Work Text:
Life is a tricky thing,
Some are born in a family where you have everything and wish for nothing,
Others are born into a family that have nothing and wish for everything,
Then there are those who are neither one nor the other,
Those who have a bit of both,
Sometimes only the good,
Sometimes only the bad,
And sometimes, more often than not;
The mismatched ones.
Life is a tricky thing,
When you grow up being nothing then get turned into something,
When you become something, only to be turned into nothing;
Where you are taken from the cold into the warmth, only to be thrown out again,
Where the place you thought to belong to, is nothing more than a mirage of honey sweet lies;
And where the light is no match for the shadowed smiles, that hide words as sharp as blades to your throat.
Life is a tricky thing,
When you are given a glimpse of a life that will never belong to you,
Where kindness and warmth are nothing but a ploy to get your guard down,
Where everything is nothing but a mere game of chess and your value is the price.
Life is truly a tricky, even cruel thing;
When it gives you a family and safety,
When it gives you joy and warmth,
When it gives you the love of a family you yearned for;
Only for it to be ripped out of your hands;
Realizing it was never yours to begin with and have everything like glass shatter around you.
Life is a cruel and tricky thing.
But now he'd be free.
Life was never kind, nor was it fair. Many knew this as time passed, as they grew and lived, trying their very best; to make the most of it least before they run out of that little time given to them. After all, when has life ever been merciful to grant more than they give you to begin with? When had life ever been gentle to those that it didn't favor? Those that were not blessed by the gods?
Never.
The answer was as simple as that, he knew that.
He knew that so well, yet it never stopped to ask him why it was so. It never stopped the train of those thoughts that would betray him, curiosity getting the best of him and 'whys' and 'what if's' filling them. He never stopped questioning why things came to be as they did.
When he was younger, it had been simple things. Anything that caught his curiosity he would ask his mother to explain. His mother, gentle but strict, would patiently explain it to him. Smile at him warmly as her hand would stroke through his hair softly whenever she was teaching him, or times spent in simplicity of being together. Where the soft hums would fill the silence, melodies of songs his mother had grown up with, sung by her own mother to her and her sister when they had been young.
While he loved his mother with his whole heart, he never truly warmed up to his aunt. His aunt was scary in his eyes, a thing that never changed. She was cold to him, to his mother. He would often over hear them fight; more than one could count, it would be him hiding in his and mother's room. Hands covering his ears as he tried to drown out the sounds of voices, one shrill and angry, the other irritated yet softer, trying to outmatch each other. He would try to ignore the way vases would shatter outside the room, the fine porcelain cracking and splintering across the floor, only a puddle of water and flowers left on the ground. At rare times, when he couldn't hide in their room, he would hide behind her. Body shaking as he attempted to shrink even further into himself, hands gripping her robes while she shielded him.
Neither his cousin, only a few months old, would be of help, nor his uncle who feared his own wife. Who constantly belittled his mother, how he and his aunt would join in the gossip about how his mother was nothing more than a cheap courtesan, a whore. Easily sleeping around with a man, no matter how good he was with words, so easily, to even get pregnant and carry his child in hopes he would return to them, to her.
He hated those gossips, he hated the man that left him and his mother, never understanding why he would do so. Did his father ever even love his mother? And if yes, why wouldn't he return for them, him…?
Those were questions that followed him through his childhood all the way to his 14th birthday.
His father returned.
(He wished he never did.)
His father took him with him.
(He flinched away from him, he didn't like him. His words were fleeting and he never met his eyes, why was he here? He wished that he was never taken from his mother.)
His mother let him go, telling him that he would do well even if she remained here.
(He wished she never did. He wished she never sent him away; pushing him out of the only place he was able to call home.)
And yet he wanted her happy, saw the way her eyes lit up in ways he never had seen before all because his father came back, because he was the son of a very well known Sect Leader. So he went, all while ignoring the dread that grew in the pit of his gut.
Despite knowing he wouldn't be welcome.
After all, his parents weren't married.
