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esmermint · 2 years

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:: SLIPPING THROUGH MY FINGERS ::

!!TW: MILD GORE AND DEREALIZATION!!

The moment she entered his life, he wanted nothing to do with her. Demons ranged on how they treated outsiders as parts of their families, some gleefully added in a demon of different species into their pack while others were more hesitant of doing so, and the single idea of taking in a human child frightened most demons for they were unsure if the child could survive such harsh environments on their own. History tells of this one pilgrim who was forced to journey for over eight years to deliver a Golden Cicada to the west, traveling with two other demons who saw him as an older brother, begging for his help at the sight of trouble yet neglecting his advice for they thought of his words as lies. He lies, the second eldest said, and quickly convinced the others to vanish the pilgrim demon back to his home in the mountains. His memories of family are skewed and as such, when the child clung to his clothes and ripped the seams from tugging too tightly, he forced her off of him and he left the temple grounds exclaiming that the child was not his and never would be.

Even if the Gods had asked him to raise the child himself, he wouldn’t have agreed to it. “Punish me all you want, tear my skin off and use it as a new winter coat; but I am no father to this wretched thing! I want nothing to do with her!” the demon sneered, eyes narrowing as he ignored the temple keeper’s pleas. They were of thin frame and looked so distressed and begged of him not to leave, tears staining their cheeks while the demon king summoned what little strength he could muster and sprung upwards, to the clouds, and leaped away until the temple was but a speck of color in the distance.

But it was late August, three weeks after the departure of the temple, and Sun Wukong found himself staring up at the tapestry painted of him and his sworn brothers, golden lines illuminating their armour, his four generals behind him with bright grins and excited expressions. He played with the fabric of his newly sewn robes—a gift from the mourning mountain folk that heard of the rumor that flooded the southern villages. He’d taken so many steps backwards just to land himself back at this wretched place, dark eyes narrowing at the sight of three strangers; a human of white robes and a gentle expression accompanied by two—no, three powerful beings behind him, painted delicately and beautifully. Sun Wukong stared at the four of them, something akin to static flowing through his hands and chest and legs, his mouth turning dry as he tried to say their names but found himself not knowing their identities at all.

All of this does not matter though.

He sat by the window for long hours in the first week of living at the temple, and he waited for the small girl he’d rescued to grow tired of him. He does not remember how he saved her; his memories have been torn apart from the first night of having spent it under the roof of this sacred building, a part of him wondering what happened to have scorched his skin so badly to the point of scarring him with freckles and painted black eyes, the smell of smoke causing him to tremble and shake feverishly for hours before managing to calm himself down. The wind told him to pay no mind and Wukong reluctantly agreed to doing so, busying himself with entertaining one of the women that spent her days with him and the little girl.

The total upheaval of his new life is a storm emerging from the western seas, merciless and harsh and it tugged at his fur in the form of tiny hands, causing tears to leak from the corners of his eyes as he gripped the child’s arms tightly but—he does not hurt her nor does he shove her away. He felt caught in a silk web that he could not escape from. He tasted salt in the air and, eventually, the storm subsided and it was over, leaving behind pebbles of glass and cracked lumber, stained in the reptilian jade colors.

The woman that cared for them left and asked him to make a choice, smiling at him with warmness he remembers even after five hundred years of hibernation.

It took weeks for everything to sink in, wondering what it meant to open his eyes and find himself staring at a pair that reminded him of his own. They’re jade colored and young and they look at him with pure admiration. He wondered if she would hate him if she found out about his past and his mistakes and his shit personality; he wondered if this is what fathers feel everyday of their lives. He spent his time in the same room he and that woman had shared, staring at the ceiling and letting kitten-like claws play with his swaying tail. No familiarity was felt in the closed walls of the temple, only blues and yellows and the fur color of the temple keeper that came in every couple of hours to hand them their food.

They walked in on him laying down next to the child one night and he whispered, “She has my temper,” blinking away tears that he hadn’t expected. The temple keeper had whimpered something out, hugged him and told him it was not his fault, their face pressed against his and he still wonders to this day why they smelled of lilies and birchwood.

On the twelfth week, Wukong made the decision to leave. He grabbed hold of the young girl’s hand and told her to not look back. She asked him if they could come back to visit the temple keeper and Wukong felt as though he were underwater, the eyes of a hundred descendants staring down at him, judging and sneering and asking themselves, What will this trickster god do?

And Wukong said: One day, when you’re older.

He wonders now if it’s too late to take his words back.

———————————————————————

There have been a lot of adjustments to Xiaojiao’s life since her late awakening, the shiver of knowing she’s one step closer to becoming someone to live up to the name of Qitian Dasheng, but she thinks the most incredible part of this progression is the loss of the wooden swords and the gained ability to wield something crafted of steel and jade to block the incoming attacks of a golden projection.

Fighting was a dance that Xiaojiao mastered at the age of fifteen: she’d spent her days following Wukong’s steps gracefully, placing her foot right where he’d placed his and then watched as he broke choreo, moving along to the sound of the wind chimes and melody of the incoming storm, laughing gleefully when Xiaojiao took the first tentative step out of the guidelines and followed his lead, something powerful humming at her core when Wukong flicked his wrist and sent a hurricane of autumn leaves towards her, forcing her to dodge each orange and red speckle that came her way in tune with the music. And now, she recites all her teachings into this fight, twisting her wrist as she circles around the illuminated demon monkey that stands in her path.

