Work Text:
i. judge
The cell is six paces wide and five paces long.
Geshu Lin has to admit that it’s bigger than he’d expected. For what the cell lacks in central heating, it makes up for in space and quiet. He’s not sure where he is— a secure holding prison, maybe, hopefully one still in Jinzhou, though he wouldn’t be surprised if he’d been sent to Mingting where the trial is set to be conducted in a few weeks. It’s possible that he’s in a regular prison and simply being held in solitary confinement, but given the severity of the crimes he’s being accused of, it’s unlikely.
The good thing is that he’s alone with his thoughts. The bad thing is that he’s alone with his thoughts.
The newly formed scabs on his skin itch in the dry air. Burns were always the hardest injuries to deal with, and that’s the worst part about them— the itch as they heal.
He ignores them with the relative ease of long practice. He’d gotten burned far more frequently as he’d awakened to his Forte, and when that happened to a person they simply learned to deal with it. These, though, are among the most severe he’s suffered, the superheated flames he’d produced during the battle with the Threnodian managing to break through his usual control.
They’re calling it the Battle beneath the Crescent now, as he’d learned on the few occasions when the hospital staff had deigned to speak with him. He’d scoffed at the name— an attempt to pretty it up, as though by granting it a name the authorities could relegate it to the stuff of history, something to be tsk-tsked at before being moved past.
Some things shouldn’t be forgotten. He knows that. As do the families of the men he’d sent to die.
Before he can lapse into those familiar lines of thought, a faint sound forces him to pay attention— footsteps, getting louder as someone approaches. Two sets, this time, which means that he’s got a visitor.
He wonders, with idle curiosity, who it could be. Visitors aren’t usually permitted in sensitive cases like this one. The last one he’d had was his court-appointed lawyer, though of course they had only met briefly as a formality. Even the best lawyer couldn’t fight the charges— especially since he’s not interested in fighting them to begin with.
The prison guard stops outside the cell, gestures at his visitor to enter.
The first thing Geshu Lin notices is that he’s wearing a modified Midnight Ranger uniform. The man who steps into the cell has a pretty, youthful face, as though the measured confidence he carries in the rest of his body hasn’t quite caught up to it yet. His hair— an unusual dark teal— is tied up in an unruly ponytail.
He recognises the hair, at least. One of the Midnight Rangers’ younger officers, the one who had delivered the final briefing before the battle. Geshu Lin doesn’t recall much other than that.
Curious, that a relatively junior officer would be granted approval to see him when even the deceaseds’ families had not.
The young officer stops in front of Geshu Lin, straight-backed and formal. “My name is Jiyan, sir.”
Geshu Lin merely raises an eyebrow.
Jiyan bows. At his age, he hasn’t yet mastered the art of letting his face go completely blank — his eyes brim with some complicated sort of emotion even as his expression remains composed. “I have been chosen by Jue— I mean, my lord Sentinel Jue— to be the next General of the Midnight Rangers.”
So he’s the one who everyone had been talking about. The young officer who had displayed such valour and courage, apparently, that the long-negligent Sentinel had descended from the heavens and personally declared him to be Geshu Lin’s replacement.
“Alright,” he replies.
The information means very little to him, if he’s to be honest. It was a miracle that he’d lived at all. Geshu Lin isn’t shortsighted enough to believe that the battle will be the last of its kind, nor foolish enough to believe that he will survive to have any part to play in what comes after it. His role in history is concluded, more or less.
His successor, he knows, will just be one more man left to hold the tides back in an endless battlefront. What does the identity of a General matter, when Jue, in its infinite wisdom, had personally chosen him?
Jiyan nods, perfunctory, as though they’d appropriately dispensed with the formalities. So not here to brag, then.
“You were responsible for how the Battle beneath the Crescent turned out,” he says. It’s not a question— Jiyan was there, after all.
“Yes.”
“You are charged with criminal negligence, failure to prevent the foreseeable loss of life, and the reckless endangerment of your men. As far as I’m concerned, you killed thousands of the soldiers serving under your command. Some of them were my friends. All of them were my comrades. Your comrades.”
“Yes.”