His mother had been only a mere affair to him, his mother who deserved much better was nothing but a fleeting entertainment, and he never wanted to throw up so much in that moment when he found out who his father was.
He was a bastard.
Born out of wedlock.
An heir to a life he never wanted.
(He wished his father never came to their village.
But life was never kind.)
His life at Lanling Jin's Koi Tower was... odd. during the first two years there, most of the time he was left alone, being avoided or ignored was better than to be bullied. It was at least a semblance of peace that he could leave with. As long as no one bothered him, it would be okay.
He thought he would be okay.
Then his brother, his kind brother with a smile that reminded him so much of his mother, of his home, extended a helping hand when he overheard the scolding for still not being able to grasp their techniques. That his cultivation level was too low, too slow and that they couldn't even fathom why he had been taken in.
He never understood it either.
He told his brother, who patiently listened to him, his huffs of annoyance and his cries when homesickness got too much. His brother told him he would help him, bit by bit, giving him books that should help him step by step. He never gave up on him, and tried instead to find ways to help him.
Until one day he mentioned the Yiling Patriarch, talking about demonic cultivation. Told him he would be fine, as long as he only studied it from books.
In hindsight.
That should've been the first clue that something might not be right, but he ignored that for someone who was able to make a place so large and cold feel like home.
So he agreed.
He read, he practiced in secret and he learnt.
(Foolish, he had been foolish.)
They grew closer, sharing his concerns and fears, of confusion and conflict, when he complained to be attracted to men instead of women, and his brother listened to him, a soft smile ever present as he nodded his head. Never judging, protecting him against those that wished to harm him.
He thought it would be well.
That he had one more home.
He was wrong.
(He should have never let himself grow close, never let the guards down.
He wasn't any better than the lot of them.
Not at all.)
He only met the other briefly, very briefly when he saw his brother in the halls. A coincidence, for he had heeded to look for him after he had finished copying the notes that he had been lent to study. The “Gege!” quicker out of his mouth before he could’ve even registered that he might be interrupting something or whom the other male with his elder brother was. Blinking slowly once, he did notice and uttered a quick greeting, as he tried to ignore the way he stumbled over his words. The elder welcomed him warmly as ever, returning the greetings that caused a small and shy smile to grow on his own, widening at the praises he received for his diligence. Just as he was about to speak, ready to deny it out of bashfulness, he heard a chuckle. Slowly, he followed the sound and turned to look at the long forgotten companion of the Elder.
The boy, someone slightly younger than him, was grinning at him, all teeth that may even get elder woman to coo at the seemingly cheerfulness of it.
Yet his eyes were different, cold and calculative, betraying the grin easily if only for a second.
(Something inside him shivered, fighting the urge to step back as said eyes, sharp like a blade, observed him closely.
Danger. His mind whispered.)
He tried to ease his nerves and the fervent thoughts of growing fear of his gut screaming at him to get out of there as soon as possible. He ignored it, turning his attention back to his brother instead, who advised him that there were some more books that could be of help to understand the theory deeper in the Library. That it would be worth checking it out.
Nodding his head, he uttered a soft thanks, thinking simply that the other noticed that he was uncomfortable, helping him as always. Taking back the notes, Mo Xuanyu thanked the elder once more before bowing to them both and bidding his farewells, hurrying to the library.
He pointedly ignored the loud snickering that rang through the air the second he turned around the corner.
(He prayed after that encounter, to never meet him, Xue Changmei; Xue Yang—as he found out later—ever again.
For once he was heard.
Too bad that it will be the only time his prayers would ever be granted.)
As the months turned to years, as he grew older, Mo Xuanyu learned to ignore the voices that kept gossiping at every turn he took, at every step he walked. The way they would laugh behind fans and sweet smiles, the way words—sugar coated as they were—would stab him everytime he got openly scolded. So much time, yet his core is still nowhere to be seen.
Too weak, too measly, a waste of time.
He heard it all.
An illegitimate son, a good for nothing, a cut-sleeve.
He knew it all.