She’d expected to hate training against the fake versions of her mentor. She eyed him cautiously at the first announcement of it, a heated response rising at the back of her throat when Wukong knelt in front of her, smiling at her warmly and said, “I’ve told you my legends, haven’t I? I don’t want you to get a scar at such a young age.” He’d waited for her response back then, patient and steady and she knew that somewhere inside the god he was aching to cackle at how immature and pathetic she must’ve looked—but that was her mind trying to convince her he did not respect her. Back then, she merely nodded and agreed to his idea half-heartedly.

But now? She lowers herself down quickly and feels the rush of magic fly over her, a nervous laugh escaping her lips when she drags her leg out and slams it against the clone’s pair, watching with excitement as it crumbles, giving her the opening she needed. Quickly, Xiaojiao raises herself and turns her sword, taking aim and cutting through the projection, watching as golden particles transform into butterflies of carved patterns on their wings. Jade eyes stare up as they flutter away before dissipating, her lungs heavy from hours of repetition and training.

She closes her eyes and flicks her ears. She hears the distant sound of birds chirping and the wind’s whistling of tranquility, loud and sharp and she’s learned that it makes for a good distraction; it confuses the enemy and makes them believe there is no threat and her mentor’s smart enough to take advantage of it.

Xiaojiao feels herself smile as she spins and slams the edge of her sword against Sun Wukong’s hand, gritting her fangs when the demon does not flinch at her attack. He smiles, bright and sunny and full of admiration as he easily pushes the sword back where it came from, his eyes dancing with mirth at Xiaojiao’s whimper, her hands gripping the handle of the sword so tight her skin threatens to tear.

“Good job,” Wukong chirps, using two fingers to finish the job and flick Xiaojiao’s sword into the ground with ease, “You managed to last three hours this time! New record.”

“Ha-ha,” Xiajiao breathes, waving her hands up and down in an attempt to ease the burning feeling from them. Wukong looks at her curiously, tilting his head to the side and she closes her eyes and scrunches her nose up at him, smiling brightly to reassure him. He laughs and she quickly blows on her palms before picking her sword back up and shrinking it down to the size of a pin, tucking it into the inside pocket of her undershirt.

Flower Fruit Mountain is lively; magic flows through the open space, the sound of nature makes it easier to connect one’s demon roots—or so her mentor says, looking down at her with the warmest of expressions as Xiaojiao struggled to remove the pile of monkeys from on top of her. Sun Wukong would drag her out during the dawn, when the brightest star is barely rising over the horizon, and tell her to lay down and listen to her surroundings. They’d share stories and exchange tales, some of which she’s made up simply to keep Wukong entertained enough that his eyes stare bright and happy, her heart dreading the day her words are not enough to convince him she’s alright and everything is perfect. As a scholar, she poured herself into the books Wukong keeps in his vault, searching for answers in half finished novels and history journals that merely prove her theory of what the world thinks of her mentor: He is nothing more than a heartless demon and a selfish, lazy, unbearable bastard.

They know nothing of the reason why Xiaojiao looks up to him, why she takes a step back and lets him stagger inside his home with trembling hands and wide eyes; she’s spent days listening to the sound of a melancholic instrument emitting from the front garden of their shared house, the smell of bluebells calming the wind and letting her embrace her ancestry with ease, watching as her fingertips turn green from the scales developing as a protective shell. They don’t know that Sun Wukong is capable of smiling and laughing wholeheartedly, naming her “snapdragon” and letting her laugh alongside him.

But she tries not to think of it when Wukong pats her shoulder with his tail. A gesture of approval and pride. He starts back towards their home and she runs a hand through her hair, exhaling a puff of air before sniffing, wiping her cheek and chasing after him gleefully.

“What’s next?” Xiaojiao slows her step once she catches up to the demon, her throat dry when she looks up at him expectantly, jade eyes scanning his expression.

Wukong blinks and frowns, his smile unfaltering, “Next?”

“For—training.”

“Ah,” Wukong muses. He mimics her, placing his hands behind his back while slowing down to a stop, tail flicking from side-to-side as he ponders. He stares at a random spot in the distance, his eyes emitting a faint golden glow that opens doors to the young dragon’s curious mind, her own eyes glancing around, trying to pinpoint anything that may have caught the older demon’s attention but she finds herself at a loss when Wukong hums, crossing his arms and tilting his head back a little. His voice pleasant and amused when he speaks, “There’s a large crowd in Wán Qiãn Chéng right now.”

Xiaojiao looks up at Wukong in silence.

Wán Qiãn Chéng was a human inhabited city: it was off limits.

The development of the city was overlooked by Sun Wukong from a distance, perched on top of the mountain’s peak to stare down at the wayward demons that crossed the line and started dragging innocent bystanders into their negotiations and pacts and curses, whispering taunts and preying on them for the sole purpose of entertaining themselves. Some demons, such as the librarian, were more tame than others. Xiaojiao was young when Wukong took her to villages in the past, helping him carry baskets of fruit and vegetables and ornaments to place on the old temple walls, smiling down at her and chasing her around playfully; there was never a time where she felt unsafe with him. Regardless of this, of how many times Wukong has mentioned that the city is slowly improving with the decrease of kidnappings and murders, Xiaojiao has never set foot inside Wán Qiãn Chéng without the King at her side. There were a number of factors that influenced this: it was too dangerous for her, she was too young or too reckless or developed a sense of curiosity that did not serve well in the presence of other demons, but she’s never been truly bothered by it.

