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It was dark out.
Given that it was always dark or otherwise dim on this island, though, the way the moon reflected on the water wasn’t a surprise at all.
He Xuan was facing Shi Qingxuan, and they were both waist deep in the water. It was cold. The night wasn’t particularly young, but it wouldn’t take long for the two of them to split ways again. They often did.
(They didn’t meet like this.)
It wasn’t a habit.
He Xuan refused to make it a habit. They didn’t want to be intertwined with the person who stole what they should have had—what they never got. They didn’t want to look that person in the eye and try to swallow resentment and hatred and anger and so much, so much, so much. They didn’t want to. And they were a calamity. They didn’t have to.
Shi Qingxuan leaned closer, and her breaths fanned over He Xuan’s face. Their hands were tight on Shi Qingxuan’s hips, and through the water, the two of them could pretend that they weren’t touching at all.
The two of them could pretend that this was nothing.
(You called for the wrong person, but neither of them were the right person. Not anymore.)
There were moments like this that made He Xuan glad they slept at the bottom of the sea. Sinking into thick sand, where no light reached, and where no gods could ever find them. Deep in the black waters, like their name—revered by many, even now—because they hadn’t vanished as much as they had settled. After their revenge had been completed, they hadn’t needed anything else. So they went silent, once more. And the Heavens didn’t bother them. He Xuan no longer dragged themself up there to dance with gods and dabble in their meaningless mood swings. He Xuan didn’t even send clones anymore. He didn’t need to keep eyes in the Heavens for any reason—not his, and not for Crimson Rain Sought Flower, either. Instead, they laid at the bottom of their sea, consumed endlessly—and slept for far longer.
But every now and then, He Xuan would wake, and he would be bottomless, and he would wander and wander until his eyes landed on someone he never wanted to see again.
(He saw her frequently, despite this.)
Tonight was one of those moments.
Tonight was a wandering night, and the water was cold, and the sky blended into the shimmering surface. Stars barely twinkled. He Xuan paid no mind to any of it. They looked at Shi Qingxuan, slow—neither of them were who they used to be—but she Xuan was the closest thing to a god that existed out here, and would ever exist.
Shi Qingxuan would never be brought back to the Heavens. There was no opportunity. The Wind Master was dead. The Water Tyrant was dead, too.
Shi Qingxuan opened her mouth to say something, but—nothing came out. He Xuan leaned forwards, slid one cold hand up and up and up until they were grasping onto the woman’s throat, not her hip, and the two of them stood in the water with blank faces. Shi Qingxuan closed her mouth, bit her lip. She lowered her gaze to look at He Xuan’s jaw, or maybe their robes which billowed in the water, as if they were part of the sea. Maybe, in a few centuries. Maybe then, He Xuan would have become one with the ocean—salt and resentment and treacherous—scholars would study the Black Water Sinking Ships’ territory for the rest of a millennia, if that ever became the case.
“Don’t,” He Xuan said, and it came out like a hiss. The water lapped at both of them.
Shi Qingxuan was warm under their palm. Her heart was like a rabbit, jumping so hard but never managing to escape the cage it was put into. (He Xuan wouldn’t let her out.) Her robes didn’t cover her neck, unlike He Xuan’s own which wrapped and concealed all of them very tightly. But Shi Qingxuan was quiet, a rarity—in all the years that He Xuan pretended to be her friend, they had never known a time where she willingly stayed quiet this long. Her heartbeat was endless in her own skin, and He Xuan’s fingers dug in a little harder. The pulse weeped, slowing before staring back up again.
“Don’t,” He Xuan repeated, less angry, and the resentment they held onto steadied and tightened into an unidentifiable knot in the back of their throat. “I don’t want to hear it.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to say,” Shi Qingxuan rasped, and her voice wasn’t the same. She didn’t carry that melodic high-pitched wisp of a voice, no.
These days she sounded less like herself, more like a stranger.