Could recite what others would talk about him with closed eyes and yet, as he holed himself up in the library into the early hours of dawn, his brother, kind and sweet would visit him. Stay by his side, the only home beside their nephew and his mother. The only one he trusted, the only one he wanted to be proud of him beside his mother because unlike others, unlike their own father...
He cared for him.
So how could he not repay it all?
So when the same sweet brother had told him that there was something he would like to show him, for he was the only one who understood him—
How could he have said no?
(He wished he did. He wished that day, for once he said no.)
He was led into the other's chambers, following him until a hidden room was revealed through a mirror. A private study, it seemed, partly at least, while the other half was filled with shelves upon shelves of books, scrolls and artifacts carefully kept together.
He was confused if this had been the secret the other wanted to share.
Perhaps notes for the theories he had been reading? There was a possibility that the elder kept them safely with himself than to leave it out in the library, where it could fall into someone's malicious hands.
(How wrong he had been.)
It wasn't until Jin Guangyao gestured to a box on the table, a serene smile still intact, that something akin to dread after so long began to grow within him. Carefully, he approached the box. The box itself seemed antique, made of dark wood and decorated with silver peonies. His hands hovered above it, chancing a glance at Jin Guangyao, who nodded quietly, encouraging him. With that as a sign that it was alright, Mo Xuanyu slowly opened the lid.
Only to almost drop it.
A shiver ran down his spine, eyes widening in horror as to what lay inside.
A head.
A severed head of a corpse.
Chifeng-Zun’s..No, Nie MingJue's head.
Bile rose in his throat, fingers gripping the lid until his knuckles turned white, trying his best to keep his hands, body from shaking.
He thought that after finding out that the Ghost General was still alive, that he was being kept hidden under the Tower, there wouldn't be anything worse to witness.
He was wrong.
So, so utterly wrong he wanted to cry.
(He wanted to cry, to let his legs give out under him, to curl into a ball. He wanted this to be a nightmare, a terrifying nightmare from which he would wake any second.
Yet he never woke up. For this was reality.
His brother, beloved brother, his light and home.
Had—most likely—cut up the corpse of Nie MingJue, had kept the other's head as if it was a prize. A treasured rare gem hidden away from greedy eyes.
He wanted to run, run from his brother, this room, the box, the tower.
He wanted to run away from this life.
Away from it all, back to his home.
Back to his home, to turn back time and never witness anything so gruesome.
He wanted back the life where he could be with his mother, where he never met his father nor brother.
(Sometimes people should be careful what they wish for.)
He wasn't sure when he left the room, the chamber, how far he had run, nor how long. He wasn't sure where he took the strength to do so, how he just let the lid fall with an ear-shattering noise before bolting away in pure fear. Mo Xuanyú wasn't sure when the hallways blurred together, twisting and turning until he got dizzy, until after so long he had made his way into the gardens far away from everyone, from the head, from him. He ran further, from the gardens to the bordering forest, disappearing behind bushes and trees, running until his legs finally gave out in a stumble and he fell. The skin of his palms tearing as he tried to brace himself yet failed to do so, for he still managed to hurt himself.
Rolling himself onto his back, he couldn't do anything but lay there on the ground. Chest heaving as the air he greedily tried to inhale burned his lungs.
It burned.
It burned so much.
He wanted to choke.
It hurt.
Did he hurt, too? Was it painful? Did he suffer?
With a jolt, those thoughts invaded his mind, body jerking to sit up while bile rose at the back of his throat, till he leaned over to empty his stomach. Hands gripped the earthy ground until his knuckles turned white once more, body spasming with the aftershocks as everything finally caught up to him.
He didn't even notice, in his haste to fight back the tremors once it was over, that there were tears streaming down his cheeks.
(Why.
Why had this become his life?)
Days.
It took days before he felt the courage to face that man, to talk to him instead of avoiding him.
(He should have run away instead, why didn't he run when he had the chance to?)
He laughed at him, and told him that all is well. That no one would find out about it, he and Xue Yang were the only ones to know aside from himself. Because he would understand.
