Work Text:
“Your sentence has been commuted.”
The words come as a blessing and a curse, sudden as a star falls. Dan Heng has only just woken, and he’s groggy, so he thinks he’s misheard. The cut of light that splits the shadows from the open door of his cell blinds his eyes, disorienting him. He shifts away from it, and the links of the many chains that bind him press deeper into their bruises.
Your sentence has been commuted. He repeats it in his head. The words, in that order, do not make sense.
Preceptor Lu stands framed in the doorway, a dark smudge in a plane of blazing white. From the way he holds himself—stiffly, with both hands on his hips—Dan Heng can tell that he is not pleased.
The Preceptor continues, “You shall be released from here one week from now and then permanently exiled from the Xianzhou Alliance—provided, of course, that we are unsuccessful in appealing General Jing Yuan’s rash and thoughtless decision to absolve a remorseless criminal of his rightful punishment.”
Jing Yuan. Dan Heng has met him before, but only once. The general had visited him in his cell some time ago, staying only briefly and engaging in nothing more than small talk. Dan Heng cannot fathom what Jing Yuan gleaned from that meeting that might have led him to such a drastic decision as commutation.
Even the word feels foreign as he turns it over on his tongue.
“I cannot think of one less deserving of such tender-hearted mercy,” says Preceptor Lu as he turns to depart. “You are a sinner far beyond redemption. I cannot fathom what the general was thinking.”
And then the door is closed, and Dan Heng is left to his familiar darkness and a host of heretofore forbidden thoughts.
His sentence is commuted. Impossible. He was told that he would remain here all his life, atoning for the sins of the one who came before. The chains that bind his limbs and keep him suspended are as inextricable as his own flesh; the thought of ever being free of them is not only ludicrous but unfathomable.
But his sentence has been commuted. So said the Preceptor.
He has never dared to imagine life beyond the walls of the Shackling Prison. It is a world meant only to be glimpsed from the pages of books, as far beyond him as the cosmos. In the long-abandoned reaches of his heart where hope still dares to reside, he feels a stirring of excitement. But it is a pleasure not meant for him, and before long, that sensation ceases to be excitement at all. Like the sin of the Abundance, it has mutated into something abominable.
Rarely does he cry anymore—there isn’t much that the Preceptors can do to him that they haven’t done already—but this sends him over the edge. Tears slip from his cheeks to strike the ground far below like the weakest Cloudhymn magic.
—
Dan Heng learns quickly that none of the Preceptors, nor any of the guards, are pleased with the general’s decision. They speak to him curtly and only then to remind him of his predecessor’s atrocities. He does not sleep much in the week leading to his release. The tedium of his waking hours becomes torturous, but that is nothing new to him.
Even without the jibes of the Preceptors, his own thoughts consume and torment him. First, he considers the logistics of exile. Where will he go? What will he do for money? As a branded traitor by the Xianzhou Alliance, is there any star system that will have him?
These thoughts are soon overtaken by those born from anxiety. He has never lived outside the confines of this room, outside the restraining support of his chains. He doesn’t know how to take care of himself. And though he’s read much on the history and culture of the Luofu, he knows little of the universe at large. This body already has a Synesthesia Beacon implanted into it, so language will not be an issue. But he has had little socialization in this life, even amongst his own people.
When the day of his release arrives, fear has replaced any semblance of excitement. A group of guards and Preceptors comes to prepare him. He allows it without resistance.
The chains suspending him are lowered. He scrambles to catch himself on unsteady feet. The guards are never gentle with him, but there’s a particular callousness today in the way they handle him. His shackles are unlocked, and then he’s stripped naked and forced to his knees on freezing stone. He grits his teeth and lets his hair curtain his face as he’s hosed down with brutal efficiency.
They let him dress himself, at least, bringing more of his predecessor’s clothing—clean, neat things that haven’t yet been defiled with blood and grit. It will make him look presentable for the general, he thinks—no evidence of beatings or lashings. His ankles are fettered, and his arms are pulled before him, wrists cuffed with bruising pressure and held in place with a chain around his waist. A firm grip on his shoulder startles him.