He Xuan wasn’t kind. If they were kind, they would offer her energy—force it down her throat—and allow her to be in the body that pleased her most. But they weren’t kind. (Water moving; splitting open under the weight of an axe; fire spinning in the sky above them; dead people piling up; tears being swallowed; bitterness turning into something sharper, something—) He Xuan wasn’t kind. And their energy was theirs, solely theirs, and they wouldn’t be giving it to anyone.
Certainly not Shi Wudu’s little sister.
“I don’t care what you were going to say,” He Xuan whispered, and their hand squeezed tighter at Shi Qungxuan’s throat.
The former god choked, just a little, but her lashes fluttered softly—and her hair was messy, no longer well-put together, and it fell across her shoulders in uneven pieces—but she didn’t lift her hands from the water to try and scratch at He Xuan’s hand. She should—this went against most things. (Many things. What was worse, between them?) Shi Qingxuan’s lungs rattled, and the water fed itself between her legs and around her clothed skin.
“He-Xiong,” Shi Qingxuan said, only a little ragged.
He Xuan loosened their hand. “What?”
“Aha,” said Shi Qingxuan, sounding mutually sick and pleased—a sudden swell of pride glistened in her eyes, and her hands moved. The water rippled. She pulled both hands up, pruny fingers and all, and then unceremoniously grabbed onto He Xuan’s robes—the angle was odd, pressing together like this—and He Xuan stared at her blankly while she held onto them, white-knuckling the fabric. “See?”
No, they didn’t see.
No, they didn’t see anything at all.
Nothing came to mind. The moon was full above them. Shi Qingxuan was a mortal. She would die at some point, and He Xuan would be absolutely fine. They wouldn’t even notice until the bone dust blew in their general direction. Shi Qingxuan was a weak mortal, and He Xuan was an immortal calamity who would rather eat than feel bad about an inevitable death.
(And I’ll die, you’ll die—we can die hundreds of years apart and it won’t matter, the waters will absorb me, my ashes will scatter, I’ll be nothing but a tidal wave, you’ll be nothing but my last memory, and—)
“See what?” He Xuan asked, quietly.
Shi Qingxuan’s lips curled, and there was something sharp in her eyes—it glittered, but it wasn’t gold, it didn’t even come close to He Xuan’s own gaze. “I don’t think you get it,” she said, easily, but her voice was rocking along with the waves, and her hands twisted in He Xuan’s robes. “He-Xiong.”
They didn’t say anything in response.
They didn’t think any response would ever matter—would ever come into play.
There was no one but them to see this, and He Xuan refused to see anything. If only they could steal their own eyes and swallow them whole, become a cannibal for the sake of survival. They wouldn’t. Of course not.
Shi Qingxuan’s breaths rattled; up and down, in and out.
She didn’t pull He Xuan’s hand off her throat, and the ghost didn’t move their palm. Their nails dug in, too. They could break Shi Qingxuan’s neck like this. They could kill the former Lady Wind Master. They could snarl and split and steal and devour, take it all—no one would stop them.
“See?” She repeated. “I… do you get it yet?”
The water pulled the two of them. He Xuan kept their bodies steady. They couldn’t help it—instinct led them to guard, to learn. Shi Qingxuan blinked at them, watching—watching in ways that He Xuan couldn’t replicate, even as a calamity theatre stalked and hunted her and her brother into their own playground. Even now, there was something else—a seashell color, a soft pearly pink. I’ll eat you, because He Xuan’s stomach was empty, and would always be empty. Starving to death in the cold, learning and unlearning what it meant to be hungry when you were already dead.
A scholar would never figure it out.
But He Xuan was more than what they wanted to be—they were a calamity, and for a time, they had been a god.