(He didn't, he didn't understand even a damn thing, not someone as insane as hi—)
The grip on his shoulders tightened, it hurt.
The smile was there, yet it didn't reach the others eyes.
He scolded him as if he was nothing but a child throwing a tantrum.
Yet his words cut deeper than any blade could.
He was being threatened.
He struggled, trying to get out of Jin Guangyao's hold, but it was as if he was chained, the elder's eyes glinting. The other tore himself away from him as if he was a disease, yet pulled him along soon after, one of his own hands moving to rip his clothes as he stumbled back, until both of them landed on the floor with the younger landing above the elder.
Dread filled his stomach.
Away.
(He needed to get up quickly and get away.
Quickly before he could, would—)
Yet it was too late, he didn't move in time, and the other already called for help, alerting the guards.
Before he knew if he was seized, arms twisted behind his back and face pressed onto the floor.
Harassment.
Attack.
That's what they called the incident the whole time.
That's what they chose to believe, no matter how many times he tries to tell them the truth.
And everytime he did, he was called insane.
For how could anything he told them be true?
It was clear he had gone insane.
They knew he couldn't be anything else, after all they saw it all when he seemed to dabble in demonic cultivation. Of course, it would rot away his mind, fill it with whispered lies sweeter than honey. Of course, what did you expect from a cut-sleeve, worse than his father for even daring to lay hands on his own brother?
Whispers.
Everywhere he went they would whisper.
Murmur behind his back.
Insult and spit into his face.
Training was harder, bruises increased, and he was demoted to nothing but a slave with time. Eyes and hands followed, and no matter where he went people would try to touch him. Like a predator, eyes would watch him as if he was nothing but their prey. Words that made him want to throw up left their lips.
On and on.
In and out, every day and night without fail, it kept happening.
Days turned to weeks before it finally happened.
Another incident.
Again accused.
He was thrown out this time.
Sent back to his home after trying to seduce his Mentor.
(No one cared that it was his wrists that were bruised, his hair a mess, and his clothes tugged at, before the man had removed himself upon being discovered.
It didn't matter anymore.
No one would believe him anyway, no one ever did.
What difference would this make? None.
But maybe, just maybe.
Being home, being with his mother again would make it better?
He wouldn't be alone anymore.
That was all he prayed for.
Yet his prayer fell on deaf ears, unanswered.)
Returning back home was an event that turned out much different than he had imagined it to be. Whilst he had expected the scowling faces of his aunt and the sneer on his cousin’s, nothing could have prepared him for the crestfallen expression that graced and danced so openly across his beloved mothers face upon realizing that he wasn’t merely here for a visit, before it was hidden carefully behind the gentle warm smile that she always gifted him with.
And he knew in that single moment, no matter how much she might have attempted to hide it behind her soft voice and welcoming embrace.
In one moment, he saw disappointment and shame fill her eyes as she looked into his.
And that itself, hurt more than everything he had endured at Koi Tower.
(He ignored the tears that stung his eyes, blinking them back.
He ignored the need to tell her what exactly had happened in the Jin Sect.
He ignored the need to tell her not to believe the rumours and lies.)
Swallowing nervously and giving her a sheepish yet small smile, he returned the embrace and decided that he won’t burden her with such things; that it’s okay if she is ashamed, even utterly disappointed, in him. He will accept all that, as long as he doesn’t have to return.
Mo Xuanyu might not be as strong as a proper cultivator, but he can work hard. He can take over her tasks, protect her from his aunt and her pawns.
He was able to survive Koi Tower; he will survive here.
Watching his brother, and even his father before his ultimate demise, taught him at least one thing that came with sharing the same blood as them.
(That accursed blood.)
Playing the fool, letting others see and hear what they want while keeping his own thoughts hidden deep within.
He knew how to do that.
And he will use that to his own advantage.
Will make sure to get them out of here, where neither of them had to rely on his aunt and her family anymore.
He can do that.
(He wasn’t any better than them anyway.)