“Have you nothing to say for yourself?" Jiyan demands. His fists curl into themselves at his sides. “Aren’t you sorry?”
Geshu Lin considers this. “Had I known for certain that the battle would have resulted in the Threnodian’s defeat, and in a way that did not require the sacrifices of my soldiers,” he says carefully, “I would have made different choices.”
Jiyan only watches him with those expressive eyes.
“But I did not. And so I accept my decisions. As well as the consequences that come with them.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes.”
Jiyan stares at him. The line of his mouth tremors. Finally, it’s as though a switch within him has been flipped; his shoulders sag and he lets out a harsh exhale.
“This isn’t how I thought it would go,” he says, almost to himself.
Geshu Lin says nothing.
Jiyan runs a hand through his hair, only succeeding at making it even more unruly. He turns and paces, back and then forth.
Finally, he gestures at Geshu Lin. “May I sit, General?”
Geshu Lin shrugs, and isn’t surprised when Jiyan takes the non-invitation. It’s somehow odd to have someone sitting beside him on his bunk and taking up space; Jiyan is a tall man and the cell, albeit generous for one person, is slightly cramped for two.
“I’m to be stripped of my rank, as I’m sure you’re aware. You don’t have to call me General. In fact, shouldn’t I be calling you that?”
Jiyan glances at him; hesitant, almost shy. “With the aftermath of the battle to deal with, I haven’t been inaugurated yet. So… you are still my General, sir.”
“I see.”
There were a number of young recruits in the Midnight Rangers who had respected him, once. There were even some, who, gods forbid, had crushes.
As Jiyan gazes at him with that strange look in his eyes, he suspects it’s rather more complicated than that.
ii) jury
The panel’s vote is unanimous. Five representatives of the Ministry of War in Mingting, three delegates from Jinzhou, and two special advisors from the New Federation and Rinascita. He’s found guilty on all counts.
Geshu Lin only remembers fragments of the trial— the courtroom, packed with families, both tearful and furious. The hungry flash of cameras. Of the Midnight Rangers in attendance, he could only recognise a handful; and of those only a fraction dared to look him in the eye.
As he dwells in his cell, awaiting his execution in a month’s time, he finds that he can’t remember very much from the trial at all.
He supposes that it does not matter very much if he can remember anything from the trial at all, in the grand scheme of things.
iii) executioner
The sound of footsteps is familiar, now, as is the careful knock at the bars that signals Jiyan’s presence.
Jiyan looks different, today— he’s in his dress uniform. There are new symbols on his epaulettes, shining brightly in the cold fluorescent lighting of the cell. He’s sturdy enough that the uniform on him doesn’t look like a child playing dress-up; brave enough that he doesn’t look like he’s shrinking under the weight.
Geshu Lin inclines his head. “Congratulations on the promotion.”
Jiyan removes his cap. The expression on his face is sombre. “I have been formally inaugurated as General of the Midnight Rangers, sir. Surely you know what happens tomorrow.”
He has a general idea— execution, then, in a method according to the state’s discretion. He’s under no illusions that one way to die will make him feel better or worse than another. He’s been on enough battlefields to know better.
Out of the two of them, Jiyan might just be the more upset.
Geshu Lin stands up, stretching. If he were a more occupied man, he might have missed the way Jiyan’s eyes flick down at the exposed strip of skin where his shirt rides up. It’s a shame, the way Jinzhou’s newly-minted most eligible bachelor insists on spending his free time.
“So?” he says. “What did you come here for?”
Jiyan clears his throat. “I… had hoped you would impart some advice. I mean to be a different kind of leader, you see. But I thought… well, even if I did not agree with your position, I should at least understand it.”
Geshu Lin snorts. “You mean, what advice I would give to a younger version of myself?” He glances at Jiyan. “To a younger, shinier version of myself?”
“Please.”
He looks up at Jiyan. Really looks at him, this man who might be damned for standing in his shoes. Young enough that his kindness hasn't been beaten out of him yet, and loved for it.
….He’s so young for the weight of responsibility he’s been made to shoulder.