“Do not embarrass us before the general,” Preceptor Lu hisses.
They shove him along, heedless of his shackled feet and how he stumbles over them. The greenish lights in the wall sconces are bright, and so half the journey must be made blindly. He has never been taken to this part of the prison before, and he lacks familiarity with its labyrinthine passages. They ascend, passing checkpoints at each level where he’s patted down for contraband, until they end up at last in a massive vestibule with walls carved of fine jade. There, Dan Heng blinks to restore his vision. General Jing Yuan and a cohort of Cloud Knights appear before him as if out of a dream.
“It’s good to see you again, Dan Heng.” The general smiles, a reassuring gesture, but his presence is imposing.
Dan Heng is not used to speaking and finds words difficult to pry from his lips. Such is the case now, and he can only lower his head in what he hopes is understood to be acknowledgement. Preceptor Lu squeezes his arm, imperceptible beneath the folds of his robe.
“We have brought the sinner, as ordered.” The Preceptor’s voice is cold. If Jing Yuan perceives it—and surely he must—he makes no acknowledgement of it.
“I thank you, Preceptor.” He offers a slight bow and a slighter smile. Then he addresses the Cloud Knight directly beside him: “Kindly escort Mr. Dan Heng.”
The soldier breaches the standstill by crossing the chasm between the two parties and taking up his place at Dan Heng’s left. Jing Yuan turns, accompanied by his men, and Dan Heng is gripped by the arm and led after them. He doesn’t spare a glance at the Preceptors; he shudders to think of the rage twisting Preceptor Lu’s face.
The prison’s enormous double doors split in half before them, and the wash of sunlight is immediate and alarming. Dan Heng falters. The light pierces even his closed eyelids. His escort tugs at his arm, urging him beyond the threshold until he’s stumbling onto soft earth.
“Do not rush him,” Jing Yuan says sharply. “You’ve just seen how dark it is in the Shackling Prison. The sensitive eyes of a Vidyadhara need even more time than ours to adjust.”
Dan Heng pulls against the chain tethering his wrists to his waist, wishing for nothing more than to cover his eyes with his hands. Jing Yuan can’t know that he’s been kept in the dark his whole life, that this is his first experience with sunlight. His eyes fill with water—tears, he realizes soon enough. He can’t open them lest his retinas burn and water run down his cheeks in streams.
But the water overspills anyway and streaks pale tracks down his face. For though the sun sears his eyes, the heat it lays on the back of his neck is a sensation he’s only felt once before: in the Scalegorge Waterscape, curled in his egg and ignorant of the world. It’s a warmth he long ago gave up hope of ever feeling again, and it brings true tears to the surface.
He’s surprised by how long Jing Yuan allows him to remain there, trying to recompose himself enough to walk. When he can finally force his eyes open, he finds them impaired. The world beyond the prison is colorful, but he sees it through a muted and watery veil. The golden trees are soft and indistinct. If there are flowers or fruits upon them, they blend too well with the blur of color for him to make out. He blinks back more tears. The outline of the prison watchtower nearest him is fuzzy; he wonders if the guards atop it have their weapons trained on him, prepared to move should he make one misstep. But the sky beyond it, peeking through tangles of razor wire and the matted leaves of hawthorn trees, is an endless plane of blue and white.
“Are you alright?” Jing Yuan asks gently.
Dan Heng stiffens. “Yes,” he manages.
It’s his first word to the general, and it’s a lie.
—
The overhead lights on the starskiff are deep green and turned low, far more accommodating than the Luofu’s relentless artificial sun. Glancing at Jing Yuan, Dan Heng wonders if the choice was deliberate.
He sits between the general and his guard on a leather bench at the back of the ship. The long panel window captivates him—he’s never seen a window in person before—and he gazes out at the sky beyond as his vision settles.
“The journey to Starskiff Haven will not be a long one,” Jing Yuan says. “I would kindly advise you to prepare yourself for the reactions you may elicit from people who appear as total strangers to you.”
Dan Heng nods but quietly resolves not to think on it.
As the starskiff picks up speed, the streaking colors outside begin to strain his eyes, and so he casts them down instead. There is little point in taking in his surroundings; this will be his first and last time seeing them.