One of He Xuan’s hands was still on her hip. They blinked once, slowly, and narrowed their eyes. If they opened their mouth, they could easily become a monster of the deep. They could show off rows and rows of thin teeth—designed to go and go and go and go. Replaced when broken, strengthened when something tender was in their mouth. Their hair dripped, similar to wet seaweed, and they always smelled of saltwater. Unlike Shi Qingxuan, He Xuan wasn’t trapped in a body they hated. He Xuan could be whatever they wanted. He Xuan could trade their tall height for something shorter; trade their venomous face for something kinder; trade their shoulders for a thinner frame, give their skeleton gentler flesh to match—they could walk the streets like a real woman, they could kill anyone who took too long to refill their glass—they could push Shi Qingxuan onto the cold floor of their dungeons, and they could make the night last forever if they wanted. They could paint themselves blue, like the water, and blend right in. They could smear their lips over Shi Qingxuan’s—they could control the situation, the pull and tug, everything. Unlike Shi Qingxuan, He Xuan wouldn’t lose anything else, ever. And, unlike Shi Qingxuan, He Xuan had power to ensure they wouldn’t be harmed or trapped.
“I don’t,” He Xuan replied, completely void.
Shi Qingxuan’s smile wavered into something sweet. It came out wrong, and the water was cold, and it climbed up to the bottom of both of their ribs. Her hands squeezed against He Xuan’s robes. “Well,” she croaked. “I’m not going to explain it to you.”
He Xuan’s gaze was heavy. “I wouldn’t care,” they said. “I’m not the one living a lie.”
The moon was full. The water was cold. The beach was several paces away. He Xuan could swim with ease—be one with the water, sink into it—but Shi Qingxuan was the one with a bad hip, a bad leg, a twitchy arm, and double vision. Out here, like this, there was no one to save her.
What would she do if He Xuan pulled her under? What would she do if she found herself trapped here, with too-big waves and a hungry ghost king?
Devastations, in nature, weren’t meant to be domesticated—they didn’t calm down after their source of hatred was put to rest—because there was no rest to have. Ghosts calmed down in bitter and jagged pieces, like broken pickle jars—seaweed tangling along the oars of a rowing boat. There was nothing else to be done, like this, nothing else that could be promised. Shi Qingxuan didn’t have anyone else in her corner. She didn’t even have the divinity, the bare minimum, of having corners. He Xuan was following her, in the dark—plastering on fake faces—fake skins—none felt right and none felt wrong—and there was only this, now, tonight. Nothing else was left. Nothing else mattered.
“It’s not a lie,” Shi Qingxuan said, too simply.
(Too simply, too easily, too—)
He Xuan’s eyes glinted, and they said, “It’s not me who stole your fate.”
Hurt flashed over Shi Qingxuan’s face. It wasn’t something that He Xuan was able to find often—they didn’t go looking for bruises on skin, they just pressed and pressed until they made their own. And yet, Shi Qingxuan’s smile stayed in place, and the two of them were far closer than they should be. But Shi Qingxuan seemed to reach up on her tip-toes, the water offering her an easier way to reach He Xuan’s mouth.
She pressed her mouth there, chastely.
It was reminiscent of decades past—when they were both playing god, stuck behind a temple or in a palace or in a dust bowl—gentle hands curling impatiently and a body following the willing tug of someone it shouldn’t. Old memories swelling up, moving like fish that darted between their feet and the reeds.
With a sudden surge, He Xuan reached up with her other hand and grabbed onto the back of Shi Qingxuan’s head, holding her close. They pressed back, again, and a noise was made behind their lips—hidden, sucked in—but they didn’t even blink. They weren’t little. They weren’t lovers. They weren’t anything to one another except murderer and victim. Taker and the one stolen from. If you had known what it would cost a stranger, would you have done it? Swallowing the noise that Shi Qingxuan made, swallowing it and taking it and taking everything else, too. He air in her lungs, the heart in her chest, the mind she cradled in her brain—He Xuan was a ghost king, she was whatever she wanted to be—she snarled. Her tooth snagged on Shi Qingxuan’s bottom lip, and fresh blood spilled. The waves rocked them together, and Shi Qingxuan stumbled—gasping—and He Xuan didn’t bother to steady either of them, this time. She kissed like she was devouring. She kissed like she wasn’t going to stop, like this was the last time, like this was all that would ever exist.
