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Nezha loved his mother, that much was true.
He loved her as much as anyone could love a person they did not know. He did not blame her for her absence. How could he— when it was all his fault?
After Mingzha's death she had not so much as looked him in the eye for over a year, and when she had, it was an accident. He had startled her during her prayers to The Maker, peeking through the door to see her kneeling down, eyes closed, whispering fervently with clasped hands. The hinges creaked loudly and her head snapped in his direction. When their eyes met, that was the first time he really considered she might not love him, at least not anymore. The look he had seen in her eyes…it scared him, because she was afraid of him. He hadn’t even considered that as a possibility. He had been prepared for hatred, anger, even indifference. He might have even preferred them. It would have hurt less, for her to hate him, it would make sense, for her to be angry. But this pure, unadulterated terror, directed at him, he didn’t know what to do with it.
Terror like this was for dire situations of distress. Terror like this was for monsters. Creatures that hid in your cupboard and in your bed, waiting for the perfect moment to reach out and grab you.
Was he now a monster?
He stepped forward. His mother scrambled back. He looked at her, his eyes unflinching while she looked away, occasionally glancing up at him, as if prolonged eye contact would kill her. They stayed like that for a while, mother and son, sculptor and statue, Frankenstein and her monster.
There was a monster, yes. Nezha knew that more than anyone. After all, he was the one that had to live with it. But this one was different from the ones he was used to. It was not like the monsters in the stories servants told him. It wasn’t loud, or wild or beastly. It was graceful, beautiful, quiet. Its voice felt cloaked in velvet and it spoke in whispers that made his skin crawl.
The first time he saw the dragon mark on his back, he was getting dressed one morning. He’d been standing in front of a mirror and turned around when he caught it out of the corner of his eye. He wasn’t sure what he’d seen. He repeated his earlier motions until he was sure. He had a tattoo of a dragon…slithering across his back. Panic set in and he started scratching at his skin. He dug his nails into his skin, trying as best he could to scrape it off. Tears clouded his eyes, his nose started dripping and he willed the mark to leave his skin as he scrubbed it harder. He’d peeled his skin raw and it stung as his fingers continued scratching until they drew blood, but he couldn’t stop.
He could still see the mark. It was still there and for some odd reason he was sure he could feel it, moving, stretching, alive in his skin. That was when he heard a voice.
“Hello, little dragon,” it crowed softly, curling around him like silk.
He jumped, looking around for its source. But his room was closed and he was alone. He was sure it was just a trick of his imagination, maybe a symptom of stress. Until he heard it again. The same delicate voice, in a quiet whisper.
“You will make a fine addition to my collection.” He could almost feel the smile in those words.
His skin crawled. He was sure this time. He had felt the voice in his head. His throat felt dry and he swallowed before he spoke.
“Where—what–where are you?” he stuttered in a quiet voice, not sure which question to even ask first.
“You don’t know?” The voice called back in the same velvety whisper. He could almost feel the icy chuckle on his neck.
Movement on his skin. He looked down and saw the same dragon mark from his back stretching across the side of his torso and crawling onto his stomach. His eyes widened in fear and his blood ran cold. He froze where he stood, fingers still dug into the skin of his back, paralyzed as he watched it move across his skin. His hands dropped, going slack. The temperature around him dropped until his entire being was overcome with full body chills. He raised his shaking hands, bringing them up to his torso, and he began to rip.
He didn’t know when he’d fallen on the floor or when he’d started screaming. Consumed with removing the mark that was now crawling across his skin, it was all he thought about as he tore his skin while the whispering voice in his head kept chanting “mine” over and over again in that velvet tone.
That day was ingrained in his memory though he didn’t remember much other than the fear and disgust he’d felt when he saw the mark.
He didn’t remember the tears that had poured down his cheeks, or how he’d been found by passing servants who had to grab both his arms and hold them behind his back to stop him from clawing his skin. He didn’t remember the scent of his blood leaking from the little holes he’d made on his torso or how blue and horrified his eyes had been, looking back at him from the mirror. He didn’t remember how he had thrashed and writhed on the floor as servants tried to help him. He didn’t remember his parents rushing in or having opium forced down his throat and choking as he was forced to swallow.
No, the only things he remembered from that day was how he felt, and the sound of the voice in his mind.
His mother left for Hesperia after that, and he had a distinct feeling that it was his fault. His father didn’t talk to him the whole time she was gone and his siblings weren’t around either. The servants didn’t provide much company, and most of them avoided him or whispered about him when he wasn’t looking. Whenever he came in contact with one they seemed to walk on eggshells, like there was some sort of beast they had to avoid facing. The Palace was always full of people but he had never been more alone. It was like walking through a cemetery but Nezha felt like he was the one who died, more ghost than person, watching people pass him by.
His mother came back after 2 months but not alone. Strange people resembling the ones he’d heard in the stories she used to tell him about Hesperia accompanied her. They had pinkish skin, light hair, and pale blue eyes. They wore such ridiculous looking clothing he would have laughed if it wasn’t improper and he wasn’t so unnerved by their appearance. They surveyed him with such stern lifeless eyes his skin prickled where he stood, feeling uncomfortable under their surgical gaze. That was only the beginning of his discomfort, and soon after that the examinations began.