Still, Xiaojiao supposes, it’s been well over a year since they last set foot in the city.

The mountain is silent enough that Xiaojiao wonders if Wukong detected something off about the city. He cuts her off unknowingly, chuckling and smiling down at her with something akin to pride and joy when she opens her mouth to implore him to speak further—Wukong lowers his hands and says, “I think it’s time.”

Xiaojiao blinks up at him, squinting when his smile only widens. “Time for what?”

Sun Wukong simply laughs. A light breeze tussles Xiaojiao’s hair and she tries her best not to shiver, biting the inside of her cheek as she tries not to get caught in the sun’s optimism when Wukong says, excited and anxious all the same, “For you to go to the city on your own!”

There’s a pause.

And then, “Really?” from Xiaojiao, breathless.

“You’re old enough! Twenty-five in human years!” He thinks for a moment then adds, “I think that’s old enough.”

“Really?!” Xiaojiao parrots, feeling herself growing more and more excited by the second, her tail betraying her true emotions and moving up and down—wagging happily.

“Really!” Wukong gasps back, blinking at her with a bright smile.

“But!” Wukong says loudly, grabbing at Xiaojiao’s arm gently when she twists around to make a run towards the garage. He kneels down on the floor and looks up at her. Something flickers in his gaze for a moment, his thumbs brushing over the back of Xiaojiao’s hands before he clasps them gently, shoulders relaxing with a noiseless sigh. “You need to promise me you’ll be careful.”

“I will be,” Xiaojiao says, forcing her smile to remain calm and bright enough for his eyes.

Wukong only nods, searching for something in her eyes and, when he finds what he’s looking for, he loosens his grip on her and says, “Okay.”

“Okay,” Xiaojiao says quietly.

Wukong tips his head towards the garage and Xiaojiao gives him a final smile before her hands slip away from his and she starts running away.

———————————————————————

Try not to worry about her, though I know it will be hard. Adjusting to life with her will be difficult and you will struggle, but let her go when you’re ready to let her grow on her own. It’ll be hard, but you need to trust her—keep your hands open and trust that she’ll come back home to you. You can handle this. You’ve handled worse. Don’t let it break you.

You’re already broken enough.

———————————————————————

Kiwi.

A little fruit with a fuzzy exterior and a green interior.

The fruit held in the employee’s hand before putting it in the blender.

It’s almost three in the afternoon and Xiaojiao watches in mild fascination as the smoothie is made in front of her, hands itching with excitement to take hold of the cup as the light green mush is poured into the plastic before being covered with a lid. The kicker is the red straw plopped dead in the middle and the employee offers a timid smile before handing the drink off to Xiaojiao, yelping a bit when the dragonling snatches it—there’s a second of hesitation before Xiaojiao apologizes, giving the poor woman a toothy grin before ducking away from the stand, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she sips the smoothie. It’s sweet but with an underlying bitterness that makes her shudder, a squeak slipping past her lips as she flushes from enthusiasm and lets the flavor simmer on her tongue for a solid five seconds before taking another sip.

The past few hours had consisted of running through open spaces in the crowded streets of the city, dodging and ducking away from angry managers and employees when she accidentally toppled over a few display stands in attempts of not touching any of the humans that walked into her personal space. Her glamour slipped off once when a small child tugged at her sleeve and asked if she knew where his mom was and, in attempt to soothe his wails and cries and divert the attention of judging parents, she covered her face and played with the boy, displaying her fangs and ears and scales much to his delight. She’d managed to get some food from a restaurant and sent an array of photos to her mentor, pleased with herself when he replied almost instantly at the sight of her lunch, begging her to save him a piece of the giant burger before she pretended to not be able to understanding his worded message and buying a second meal to save for him.

She’d gotten her hands on some pieces for her motorbike and spent a solid half hour adding components to it while a group of kids watched and pestered her with questions, calling her ‘sis’ and asking her if she could teach them how to ride it some day, causing her to laugh and nod, “Yeah, yeah, one day! I promise.”

Now she wonders if it could be like this every day.

Even if she has no one to share the moment with.

She chews her straw and takes another long sip of the smoothie, humming to herself as she savors it again.

It’s acidic but tasteful and sweet and she snaps a quick picture with her phone before sending it to Wukong and An Wang, the latter having declared himself online for a couple of minutes to reply to her photo before logging off again. She hovers her thumb over the phone icon before lowering her phone and staring out at the empty streets of the southern district.

She glances back and watches as the small line of customers starts leaving and the smoothie stand is announced as closed shortly after.

The smoothie’s sweet but acidic.

She sniffs and opens one of the last conversations from her phone, furrowing her brow when she hesitates to click on the phone icon agan and instead types in a message to An Wang:

[LX: Hey synsyn]

[LX: I was wondering if you knew anything about the southern district? ‘S prtty quiet out here ‘n stuff. Zhai wei’s not online n jsu wodnerng if ya kno it’s safe to walk through rn]

And I can’t see anyone out here but that doesn’t mean that I’m in danger or that I should report back to Sun Wukong. I spent five hours on my own and everything was fine and perfect and just because a crowd suddenly disappears doesn’t mean everything’s going to shit, right?

She stares at the message, her mouth dry.

Xiaojiao sighs. Shit.