In hindsight he should’ve known that it wouldn’t take long for gossip and rumours—worse than last time he had heard them—to fill Mo Village and reach the ears of his esteemed Aunt, and her family. If anything, he was rather surprised that it had taken this long for it to even reach them, given how the women and men loved to talk so much. But then again, Mo Village was small, rather remote and right at the border.
Perhaps it wasn’t all that unusual.
At the same time, it was no wonder when his family found out; the treatment over him had taken a drastic change as well, with tasks doubled and tripled with punishments for even the tiniest of mistakes in their or the other servants' eyes, whether it was being beaten or kicked to being starved for nights.
He took it in exchange for keeping his mother at the very least safe.
(The same mother who met his eyes less and less these days.
Whose own hopeful shine began to die out through shame or ridicule; who grew paler and thinner the more she confined herself in their shack.
She didn’t talk as much as she used to either, and from the time spent apart, it was hard to tell what she was even thinking about nowadays.)
So it was okay, all of this was okay.
No matter what they did or said.
No matter the cuts and bruises that kept growing on his body, no matter the way said body screamed in agony each time a kick was aimed at the same spots in his ribs, or how his aunt’s nails scratched across his face when she would slap him, leaving bloody cuts in their path.
It didn’t matter if he didn’t get any food, if his body ached from the work around the house, field or stalls.
It didn’t matter that his own body grew frailer with each passing month as summer became autumn.
How it would cry and strain, and shiver as he slept.
None of it mattered, for as long as he worked hard enough at the manor, they left his mother alone with chores, and as long as he ran errands round the village, he'd save up money that he kept carefully hidden even from his greedy and pillaging cousin.
Then all of this won’t matter and will instead be worth having to have endured.
So he had to hold on just a bit more, just a little bit more, till none of it mattered anymore; that he prayed for every moment.
(It is a shame that the gods didn’t pay any heed nor grace him with even a glance; for all the praying was of the same worth as kissing a dead soul back into life.)
Mo Xuanyu hummed softly, putting the small pouch with money into his robes as he walked down the path between the fields back home; balancing a small basket filled with fresh fruit. It was already late spring and his work seemed to pay off truly well, if things continued like this then by midsummer he and his mother should be able to leave this place.
A place that had never been a home to either of them, not since his grandfather had died.
So he will take his mother away from here, show her that they can have a better life without relying on anyone else but themselves; One of actual freedom.
Once they are away from here, the village itself and somewhere far; Mo Xuanyu will find them a better place to live. A proper house! Even if he will build it himself, and after that he'd make sure to get a proper workplace.
(Maybe they could sell fresh vegetables and flowers?
His mother always loved flowers, especially white roses.)
Will save up more and then be able to repay his mother for all that she did for him. To make up for all of his mistakes!
He'll make up for all that he did wrong, for all she had to endure because of his father, soon enough.
Yes, it will be alright. He just knew it!
Thus, with a small smile, he went through the back gate and made sure to have it properly locked as he continued onward to the small shack that his mother and he had been living in since he had returned, all whilst balancing the basket.
His mood only seemed to brighten when he couldn't see his cousin or any of the servants that would sometimes be found loitering around. Quickening his steps to reach their small home all the more sooner, with growing excitement at the chance of cheering his mother up, not even the faraway laughter of his aunt could deter his good mood for once.
His mother had been much quieter as of late, barely touching her food, even. But with this he hoped that she would eat at least a bit. The winter had been harsher this time around, and his mother had grown frailer over the course of it, getting sick much more often than she had when he was younger.
But he will do his best to help her recover; he even had her favorite fruits with him!
So when he finally reached the door, not paying much heed to the way it was slightly ajar when he opened it further, “Mama, look! I got...your…” his words trailed off , the basket dropping to the ground with a deafening clatter as the fruit spilled from it, rolling on and on till it stopped by a kicked-over chair's leg.
