all. My eyes, my tongue, my calves, everything twitched as one whole system. Here where we were promised a fitting end, the closure to a fairytale centuries old, the sun remained, cowering in the world above our arms, beyond my reach.
The truth of this world — the sun was alive, and we will never reach it.
Met with the cold, evening wind, fingers clenched into fists. I was still a kid. There were many things in this world I’ve yet to mature into, but when it came to this, this stupid masquerade of the heavens, I saw this injustice for what it really was. This Yangzhui, our eternal chase of the sun, just little specks dancing about rancously, colliding recklessly, just so out of reach of the sun’s direct gaze.
341 years of my people before me, falling and trailing behind, all for a revelation like this. Centuries of names who ran for ‘nothing’. An entire nation set on a track to run our entire existence away into the endless night.
Will I ever fly?
No.
But I sure as hell could run, against the unforgiving sky, against the cowardly sun.
I mustered everything, from mind to soul, anything that spoke of power. I kicked the ground and gravel. I punched the bark and brand. It was a race to the event horizon, my own race. I powered through the beaten track, smashing past the fencing at the end, crashing aside the timekeeper, keeping pace with the setting sun.
I ran until I was met with real resistance, a weight over my legs no amount of fury could ever dream of overpowering. Coming to, acres deep in the sea, half submerged and panting like a rabid dog, I lunged at the horizon one more time, then again, and again and again. Every time, I thrust my body further, reaching out over and over. I stretched my fingers out. I flailed my waist.
Forever to the sun, high up in the clouds, I shall only ever be a plum blossom.
…
…
By the time the carriages had found me and rushed down the shoreline to retrieve their victor, I was simply too far out into uncertain waters for them to reach out too. Where they could’ve been calling out my name, the clouds only heard my voice. My honesty and desperation laid bare and red. I cursed the sun. I cursed the sky. I cursed everything above the land, blind and rash, bearing my back to the land and its people.
“Fuzao would let off a triumphant roar, having torn down the sun from the sky, marking it in his glorious brown fur, rising from the ashes as the next morning star in the sky that now belonged only to him.”
There, before the people, before the sky above, whatever I did would become forever what I’ve done.
I became the Unrivalled.
I conquered.
I bore my back to any who stood before me.
“For I, alone, am.”
-…-