She doesn’t send the message and only asks if it’s normal for the district to be so empty near sunset hours.

This, in of itself, would have been enough to urge Xiaojiao to go home and relay her miniature adventures to her mentor. The streets were never empty in any of the districts, not when demons and spirits would often wander through and start setting up their own venues and stands for all non-mortals passing through. The night was the demon’s playground after all. Something wicked tugs at Xiaojiao’s heart strings and starts off at a steady tempo, puppeteering her through the streets and looking at the closed shops and buildings, the lights illuminating the pathway dimly.

A small part of her says she should go home.

Xiaojiao’s sword feels heavy as it lays hidden in her pocket.

She should listen to that part of herself.

But she wouldn’t be Sun Wukong’s child if she did, would she?

She throws the half empty smoothie into the nearest trash can after swallowing as much as possible, shuddering and grimacing full heartedly when the slush travels quickly down her throat and settles uncomfortably in her insides, her glamour threatening to slip as she jumped gracefully on top of one of the street lamps and used the momentum to toss her herself onto one of the smaller building’s roof.

Xiaojiao walks through the center of the roof, scanning the area from her peripheral as she unlocks her phone at the sight of several notifications, trying to calm down her heart and gritting her teeth at the slow developing headache starting from the back of her head. The wind is silent and she resists the urge to whistle for it; Sun Wukong was not hard to reach out to and she should only address this if it was a true concern and not just the anxiety piling up from the lack of souls in the area. Logic and data would shine through at some point. She grips her phone and reads through An Wang’s messages quickly.

[AW: You sound troubled, Xiaojiao, but I see no reason to be when you’re in one of the safest places in the city.]

[AW: I assure you that there’s nothing going on within the southern district. It’s been relatively quiet since I last checked the area.]

That could have been ages ago, Xiaojiao thinks, worrying her bottom lip as she reaches the edge of the roof. There’s a coldness that grabs at her throat and locks itself in a tight grip, forcing her eyes to squeeze shut in attempt to draw out the cause but she finds nothing, opening her eyes and—

Ah.

Xiaojiao’s blood goes a little cold.

Shit.

[LX: An Wang?]

[AW: Ah. What?]

[LX: Can you look up if there’s any demons capable of controlling temperature? Hot or Cold. Maybe something with thermodynamics.]

[AW: Did you run into someone?]

[LX: There’s this]

[LX: Idk I got this weird feeling all of a sudden]

[LX: Like i suddenly got super cold but then felt a flash of sudden heat? As if i was standing next to an open fire or something]

[LX: Do you know anything that could’ve caused that?]

[AW: You did not run into anyone, though? It was all just a sudden feeling?]

[LX: I don’t know how to explain it to you]

[LX: I just don’t know what to think of a dark ass demon governed alley in the middle of the night]

[AW: I assure you there’s nothing to be worried about, Xiaojiao. Regardless, I’ll see what I can find from my database.]

[LX: How long would it take?]

[AW: Around fifteen minutes, give or take.]

That’s enough time. Xiaojiao watches as a glow of red, blue and purple illuminate one of the alleys deeper into the district, a conflagration in the night that sends a feverish feeling down her spine, causing her to grip her phone tighter, claws digging through the screen protector as she breathes in and exhales, her breath a visible mist in front of her. She could make it to Flower Fruit Mountain if anything were to happen. Right. Yes, she could—if she hurries—

Her hands throb painfully. She shoots An Wang another message:

[LX: Do it.]

Xiaojiao takes a single step forward and lets herself fall down to the floor, landing on her feet silently, biting back a grimace from the shock of impact, chastising herself for not properly calculating the drop of the building. She follows the path she saw when gazing down at the labyrinth alleyway, murmuring the corners and dragging her hand against the concrete, making sure to lay her palm flat before proceeding, slithering through the maze before slowing her step, glamour fading away when her ears flick, perking up at the sound of voices, her body slowly turning stiff as she rounds a corner and presses herself against the brick wall.

She casts a quick glance upwards and sees a small speckle of stars starting to appear in the sky, only a handful of clouds left in the blurred colors of purple and red. As she gets closer, and as the ringing in her ears begins to die down, Xiaojiao can make out several strangers’ voices.

“..she here?”

The voice is unfamiliar and gruff, laced with an underlying bite that curls around Xiaojiao threateningly, almost as if it were promising to scorch her at any given chance.

She takes in a small breath and listens closely, grounding herself by fixing her gaze on the singular spot on the ground, illuminated by a reddish glow.

“She sends her regards,” another voice drawls. It’s oddly soothing but—it takes all of Xiaojiao’s strength not to flinch, digging her nails into her palm as she bawsl her hands into fists, the fabric of her sleeves getting caught in the crossfire. He was dangerous. “We’re more concerned about whether or not we should keep… affiliating with someone of your nature.”

“Ah, so that’s what this is ‘bout, huh?” the younger—he sounds younger, at least—demon snaps. He clicks his tongue and adds, “She lets that witch frolic around with peasant folk at will and recruits that idiot to work for her but she won’t allow someone of the Bull Family to be of service. Is that it?”

Bull Family. No. No—Fuck. She should call for backup, Sun Wukong would surely pick up, maybe even An Wang, but that could blow her cover. She doesn’t have any proof that this was a dangerous meeting, it could be none of her business. Underground trades, illegal or not, were a part of the demon world and she was trained how to handle situations like this, when or not to engage in a fight that could result in one or more casualties. Without seeing the demons, however, she can only make assumptions. And that meant jackshit.