Cautiously and slowly, he took one, two steps further inside the shack before his legs gave out and he tumbled to his knees, barely catching himself with his hands as hues of silver looked up wide in fright and mortification to meet the same shades that had grown dull with no sign of life in them. “Ma...ma...?” The words left him with uncertainty as he watched her pale body sway lightly, so much paler than she had been.
Blood dripping down from her wrist to finger nails, bruises beginning to form on her legs.
Her robes were torn at some places, her long hair a mess.
(The echo of his aunt's laughter rang loudly in his mind, the image of the ajar door flashed in his mind.)
She had fought.
(There weren't any servants when he had arrived.)
There was a rope placed around her neck from which she was hanging.
(Why were there no servants? Why was his aunt laughing? The door ajar; His mother—)
His body froze.
Stomach dropping, then twisting and turning as he kept the need to throw up at bay.
He swallowed back the bile that rose as it all clicked into place, small tremors wrecking his body with each gasped breath he tried to calm himself with, but none of it would work.
This wasn’t how things were supposed to be...this wasn’t what should’ve happened...none of this was right!
She should be here...
Smiling and welcoming...
But this—
This—
This wasn’t supposed to happen!
(He should have been here.)
Why did this happen?
(He should have protected her.)
Why?
(He should have taken her with him.)
Why...Why...WHY?!
(He should have taken her away, he had waited too long—)
Didn’t he promise to protect her!!
He tried to get his body to move, to crawl closer while tears stung his eyes and blurred his vision. His lips parted, small and quivering, yet no words managed to make itself past it as he reached out.
Hand shaking as it gripped the hems of her bloodied and torn robes before finally, with a sharp gasp, a broken and blood-curdling scream of pain tore itself open from his throat.
Why, why did this happen?
Why his mother?
Why her, when she was all that he had left?
Why why why why why why why why—His mind couldn’t understand any of it all, what had they done to deserve this? He couldn’t understand! He didn’t want to understand.
All he wanted was a family.
All he wanted was a loving family.
All he wanted was to have his mother back.
But now she is gone.
All he had left is gone…
He was now utterly and truly alone.
(A broken sob tainted with a mirthless laughter left his lips as tears continued to fall one by one.
The sound of his aunt's laughter and the festivals of the main estate are dull, barely there sounds at the back of everything.)
Everything he tried to protect, to keep safe.
The only family, his mother—gone.
And he was alone, all alone, like they wanted him to be...
What should he do now..?
(It’s been a few weeks since she has been gone now.
He was the only one to mourn her.
His aunt’s laughter was still loud, he wished she would choke for a fragment of silence.)
Should he go on?
There was no reason to do so anymore though….
….It’s not like he was needed elsewhere.
...Or at all...
There was nothing to do, but doing nothing at all was also beginning to bore him.
Isn’t it strange to be bored by nothing when all you do is sit there and breathe?
Even breathing has been bothersome as of late, though…
What should he do? He wasn’t sure in all honesty...
Sitting here, curled up in a ball whilst listening to each and every word sneered at him by his cousin and the servants, was less boring than at least dying in some ditch that he would’ve had to look for first.
But then again… If he had any luck, mayhaps they could grant him a swifter one than that. Maybe if he agitated the other more, they’d keep beating him until it all just felt numb and he could finally ignore everything else?
Perhaps they could kill him quicker than simply waiting for it.
Simply waiting for it was taking too long, and he didn’t want to go on either anymore, so what should he do…
what , what , what, what, what should he do—
he didn’t know,
He wasn’t sure,
what was he supposed to do,
he didn't know, why didn’t he know?
Why why why why why whY WhY Why Didn’t he know??
Shouldn’t he know it?
Wasn’t it what he wanted?
What did he want?
What was it?
Wasn’t it to get rid of this all?
What...was it...again..?...
(A sting.
Nails digging into his shoulders even through the thin layers of his robes,)
Snapping out his thoughts as if burned with hot iron, Mo Xuanyu looked up with furrowed brows in confusion, before they eased as he blinked at the unexpected face.
Certainly someone he hadn’t thought to meet in the courtyard of the Mo Estate.