Yet when they disembark at Starskiff Haven, Dan Heng finds himself struck by the beauty of his homeworld. Just like in the pictures, the Luofu is an architectural marvel. Jade columns rise to meet hipped roofs in perfect symmetry while courtyards and pagodas form seamless lines along the streets. There are kiosks and starskiffs and ingenia and Cycranes—everything in its place, just as he remembers it. But he remembers it from the pages of books and only in the indistinct way one remembers a fading dream. Seeing it in motion, alive, is something altogether different.
Jing Yuan puts a hand on his shoulder. “Keep your head down,” he says out of the corner of his mouth. Dan Heng obliges.
In the living Starskiff Haven, there are people—Xianzhou natives, Foxians, Vidyadhara. He knows the characteristics of each but is unfamiliar with them otherwise. He watches a man, a Vidyadhara, buy snacks at a food stall. He can tell by the ears. He knows that most Vidyadhara do not have horns as he does. He looks down and for the first time, in the light of day, takes stock of this body. It belonged to his predecessor and so is stained with sin. But when he moves a finger, takes a breath, tosses his hair, and sees it all, he experiences a sudden dizzying sense of ownership. This is his body.
The sun is warm on his skin.
But as they cross the street, all wonder at reclaiming this body evaporates. His chains clink as he walks, the soldiers’ boots echoing on pavement. Even amidst the clamor of the bustling thoroughfare, it seems that everyone can hear them. Heads turn. A Foxian man leans to his neighbor, an outworlder girl, and whispers something. Dan Heng hears their words in their breaths: “prisoner,” “criminal,” “dangerous,” “stay back.” And then:
“Imbibitor Lunae.”
He hides his eyes. Shame burns his cheeks. He is not the sinner, but here, in the eyes of all the onlookers, that subtle truth holds no meaning.
“Traitor.”
The word is spoken suddenly, vehemently. Dan Heng doesn’t need to raise his head to see the Vidyadhara child who uttered it. The boy, shepherded away by an anxious Pearlkeeper, is too young to have witnessed the Sedition of Imbibitor Lunae, but his utterance initiates the cacophony all the same.
“Sinner!”
“Murderer!”
“Abomination!”
It takes Dan Heng too long to realize that nobody is speaking—that it’s all in his head, where most of the things that haunt him go to linger. But in the icy gazes of the onlookers, he reads their hearts. He knows what they must be thinking.
The sunlight on his neck has grown cold.
They reach the port with the outworlder starship without any actual incident. There’s an element of ceremony as Jing Yuan unfurls a scroll and begins to read.
“By order of the Ten Lords Commission and General Jing Yuan of the Xianzhou Luofu, the Imbibitor Lunae, Dan Heng, is hereby banished from the Xianzhou Alliance for the remainder of his natural life. Should he breach the terms of his exile, he shall be returned to the Shackling Prison to serve out the remainder of his sentence without recourse. Any future incarnations seeking absolution must apply for clemency by way of the Ten Lords Commission, the Vidyadhara Preceptors, and the Six Charioteers. Do you, Imbibitor Lunae Dan Heng, agree to abide by these terms?”
Dan Heng struggles to meet his eyes. “Yes.”
Jing Yuan seems to let out a breath as he nods to the guard escorting Dan Heng. Reluctantly, the man unlocks his shackles. Dan Heng rubs his wrists out of impulse. He’s rarely been free of restraints for all of this life.
Free. Surely exile can’t be worse than the agony of confinement on the Luofu. Surely.
After that, Jing Yuan hands him his inheritance: a parcel containing his predecessor’s clothing, an elaborately crafted bracer without its pair, and a beautiful spear that feels far too familiar in his hands though he’s never wielded a weapon in this life. He doesn’t want any of it, nor does he have the energy to refuse.
He can’t read the look in the general’s eyes as he boards the ship. It’s just as well; he won’t be seeing him again. He sits by himself near the window and doesn’t look back. Only once the ship has taken off does he spare one final glance at his homeworld—and then never again.
He turns to face the stars in silence.