There’s a metal clang and her ears flick, rustling softly against her hair; sweat drips from her forehead as she stares at the dancing shadows and watches them take form of an item. It sways back and forth. She squints at it, leaning in carefully.

“You two have no fucking idea how hard it was to rip this off that stupid tiger demon,” the first voice growls at the other demon. “I took care of her, naturally, but I’m still expecting to get compensation for my time.”

“Impressive! You managed to get it back in one piece for once. And you cleaned it, too? You shouldn’t have,” the second voice chuckles and Xiaojiao feels her pupils turn to slits. Why? Why does it matter? She rummages through her head, all the names and faces of every demon Sun Wukong has mentioned, but none of them fit, none of them strike the same vomiting sensation that she feels at that moment. She feels sick. “Sadly, our fair lady will not need your services anymore.”

“She’s still missing the key,” the younger demon says, matter-of-factly, “And I fucking doubt they’ll let her puppet waltz through the doors without problem.”

“You underestimate my friend’s capabilities,” the other laughs lightly. There’s the sound of footsteps and then, the air gets colder, a mist emitting from the alley. “After all, he was the one who killed the Great Sa—”

Xiaojiao holds her breath, unmoving.

There’s a deafening silence; the lights of the surrounding buildings cause the shadows to dance, the only harsh light source coming from where the two demons stand, yet one of them felt something. Something. She listens to the sound of shoes click against the concrete floor and then, a low growl coming from one of the—one—she closes her eyes and tries to steady herself with a quiet inhale, exhaling as she blinks her eyes open, a spear sinking through her chest when she finds a pair of purple eyes on the ground squinting up at her from the shadow casted by one of the demons. She takes a tentative step back, reaching into her hanfu slowly to grab the handle of her sword.

It took her three seconds, less than three seconds, to force her left hand to open and let the blood from her cut seep through her sleeve, beckoning the magic that flowed through her and ignite the path way out of the dark labyrinth. And it works, it works and she has her sword out before the shadow can react to the faint glow from her eyes.

She’s fine.

This is fine.

She takes another step back and feels her back hit against something solid.

Fear strikes Xiaojiao’s core as she whips around, muscles aching at the speed of her actions, her eyes widening at the sight of the demon in front of her.

Hah.

Haha.

Shit.

His eyes are glowing crimson, a clean cut scar rests against his cheek, a dark complexion that pairs well with the bright shade of red that colored his hair, streaks of yellow and orange swirled in the strands. He’s not that much taller than her but he still holds himself up with pride and looks down at her with disgust. In his hands he holds a lantern of sorts, a delicate combination of blood red and black, it’s purple hue illuminating his left side and, from the corner of her eyes she can see the silhouette of horns adorning his head, gone in a blink when the lantern dims and fades out.

She wants to stab him.

She wants to scream.

She wants the wind back.

There’s a ping that sounds from her pant pocket as her phone buzzes. It’s An Wang. Haha, why wouldn’t it be.

The demon draws his lips back into a sneer as he says, “Who are you.”

For a moment Xiaojiao forgets herself; she forgets her training and her decorum, the words that were spoken to her when she was younger, the advice to never listen to the drums of war that will urge her to be erratic and uncontrollable, to let it go through even breaths and to find her footing in the time of need. She forgets she’s the Great Sage’s apprentice when she lets the dragon claw its way out of her eyes and mouth and hands. It tells her to move and she does: Xiaojiao propels herself forward, twisting her wrist and letting the blunt of her sword hit the demon’s arm, snatching away the lantern before it could meet the ground and, at the sound of pained screams and deep snarls of ravenous hatred, she runs.

She runs.

She doesn’t stop running.

———————————————————————

‘Because the world will never love you. The world will see you as nothing more than a crook, an idiot with too much pride and a temper that even the gods eventually grew sick of. You lack the skills to communicate properly; however did your family tolerate you? Ah, my apologies. You never had a family, did you… ‘

‘She’ll die within a week, then.’

‘Either by your hand or her own ancestors.’

———————————————————————

“She’ll be back.”

‘Sacrilege in the name of public good’. What did that even mean? To protect the public one must keep secrets from them, leaving them to trust you as prophecies come true and they start to chip away at the population, dragging innocents to hell so a king can jot them down on his little books and keep records of them, not caring how it is they died and only collecting them as more humans are massacred on the surface? The feeling of guilt that derives from opening your mouth and spewing out meaningless words such as “just believe in yourself and you’ll be able to do anything” and watching as a child beams up at you, determination pouring down on him like a waterfall and he drowns in it, following your every word and you feel sickened at the fact it worked. And you keep doing it. Because you lack the knowledge to say anything else that could be as effective.

Because you are not a mentor.

You were never meant to be one.

Hypotheticals; a fucking nightmare and hell of a migraine.

‘Is this what you do?’ Wukong feels his eyes twitch. He lays flat on his cloud, letting the sun shine over him through the canopies of the trees, surrounded by dahlias and narcissuses that bloomed as his clone ran his claws over the petals, illuminating them with a golden glow. Wukong flicks his gaze up to the trees and wonders if they’ll provide any fruit soon. ‘You sit here all day and do jackshit for hours?’

“Get the fuck out,” Wukong says.