Distantly, he remembers the version of himself he’d been, once. Once, Jue had descended for him, too. Once, he’d believed that no matter what, he’d be forthright enough to make all the right choices.
Had he also been so young?
What would he have said to that version of himself? One day, the blood on your hands will be impossible to ignore? One day, you’ll make the only choice you can, and be damned for it? One day, you’ll never forgive yourself for doing what you had to do, but you’d never forgive yourself if you hadn't done it?
…..Maybe not.
“What is there to say? You’ll learn what you need to in due time,” he finally tells Jiyan. “You aren't a younger version of me, and so any advice I would give myself would be different.” He narrows his eyes. “But where you're going… do what you think is right, even if you have to live with the consequences. That’s all I can tell you.”
Jiyan looks down. His hands flex around the brim of his cap. “I see.”
Not for the first time, Geshu Lin wonders what Jiyan’s thinking. Why he’d chosen to keep visiting him, even as the world had rearranged itself around his absence.
He sighs. Geshu Lin reaches up, his burned hand finding its way into Jiyan’s mess of hair. It’s softer than it looks. He pats Jiyan’s head awkwardly. “You seem like a good person,” he tells him. “Don’t worry so much about ending up like me.”
Words better meant for a naive child, rather than his successor. But Jiyan’s eyes soften in understanding, and he doesn’t know why.
“I thought otherwise,” he says quietly. “But you seem like a good person, too.”
What is he supposed to say to that? Geshu Lin huffs and steps away, sitting back down on his bunk. Jiyan remains where he is, his hands twisting around the brim of his cap, as if lost in thought.
It’s not up to Jiyan to cast judgement on his character. Neither, really, was it up to the disciplinary panel, or even the country he’d given up everything to save.
The only one who he’ll accept judgement from in this world is himself. And he’s held himself accountable enough. Tomorrow, once he enters the circle of Naraka his mother had once told him about, the one reserved for kinslayers and murderers— he’ll accept whatever comes next.
Jiyan regards him silently.
Then he comes closer— one step, then two. He bends at the waist, almost formally. The pads of his fingertips, exposed in his fingerless gloves, brush his cheek, healthy skin against shiny scar tissue. A pair of lips— (soft, his mind supplies) brush against his forehead, gentle as a butterfly’s wing.
Geshu Lin could push him away. But suddenly he finds it hard to think of why he’d want to.
Jiyan draws away. There’s a strange expression on his face— searching, resigned. He swallows.
Then he goes back in, the bulk of his body shielding Geshu Lin from the red eye of the cell’s camera. A hand strokes his face, the sensation dulled from dead nerve endings— the other presses something thin and rectangular into Geshu Lin’s sleeve. Jiyan’s lips brush his skin again; this time they alight on his cheek, tender and chaste.
Thank you, jiangjun, Jiyan murmurs.
And all too soon he’s gone, stepping out of the cell and into the wider world ahead.
Geshu Lin fingers the hard plastic object Jiyan had slipped him. A keycard, similar to the ones he’s seen the prison guards use. The material is flimsy, but the edges cut into his palm from how hard he’s gripping it.
There’s maintenance scheduled for the security cameras at 2300 hours, Jiyan had whispered, his lips brushing the shell of Geshu Lin’s ear. The guards change their shifts at 0000 hours. Make use of that information as you will, sir.
Tomorrow, the guards will come to his cell, put him in a windowless van and drive him to the site of his execution. He’ll have some measure of atonement for his actions; his soul will be released to be reborn into the corner of Hell that awaits him.
Today, at 11 PM, he could unlock his cell, wait in hiding for the changing of the guard, and if the gods are on his side, he could escape. To live on.
To live on for what, though?
Geshu Lin snorts to himself. The nerve of him, he thinks.
Jiyan had pressed a cruel decision into the palm of his hand— to live and bear the guilt. Or to submit to his execution and get it over with, a similar fate to the ones he’d ordered for his men all those months ago.
The card presses its rigid edges into his skin. The door to his cell, with its barred peephole letting in the faintest sliver of moonlight, suddenly seems at once both immaterial and intimidatingly final.
Somewhere, a clock chimes its toneless song.
fin