They stripped him of his clothes, brought out tape measures and rulers and made him sit for hours with his back bent as they reproduced every single part of his tattoo on paper and he fought not to squirm even as his skin crawled when they looked at it. They did not talk. They did not look at him. In fact, they hardly touched him unless it was with the purpose of taking measurements, as if he was a filthy thing that would infect them if they dared to keep their hands on him for too long.
He would spend long hours stuck in a laboratory every week, being examined by a woman his parents called “Sister Petra”. Of all the foreigners he had met, she was the most unnerving and the scariest by far. It wasn’t just about how she looked or dressed, no it was how she talked and what she said. Even though Nezha never said a word, his sessions with the scientist were never silent. She would drone on and on about the Maker and the plague of chaos, which she believed to be the cause of his condition. As if that wasn’t bad enough she seemed to have infected his mother too. Yin Saikhara had always been a Makerist but since her return from Hesperia it seemed her faith had reached new heights. She was overzealous in her devotion to the maker and every time Nezha overheard her discussions with Sister Petra she seemed to be getting worse.
Nezha wasn’t stupid. He knew there was something wrong with him, but he also knew it would be a bad idea to tell Sister Petra the full extent. He wasn’t sure what would happen if he did but he wasn’t interested in finding out. When she asked him if there were any other problems, any other evidence of chaos he would tell her no. He didn’t tell anybody about the voice in his head that was not his own, or about the blue he sometimes noticed in his eyes, or about how the tattoo would sometimes crawl off his back to a different section of skin as if to taunt him. But the biggest secret he kept from people was the healing. It was a discovery he had made unwillingly, something he had noticed.
He’d been in his room one day, carving a piece of wood into a tiny sampan when he’d sliced his palm open. A sharp stinging sensation spread through his flesh as blood started gushing out. He clutched his bleeding hand, hunched over in pain, gritting his teeth to avoid crying out. He took a deep breath where he crouched, trying to calm himself before wrapping his wound. He’d decided to do it himself, not wanting to ask a servant for help lest they turn ghostly pale with horror. When he felt sure the shock had worn off he grabbed a piece of cloth and unclenched his hand to wrap it, just in time to see his flesh stitching back together, the gash healing itself. His heart dropped at the sight, disbelief washing over him. How did that happen? Am I dreaming? He drew in shallow breaths, panic rising inside him. This made no sense. The cut was deep and he’d seen the blood. Blood that had now dried on his skin and his sleeve, the only reminder of an injury that had vanished without a trace. He didn’t know why or how this had happened and he struggled to believe anything was real at all. He grabbed the carving knife from before and bit down on his sleeve to muffle any screams before slashing his palm again. He watched as blood oozed out of the tear, stifling his cries even as tears dripped down his cheeks. After a few minutes he noticed his skin start to sew itself back together. It wasn’t instantaneous, it happened gradually. First, the blood would slow to a trickle, then it would stop, and after it stopped was when his flesh seemed to melt back together. For whatever reason, his body could heal itself. Far beyond what he’d learned was capable of the human body.
He’d hid it, of course. He stashed the bloody clothing somewhere secret and told nobody about his body’s unnatural talents. He was still meeting with Sister Petra, albeit not as frequently, and he couldn’t let her find out about it. He knew the result would not be pretty. Sometimes he thought of telling someone, anyone, just so he wouldn’t feel as lonely. He toyed with the idea of telling Kitay or Venka but he knew Kitay wouldn’t believe anything that defied the knowledge he’d learned from a book and he wasn’t sure Venka was the right person for a discussion like this. She might think him crazy. And he already felt crazy enough with servants avoiding him, Sister Petra studying him and his mother scared of him. He listened in on his parents’ discussion sometimes and it felt like they were discussing an animal in a zoo rather than their son. It seemed he was the most interesting topic of discussion now for them, and the words weren’t always pleasant. The worst one he’d overheard had his mother hysterical by the end of it.
Vaisra and Saikhara were once again discussing their new youngest child when Nezha had passed by, stopping to listen in on another discussion. He wasn’t sure why he tortured himself like this, hearing what was said always hurt him and left him feeling worse than before but perhaps that’s why he couldn’t bring himself to leave. He crept closer to the door, pressing himself against the wall as he strained his ears to listen.
“Vaisra I cannot do this anymore! I cannot share a house with that creature!”
“Saikhara, darling, there is no creature, he’s your son.”
“I ONLY HAVE ONE. SON. THE OTHER TWO ARE DEAD. YOU HEAR ME? DEAD! AND THAT ABOMINATION IS WHAT KILLED THEM.”
“Saikhara‒”
“NO. NO. IF YOU WILL NOT ALLOW ME TO LEAVE YOU MUST KEEP THAT VILE ATROCITY AWAY FROM ME. I DO NOT WANT TO EVEN SEE HIM.” She screeched at the top of her lungs before collapsing onto the floor, wailing loudly in her shrill voice.