Then again. His life had been always an unexpected turn one after other,
(Each worser and more detestable than the previous.)
Staring at the slightly older man, Mo Xuanyu could see his lips move, speaking, but none of the words registered in his mind. Instead all he could see was the same same dull eyes that had stared up at him all those months ago.
Hunting and hunting, never leaving.
Did he suffer too? Was he in pain as well?
Those were the questions that plagued him even though he knew the answer since long ago.
The need to throw up at those thoughts or at the memory of Nie Mingjue’s head never truly died down either, but he had gotten better at suppressing those needs in favor of breathing. It had been important to breathe, so that he could move on, so that he could work and get them out of here.
Not that all of that mattered anymore…
(He really didn’t want to breathe anymore, it was bothersome)
A shake, worried topaz-colored hues stared at him, livelier than those he was used to seeing.
Ah.
Right.
He was saying something, his brows furrowed once more as he tried to remember the string of words among his own tangled thoughts.
“You…want a deal?”
He was rewarded with a nod and Mo Xuanyu didn’t know how to react to that aside from the question of: Why him? He didn’t understand what value there could be with him agreeing to such a thing, in what ways he could help him with...or so he thought, till he actually looked in his eyes and then he understood.
It’s a gaze, an expression he had seen countless times on his own through the better part of his life since meeting them.
It’s one he knew like the back of his hand, and maybe, just maybe hearing what this was about exactly won’t be wrong to do.
Mayhaps it will give him what he had been seeking for….
...And so he accepted with a smile and became the Pierrot Fool once more.
Why, why couldn't it have been different?
(Why did it come to this?)
A mother, beloved yet dead. Never to see her smile, to hear her last words.
A father, a bastard that lets everything he touches roteven his own family.
A brother, the second eldest, kind at first, but all roses have thorns, and his are the most venomous.
A brother, the eldest, who pays you no head, too busy being the pride of his family amid his own turmoil.
A family that wants nothing to do with him, for he is worth nothing more than dirt beneath their feet.
These thoughts kept whirling in his mind as he locked the door, making sure that no one would be able to come in. A small talisman he had created a while back for this purpose was placed on the lock before they fuse; it will last long enough till he was done with all of this. Wasting no more time, he moved quickly around the quiet, partly empty room of his shack.
The notes he had crafted over the weeks had been hidden in a small opening under his bed, carefully stored in a much smaller box beside the antique wooden one that was engraved with peonies, holding the last belongings of his mother.
(He took them both out of their hiding spot.)
Carefully, he took the one which belonged to his mother before settling in front of the mirror. Taking a look at his face and sighing in relief when he realized there were no scars or bruises left. His injuries had healed properly over the last few days.
The only thing that stared back at him, however, was nothing but a face too pale, for sleep had been coming less these nights.
The eyes of someone that seemed much older than he actually was, way too tired, too resigned.
And a smile. So small, vulnerable and broken in ways words couldn't capture as his lips trembled ever so slightly, taking a deep breath as he began with the first steps.
Thoughts never fully stopping as questions kept growing.
Why couldn't it be different?
Where his mother had not been keen on the return of his father.
Where his father could've been kinder, warmer.
Where his brothers would have welcomed him both without a ploy, nor viewed him as bothersome at best.
Where his family had been like those he had seen in the markets—like love and home
Why did it come to this?
Where lies and rumors spread, swallowed like the finest dish by greedy mouths, like a melody getting stuck in your head and ever-listening ears. Where truth is worth nothing, for what use is it for them if it cannot entertain them compared to such delicious rumors?
What good was it for them to listen to one measly soul, cast out of his own sect and a cut-sleeve bastard, compared to an esteemed sect leader?
Who cared about what would happen to him?
His pride, honour?
His life?
No one.
No one did.
Why should they?
So he did as told, played the fool, the lunatic. At least then they would leave him alone, let their gossip die down.
At least then he would have some peace, to mourn his mother, to try to keep going when nothing was left.