(Was it?)
He Xuan kissed her harshly, with subdued violence, and she swallowed the sharp tang of blood without blinking. Their mouths were intertwined, and Shi Qingxuan was pliant, and the water was cold.
There was nothing to do. There was nothing to say. I don’t regret it. rotten, rotting; bled, bleeding.
He Xuan pushed harder, pushed forever—and their teeth snagged, and their tongue traced the dull molars at the back of Shi Qingxuan’s mouth. I don’t regret what I did. I don’t regret it at all. Nothing would happen next, nothing would ever fucking happen, and they would both go to sleep and only one of them would wake up again, only one, and—
“He-Xiong,” Shi Qingxuan croaked, breathless.
He Xuan turned away from her mouth and towards the fallen god’s cheek—they mouthed along the skin, flushed warm, and scraped their teeth down the heat.
“He-Xiong,” Shi Qingxuan repeated, raspy.
Her hands climbed up until she could press her thumbs into He Xuan’s collar—the robes barely moving. Their pulse was non-existent. Shi Qingxuan’s, on the other hand, thundered and thundered even now. He Xuan squeezed her throat, almost like a reminder, and tipped her head backwards so they could gnaw on their too-sharp jaw—not softened, not the shape they used to wear. He Xuan could catalogue all the differences with ease. They would remember until they died a second time.
He Xuan breathed, just once, because the air was sharp and salty in their mouth. They mumbled, “Is it wrong?”
All things bottled-up. Creeping along the shoreline, twisting their feet in the sand. Trying to understand where they came from and how it would change them as a person. (Did any of it come close? Did any of it matter?) Becoming a god didn’t save them. Losing their fate to a greedy boy and a useless little brother—tangling themself into jail, into cheating, into loss, into death—guts spilling—body breaking—but murder had taken a hold of He Xuan’s heart, then, watching everything collapse because of one person. Dedicating their undead life to killing that person—robbing him of what he robbed He Xuan of. I don’t regret it, spoken into wet hair, into a dream, into a mouth. Wailing with the sea-beasts, rattling like He Xuan’s bone dragons. Snapping jaws, devouring, and then—
“I don’t know,” Shi Qingxuan said.
“How do you not know?” He Xuan asked, harshly, and there was a roar in their eardrums. Everywhere, all-consuming. “How could you live your life and not know?”
—losing it all, building it back, snarling at the Heavens and seeping into every shadowy place, finding a home amongst mirrors and lakes and dead thinsg—being the dead thing—
Shi Qingxuan blinked at them, eyes sweeping back and forth. Her lashes danced. Her body had somehow ended up flush against He Xuan’s, and they were close. He Xuan’s hand was trapped between their chests, still holding onto Shi Qingxuan’s weak, mortal throat.
“I don’t get it,” He Xuan spat. “And neither do you.”
Shi Qingxuan laughed, though, and she leaned so close that their faces mashed together uncomfortably. “Who says?” She asked, choppy, because He Xuan was squeezing her throat so hard it must have already cut her off from her oxygen.
Stinging, breaking, waiting along the shore and following the tide and nearly—
But her chest convulsed, so close, and she was a sun and He Xuan was the endless pace that surrounded that star—boiling and blistering and radiating—and it didn’t matter, none of it fucking mattered. Blisters lined up all along He Xuan’s tongue, and Shi Qingxuan didn’t seem to care. She came close again, and when she kissed—it wasn’t hungry like He Xuan, but it was greedy like she wasn’t a fallen god—wasn’t a liar—wanst a beggar—no, it was greedy like she was still a god fraternalizing with the Heavenly Courts.
Shi Qingxuan’s lips were warm. He Xuan’s were not.
(We both made our choices in the end. That’s all we could have done.)
—losing her mind, losing their mind, falling into it; breaking apart in the sea; turning into sea foam and salt, blood and old bone.