‘Touchy! Feeling sentimental or something? Missing the.. Glory days?’ He wonders if he could sleep through this conversation.

If he can keep up with the illusion that it’s still daytime and the sun isn’t setting.

No.

Couldn’t he?

‘You could try!’ Gold Sun Wukong stands over him, smiling as the feathers from his cap come down to rest on top of the Sage’s face, caging him in. ‘But I doubt little Dewdrop would like that. What? She leaves for one day and you immediately go to sleep? What’s that tellin’ her?’

“That I’m tired—”

‘Of her.’

“I’m not.”

‘What were you thinking when you took her in?’ The clone—illusion? Projection?—his other self walks around and starts picking at some of the flowers, tearing off the white petals and leaving behind a husk of stems and veins, ignoring the muffled noises from Sun Wukong that come out choked and strangled. ‘According to legends—yours—you were selected as king solely due to jumping through a waterfall. You were reckless enough to beg for immortality and the moment you received it you abused that gained power and murdered a demon king. Ah! But he was terrorizing your subjects, my apologies. You’re right. It was justified.’

He doesn’t remember that.

‘Do you remember the stables, then? How you let your ego get the best of you? You set free all of those horses and went back to your tiny cave to sulk when the Emperor refused to acknowledge you? Tsk, Great Sage! You should’ve known better.’

Was it night time, now? Was it?

Maybe he should call Xiaojiao.

‘Ah! Ignoring others!’ Wukong snaps his head towards the golden outlines of the armoured version of himself. He looks younger, happier, a lying piece of shit that grins and shrugs easily at the sight of himself—his real self’s glare. ‘Confusing, isn’t it? To try and make sense of all this?’

“Then, make sense of it for me. Who are you?”

‘I am you.’ A pause and then, ‘The part of you that feels hatred towards the world.’

“I don’t—”

The clone laughs. A guffaw of emotions that silence Sun Wukong and force him to sit up, his cloud threatening to disappear at the unholy sight and the trembling of its master’s arms. The clone sniffs and speaks with an unfaltering grin: ‘Then why am I here? I know who I am; a part of you that you buried deep down throughout the years. The part of you that longs to get those memories back from the people who’ve taken them away from you. The part of you that takes one good look at that little hatchling of yours and wishes she’d gotten stuck with someone better. You aren’t perfect, o’ mighty Great Sage! You’re dooming her with twisted ideals and morals. You haven’t even told her about Bai Long Ma—Ah! Aha! My apologies! My apologies! You fucking forgot who he is! My bad, oh, I’m sorry.’

Wukong opens his mouth but no words come out. He watches himself smile and clap his hands, particles of gold and golden bubbles of light covering the garden. They float around until they land on the petals of the flowers and then they pop, taking away their colors and replacing them with the growing shadows of the night.

‘You know she’ll die soon.’

“No, she won’t—”

‘She’s in the southern district.’ His own voice is like venom seeping through his veins, a dagger lodged in his throat, taking away his thinking and precision and he can only watch as the sunshine of colours around him are replaced by shades of jade green and icy blue, the faintest hint of purples.

And then he wakes up.

He screams.

———————————————————————

Xiaojiao blinks, leaning forward to rest her forehead against one of the walls, her hand trembling as she grips the handle of her sword, fingers twitching at the distant sound of footsteps rushing after her. There are several turns to make it to where she was, the quickest option being to jump over the roof of the buildings, but they were tall—big enough to nearly hide away the rising moon from her view. Her bike’s parked nearby. She could make it home.

She just needs to catch her breath for a moment.

Training made everything seem so simple and easy. Parry, dodge, strike. Parry, dodge, strike. Parry, dodge the incoming blasts of fire, strike. Parry, watch as your attacker’s mouth spits out flames from frustration, his hands crumbling the concrete wall of the building in one punch, his outfit patterned with the symbol of the Samadhi Fire, strike. Parry, force your legs to run away as you take your phone out and scream into the device for An Wang to pick up and that you need backup and then watch as your phone is crushed under a gauntlet, your eyes burning with a feral instinct—and you run away, lighting up the path with green flames of your own and—

Xiaojiao slowly regains movement in her arms, pushing herself off of the wall with a grunt, rolling her shoulders back at the sight of the demon approaching. He scowls at her, breathing heavily as he fixes his gaze on the lantern. She sniffs and straightens her posture, swallowing thickly as she loosens the grip on her sword.

“Fucking moron,” the fire demon hisses, wiping his mouth with the back of his left hand. “Give it back to me.”

Xiaojiao forces herself to smile, convinces herself her voice is not shaky when she laughs: “Nah! You seem like the type who’d break it easily! Uncalibrated an’ all.”

“Give it to me.”

“Say please,” Xiaojiao snaps back, eyes wide.

No answer. She can hear breathing, heavy and it reminds her of a bull. Calculating. Rapid. Ready to charge.

For a moment, he closes his eyes and Xiaojiao gets her hopes up, lowers her shoulder and perks her ears up.

Then he lunges.

Fighting is a dance that Xiaojiao perfected when she was fifteen, blissfully unaware of others take on it when she slams the heel of her foot against the demon’s shoulder and finds herself getting thrown against one of the walls moments later, feeling the air leave her lungs. Xiaojiao finds her footing and forces herself to get back up, grabbing the demon’s arm and yanking him forward to sink her fist into his chest. There’s a small crack that reaches her ears and she kicks him away, wiping the sweat from her face as she steps forward, readying her sword and slamming the blade against the demon’s gauntlet, a noise of frustration leaving her when he blocks it and throws her back.