Nezha heard the sound of fast-approaching footsteps, likely servants on their way to respond to his mother’s guttural cries and he took off in the other direction, trying not to give his mother extra reasons to think of him as an agent of chaos, knowing if he was caught spying she might go ballistic. He didn’t stop running until he reached his room, and his heart didn’t calm down until he climbed into his bed and squeezed his eyes shut. Try as he might, he couldn’t shut his brain off and his mother’s words were repeating in his head, over and over again like a broken record. He always felt that he was a murderer deep down inside, after all he was the reason Mingzha was dead, if he had just stayed put instead of taking him to the grotto everything would be fine. But still it was different hearing those words come from someone else’s mouth, especially his mother’s. He knew he wasn’t the same after the grotto incident but he didn’t think she considered him dead. He wasn’t sure whether to be happy that his mother didn’t think Nezha was a monster or to be sad that she thought he was.
He wished he was dead then. It would have made everything a lot easier.
He stopped eavesdropping after that day and he avoided his mother as much as possible. All the staff seemed to help him with that, or rather, he helped them. He pretended he had no idea of the orders they were given and let them manipulate him into where to be and when. He didn’t think he was all that convincing. He’d had a lot of practice but he’d never been a very good actor. Still he tried. He did his best to avoid her no matter how annoying or exhausting it was because he owed it to her.
The least he could do for killing his mother’s favorite child was to continue his tightrope act with eggshells. But lately the eggshells seemed to crack more easily. It got harder. Soon it felt more and more like a trapeze act with spiderwebs and he knew sooner or later he’d have to fall. Such fragile peace could only be short-lived and unfortunately for him there was no net to break his fall.
He was on a balcony. He’d been leaning over the railing, the wind blowing in his face as he smelt the fresh morning air, slightly damp in scent. He hadn't heard her come in, hadn't heard her quiet footsteps. What he did hear was the sound of a shrill shriek and he turned around to see his mother. But he turned fast, too fast, he lost his grip. He tried to steady himself, reached out to grab the railing but he missed. And then he was falling. He thought he would fall forever but the ground was closer than he imagined it and he crashed into it with a thud. He thought he heard a faint cracking sound, but he didn't feel anything at first. He felt numb, completely numb like his nerves were frozen over. And then pain. So much pain he couldn't even open his mouth to scream. He couldn't even cry. He felt something warm, pooling around him, emanating a salty metallic scent. He guessed it was blood. He tried to move and it just sent a sharp pain down his spine. He tried to take a deep breath and wheezed. He couldn't even breathe. He looked up, back at the balcony he fell off of and he saw his mother standing there, looking over the railing, staring at him in shock and horror. The look in her eyes was the worst part, though. He saw something akin to hope in her eyes, like she thought he might die and felt happiness at the thought. She disappeared from his sight when he was lost in thought and he closed his eyes. He lost so much blood it took a lot of effort from him to stay conscious and he vaguely registered servants moving around him, trying to help and someone screaming for the physician. He could see a long piece of pearly white bone sticking out of the skin of his leg and from the corner of his eye, one of his fingers seemed crushed. Minutes ticked by with his eyes opening and closing, fighting off the unconsciousness threatening to overtake his body. He opens his eyes again and sees his mother in front of him, staring down at his broken body.
“Is…going….die?” he can barely make out the words she's saying over the ringing in his ears.
For a second, he forgets that his body can seemingly heal itself and allows himself to entertain the thought of finally, finally getting to die. But this thought is short-lived. He feels his bones start to move and he hears screaming. Loud painful screeching, multiple voices shouting all at once. The ringing in his ears grows louder. His body continues its performance but it takes longer this time. Minutes, hours as he's slowly put back together. He's not moved or touched, whether out of fear of his talents or to give his body room to work he'll never know. All he knows is that when he woke up again he was being watched by the doctor and his mother wasn't there.
He thinks that's when she started packing and when she got serious about leaving Nikan. She'd always talked about wanting to leave, even before the grotto incident happened and she'd gone on trips before, visits. Never for any longer than a few months though. But something tells him this time she's not coming back. At least, not for a long long time.
Absently, some part of him misses her. He feels like he has to miss her. Just because she doesn't love him doesn't mean he's entitled to the same feelings.
So he misses her. He misses her as he counts down the days till she leaves, he misses her as he avoids her until she does. And when she catches him watching her pray he misses her. He doesn't know what exactly he misses. She'd never been an overly affectionate parent, at least not with him. Mingzha was different but then Mingzha was hers and hers alone. She'd had enough sons for Vaisra so he could spare one for her to love. Her kindness and affection and love had only ever belonged to Mingzha. Secretly, he wishes she would miss him. But she doesn't. He knows she doesn't.
When she leaves, the entire family goes to see her off at the docks. Except for Nezha. His father said he would only cause her distress. His tutor said he needed to study for the Keju. His maids said his mother was too tired. Dutiful Nezha, Nezha who never complained, Nezha who always accepted his duties with no protests. He wasn't even sure if he wanted to see her. He didn't have the option, of course, but it would be nice if he did.
He watches her ship leave from his balcony and he wonders when next he might see her. He feels a mix of emotions and he knows anger is in there somewhere. Still he doesn't hold anything against her as she disappears.
He doesn’t deserve to.