So what if his family beat him? Berated and degraded him? It was better to endure it than to be thrown out and die on the streets. Food was worth more than nothing at all. Being locked up was more worth than having no roof above his head at all.
So he did his best to keep up the act, play the lunatic that everyone thought him to be.
And maybe he was, for the lines were blurred as the days passed, feeling a bit less than others, growing numb to the pain of the beatings a bit more.
Yet he knew.
Knew so well that there was a pain, a certain one that could never be stopped, would only keep agonizing him.
A blade cutting into him, tearing out his golden core, would be more bearable.
Being branded over and over again with a hot iron would be more bearable than having his very soul cracking.
Why couldn't it be different?
Where his life had been just a bit more merciful?
Where his family could've been just whole?
Where he was not an ink-stained mistake?
He could feel the tears blurring his vision, a sharp stinging, burning. He ignored it like always. There was nothing else he could do now. He couldn't risk the powder of paint to come off.
At least mother's belongings would be of good use for one last time. A chuckle left him at that thought, devoid of any humor as his movements stopped. Face covered by the stark white layers of the powder that had him wincing, the red spots on his eyes going to his cheeks and lips the shade of roses.
He looked like a mess.
He was one, whispered his mind back traitorously.
He wished the thoughts would shut up, but they never did. The thoughts, voices of the people disguised as whispers, would haunt him through the day while nightmares would torture him at night.
Silence, peace, was something he yearned for but had been always steadily denied since that day.
But now, that would change.
Raising with the fraction of grace he could muster, he grabbed the notes and a piece of the broken mirror shards, the sharpest as he moved to the room's center. Dropping and tossing the notes, talismans as he went.
It hurt...
It hurt so much to be talked over, to not be ever believed.
It hurt, to be seen as nothing but something shameful.
It hurt to be called something he was not, to be silenced the second he tried to fight back.
It hurt, to be cast away, to be seen as nothing but something tainted.
It hurt to lose his only family.
It hurt to lose his only home.
It hurt and it hurt so much it felt like it was clawing into his skin, sharp nails digging and breaking the delicate layers. Blood dripping and limbs numbing. His voice never came out, feeling like there was no air in his lungs, filling with water as if he had always been drowning deeper and deeper. Where his cries, his pleas and screams to just listen...
To simply listen fell on deaf ears.
Where no matter what he did, it was always wrong in others’ eyes.
Where his mere existence was a curse, an annoyance to others.
Of no value at all.
It hurt when his pleas for mercy, to stop being hit, went unnoticed, only gaining in intensity. Where mocking laughter and dirty hands would follow him everywhere he went, dirtying him further.
It hurt.
It hurt so much, to not be able to just live.
To have a life like others.
It hurt.
It hurt to his core that he would never have someone to hold dear, to love and cherish no matter in which form. No matter how he yearned, wished or hoped.
It would never happen.
His life had no meaning for itself, his existence didn't mean anything. Even the thought of revenge he entertained was only a scapegoat to not fully lose it all, to let all the anger out.
But...
Maybe through this, he could give someone else a reason to live.
Mo Xuanyu didn't flinch as he cut into his skin, cut as deep as he could with all his strength. Crimson blood pooling, dripping down his arms as gaping gashes stared back at him. Two on each arm as he began to draw the array with his blood.
Ignoring the tears that Mo Xuanyu blinked back rapidly. Mind reciting the chant to get it properly once spoken loud. Ignoring the trembling of his hands, the way he flinched at every loud noise he kept hearing, hurrying as best as he could.
Maybe.
Just maybe.
He could do something right in his life.
Maybe, just maybe.
Mo Xuanyú, Mo Yú would be able to finally do one thing in his life, that could be of help.
(So he ignored the way his soul kept breaking, cracking and shattering as he finished the array, taking one last breath as his lips parted.)
“ Please...
I beg you...
Please, save me.
Please, make the pain stop.
Yiling Patriarch, this wish of mine that I shall pay with body, soul and blood. Grant it to me, erase this existence of mine and end this pain, let it be my death, let their punishments be quick and...
Let it be your Rebirth.”