It goes on for a while. It goes on and on and on until “on” isn’t a word in her vocabulary anymore, endurance staggering between the two when, in a quick flash, Xiaojiao misses her strike and can only watch as the fire demon’s hand curls up before it smashes against her face.

A screech. A blurriness from the impact. She shakes her head and lets out a snarl, turning her head to glare at the demon. His hands are shaking.

Fucker.

“Give me the lantern,” he pants, ignoring the way Xiaojiao lifts herself off of the ground, whisking her sword away with a swift hand gesture. He’s unphased. He reaches out to Xiaojiao, eyes determined and his voice grows into a shout, “Give it to me you stupid girl!”

Something cold, reptilian, and smelling of salty ocean grabs at Xiaojiao’s shoulders and she lowers herself, blanking out on the demon’s words as his mouth moves, all yelling and shouting — every single threat that’s thrown her way goes unheard. She opens her mouth and exhales, steam coming out alongside her breath, warm and boiling.

It happens quickly.

Too quickly.

Xiaojiao lowers herself down to a crouch, a feral and inhumane growl coming out of her mouth when she, in a moment of certainty, jumps up and lunges herself forward, fist drawn back. The demon lifts his own hands, red flames emerging from his fist and then—

I’ve been told I met a dragon once, Wukong had told her. He breathed green flames.

Xiaojiao catches his fist, hissing through the pain as the fire sinks through the scales, scraping them off one by one and digging under the skin to scorch it—she sinks her claws in and holds him firm, lifting her free hand and drawing it back.

The fire demon’s face is illuminated in neon green and gold.

The most radiant golden light.

He stares at her, mouth open. He looks horrified. Crimson eyes blink. “Sun Wuko—”

A blur of gold and darker green, then red. Something wet and warm splatters across Xiaojiao’s face.

She watches the body fall down, unconscious, her breathing uneven and faltering. She doesn’t look at her hands. She doesn’t want to.

Xiaojiao takes a step back, taking in deep breaths as she feels around for the abandoned lantern and—there, she grabs it, ignoring the way her fingers tremble as she follows the path she’d marked when she first entered the alleys.

She runs.

And runs.

She doesn’t try to make sense of it all.

———————————————————————

The blood is dry over the cuts and the skin is disgustingly warm but the hand its attached to won’t stop shaking, droplets of salty tears staining the cloth as Wukong wipes his daughter’s hands clean, gently yet firm, kneeling in front of her as she stares off into the distance, frowning at a particular spot as she breathes steadily, exhaling with a sigh. She came home, banging on the door and shouting for his name, clawing at the wood and leaving scratch marks to remind him of this day—when he opened the door she dove in and buried her face in his chest, sobbing into the fabric of his clothes and sagging against him, her legs threatening to give out if not for Wukong picking her up and carrying her inside. He’s shaking, too, as he cleans the wounds and says nothing while Xiaojiao calms herself down.

He grabs the alcohol and dabs a bit into the damp cloth, pressing it against the palm of her hand firmly and she grimaces. Red eyes flick up to stare at her.

The room is dimly lit by candles and moonlight that seeps through the open window, barely illuminating the shapes of the two immortals, letting their feelings be visible when they look at each other. Wukong removes the cloth and starts wrapping the bandages around Xiaojiao’s fingers, flicking his ear and listening, attently, when she says, “I was walking through one of the alleys in the southern district when I texted An Wang if he could tell me about the place. He said it was a normal area, that I shouldn’t be worried about it.”

Wukong hums, carefully checking Xiaojiao for any other visible injuries from the corner of his eyes. She looks shaken if anything, a clean cut on the right side of her cheek. He grabs some gauze and says, “What made you anxious about it?”

Xiaojiao kicks her leg up a bit, tilting her head to the side as if to check if it actually moved. It graces past Wukong’s side, barely missing his tail by a couple of inches. She sighs tiredly, lifting a hand to take the gauze from Wukong and begins to put it on herself, “You said the city was crowded and, it was, up until four or five. Then the streets suddenly got empty. There were no demons in sight, either. Ghost town.”

There’s doubt in her voice. He’s heard it before, at times, a couple of years back. She was smaller and more curious about the world, hiding behind him and tugging on his sleeve while asking for answers to questions that were made up of pure imaginative child-like wonder, jade eyes bright and sparkling with impatience when Wukong struggled to get the right words out. She comes home asking for help, bleeding from her hands and a cut on her cheek and Wukong does not ask where she came from nor what she did; he knows better, now, than to treat her words as if they were nothing more than nonsense to his ears.

“And then?” The Sage asks when Xiaojiao finishes applying the gauze over her cut. She blinks her eyes open and, carefully, settles against the couch cushions. She pats the space beside her and Wukong hesitates, for a moment, before joining her, tilting his head back to look at her properly.

“I got a sudden feeling… the air was cold, then it got boiling hot and then cold again. I thought it was some demon fucking with me so I asked An Wang to look up for any sort of magic that could do that,” Xiaojiao replies slowly. She squints her eyes, pressing her lips into a thin line before continuing. “I saw a flash of summoning magic—the kind you’ve told me about—and I followed after it. There were these two, maybe three, demons and they were discussing a sort of deal.” Wukong stares at her in silent surprise. “I—they mentioned the Bull Family so I panicked while they were arguing over whether or not the younger demon should be working with them and I,” her voice drops to a whisper, “let them see me.”

“You did good,” Wukong says softly, running a hand through her hair gently.

Xiaojiao swallows before nodding. She reaches to the other side of the couch and grabs hold of an item as she speaks, “The demon that I fought wanted to get this back from me. I didn’t want to give it to him, not until I knew if he was doing something that’d—not good but something that wouldn’t make you have to step in in the future.” Xiaojiao places the item on her lap and Wukong feels his eyes darken at the sight. There’s something that tugs at his chest, strings of a puppet master that twist and twist and try to force him to look away from the lines of crimson and black that decorate the item. Wicked thing, his mind says as Xiaojiao turns it to show off all sides of the artifact, the repeated patterns of a crimson moon, its appearance causing something within Wukong to want to scream again.

Xiaojiao clears her throat. When she looks up at him his eyes soften on instinct (yet, he knows that they remain a dark shade of red, intense and calculating, but she makes no comment about it); she sniffs and sets the lantern side, right next to her, before letting her body drop against Wukong’s shoulder, her face squished against him. She mumbles out, “I’m sorry. I messed up.”

“No, you didn’t,” Wukong tilts his head and lets it rest against Xiaojiao’s, reaching out to wrap his arm around her shoulders, rubbing her arm gently as he tries to soothe the dragonling. She feels lost and guilty, his mind reminds him when she sniffles again, her eyes red around the edges from crying and tearing up so much. Something aches inside him at the sight. He holds his daughter close and says, “You handled yourself as best you could. Don’t apologize for doing something that you thought was right—I’ll take care of this tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Xiaojiao mumbles, looking up at him through her eye lashes, frowning slightly. “You don’t have to.”

“Some asshole hurt my daughter,” Wukong says calmly, giving the dragon a tight squeeze before releasing her to stand up, tail flicking behind him, “Gotta make sure everything’s alright so it doesn’t happen again.”

Xiaojiao chuckles tiredly, a small smile on her lips—but it falters quickly, her eyes trailing down to her hands before looking up at Wukong again. He waits and she says, “When I fought him, this guy… he used fire magic against me and had a clean scar on the left side of his face.” She frowns. “He said he was from the Bull family. He said your name.”

She expects a big reaction.

She expects him to perk up at the words and say, You ran into him? How? Why? What did he say? And Wukong knows this, knows that she wants something more from him when he thinks of the handful of faces he can vaguely remember, spiderwebs and sweet aromas but none make sense in the scenario that Xiaojiao described when he tries to connect the lines with one another.

Xiaojiao asks, “Do you know him?” Curious. Uncertain.

Wukong shakes his head and says, “No,” and then, “I’ll find out—”

“Can,” Xiaojiao cuts him off, startling him. She hesitates for a moment before straightening, furrowing her brows as she speaks, “I want to find out. On my own.” Wukong looks at her in surprise, eyes widening. Something akin to anxiety scratches under his fur, trying to force him to reject the notion entirely. But, he tilts his head instead, curious. The girl inhales, “I hurt him before I could talk to him about anything. It was a dick move on my part; I should’ve at least tried to get him to explain things to me. I know—I know how you feel about labelling people as bad before getting to know them.”

Wukong relaxes his muscles. “That’s right.”

“Let me make this right,” Xiaojiao says, determined.

There’s a pause.

The room is cooler now; the breeze that flows in through the open window is calming and tugs Wukong forward, his hand reaching out to ruffle the hair on Xiaojiao’s head, smiling when the dragonling relaxes and returns the smile knowingly. “Alright,” he says and that’s enough for his apprentice to relax, her body going slack against the couch when he retreats his hand and circles around the couch, making his way to the kitchen.

It’s such a small thing to tell a child that you trust them. It’s small and minimal and Wukong watches with pure adoration as Xiaojiao’s tension leaves her body, how she lets go of her fears and worries when he shows he has faith in her decisions; he wonders, for a brief moment if all parents feel this sense of worry and concern alongside the pride and joy of seeing their children grow.

Sun Wukong shakes his head and says, “Let me make you something. I’ll cook you something.”

There’s a pause.

He feels himself grin before he hears the audible burring noise from the couch as he enters the kitchen, wordlessly grabbing hold of one of the pans from the couching and shedding off his robe for something more practical—a hoodie, of all things—when Xiaojiao throws one of the couch cushions in his direction, smacking cleanly against the kitchen counter before falling to the floor unceremoniously. “You can cook?” Wukong throws a grin over his shoulder, shrugging sheepishly as he gathers up what he needs from the fridge, trying not to burst into laughter when the dragon starts making noises of surprise and confusion.

Then, she laughs, “We always order takeout,” and then, “Holy shit, you can cook!?” And there’s a short pause for more laughter, her tail audible smacking against the couch as it wags with glee.

Wukong hums and says, “Do you want one egg or two?”

He dodges the second couch cushion thrown at him but not the third.

He lets her have her fun, throwing (insults) commentary on how he cooks with judging expressions and even a doubtful look when he says it’ll all work out in the end. But he enjoys it all the same, so when he hands Xiaojiao her plate and sits next to her on the couch to eat his meal alongside her, he pretends as though nothing’s wrong.

Everything will work itself out.

It has to.

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