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sunlit path, won't you cleanse me of my sins?

Summary:

He leans back, the only thing stopping him from falling is his bindings. He laughs as tears run down his face, and soon enough his laughter turns into full body sobs. His screams are entirely different than before, these have a sadder note to it, like you’re hearing the cries of someone who’s about to die or who has long since been dead. Really though, when you think about it, isn’t he both? His cries somehow occupy the entire room, echoing out into the halls, ensuring everyone is a part of his despair.

 

His pain is so loud he doesn’t hear freedom walk in, but that’s okay; freedom waits for those who are too hurt to know it’s an option.

 

He lifts his head, his hair sticking to his body, gaze locking with the person who walked in—the general, a face that he should remember but doesn’t.

Dan Heng begs for forgiveness, but soon finds out the only one that can forgive him is him. Will he continue pulling at his chains or will he forgo his shackles and walk into the light?

Notes:

This is based off of his signature lightcones description! The whole thing slightly alludes to self harm but I didn't think it was graphic/present enough to warrant the tag, but lemme know if I should change that!

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

What a pathetic thing you are; a boy dipped in sin can never escape the fate the Aeons have set forth.

 

Chains dig into his soul—pricking and constricting his life—a hopeless mirage of memories is what has been captured. The voices of his sin come alive in his confined space, they skip pleasantries and whisper angrily in his ear. You’re the reason everything bad comes to fruition, how shall you repent for a sin that cannot be forgiven? It’s a weird feeling, knowing sin so intimately yet having no knowledge of why, how, or what. Having the embodiment of sin itself caresses his skin, leaving crescent moons and splashes of reds and purples on his skin—the mark of self punishment.

 

His heart beats loudly in his chest; a safe space cannot be found within the depths of his body for his body is a host for his people’s pain. A sharp nagging in his heart makes the overbearing chains tighter than he thought possible, a simple reminder to stop thinking.

 

He pulls and pulls, throat damaged from the screams he’s let out. All the past pain, all his grievances are out in the open. He doesn’t beg, but he just might. His voice comes out scratchy at the next scream, and then his voice doesn’t come out at all. Every tug at his chains creates dozens of stab wounds on his wrists. He lets out a shaky breath, he feels the burn in his legs as he rises, stumbling he lets out another scream.

 

He’s yelling again, the anguish clear in his voice.

 

The High Elder of the Vidyadhara, Dan Feng—a pillar for his people, voice calm and steady as he leads them toward salvation. How would his people react to him now? His voice is now akin to the ever changing tides surrounding Scalegorge Waterscape; a rocky foundation yet a heavy weight behind it as it crashes upon the shore. The High Elder never yields, they never beg or break, but can he really say he holds that title anymore now that he is no longer Dan Feng?

 

“Let me out!” His feet go to escape but it's quickly reminded of its captivity. He falls, legs and arms scraping against the concrete of his imprisonment. He holds himself up on his elbow, shaky and unsteady—he’s so weak, he’s never felt this type of vulnerability before. Looking behind him he scowls at the bindings, ignoring the burning pain as he tries to yank his foot away.

 

Tries and fails; he’s left all alone, drowning in his shame once more.

 

The walls surrounding him are bleak; shades of gray trap him, he’s centered in the middle—the masterpiece waiting to have its fate decided, and there’s nothing he can do about it. The room seems to expand out into the abyss, an overwhelming presence in an empty room of possibilities. No one’s here to share his pain with, no comforting hand rubbing his back as he tries to overcome his sadness—just silence. So much so that it’s deafening, his ears are ringing and this room that has nothing in it suddenly becomes too much.

 

The chains digging into his wrist hurt, they sting and throb and he wants to rip them off his body. Wants to replace his wrists so he has no reminder of his sins, of the pain he’s endured due to his past foolishness. He was asked how he’d repent but was never asked if he regretted it. Did he regret it? Is the pain worth the cause?

 

He thinks back to his home, where children’s laughter was a part of mother nature’s melody, where the smell of pastries right out the oven permeated through the air. A sense of tranquility that cannot be repeated; a sense of tranquility that he ripped apart.

 

Memories—memories he does not know, memories of a past life that are trying to resurface. He grips the chains holding his arms up, trying so desperately to think of anything else. He can still hear their screams crying out for him, begging for freedom, for safety. Can still remember their horror filled faces as he was dragged away. Even now, far away from simple touch and emotions, he can feel their hatred clawing into his skin, demanding repentance.

 

The pain in his wrist is a reminder of who he was, where he came from, and who he’s hurt in the process. He wonders if he’ll ever be forgiven, even though that man is not him, at some point it was him.

 

“I’m sorry…” He doesn’t know what for, not really. The memories go as quickly as they come, all that’s left is the bitter emotions biting away at his person. Digging into his flesh and trying to break through the bone—a permanent reminder that he cannot run away. It might be time to listen to his body, he’s exhausted and tired.

 

He’s been at this since he could walk, maybe it’s time to finally admit defeat. Perhaps the sin of his past life was so great, so deadly, that generations of himself deserve to be punished. Even so, he wants to be free, wants to know what the sun looks like beyond faint memories; what would it feel like on his skin? When… if he gets out, he’ll make sure to record all of it, so he never forgets what the world has to offer.

 

He sits on the ground, looking up at the forever expanding ceiling, he wonders what lives up there if anything at all. Is it like him? Was it born here? Did it too grow up with the pain of tomorrow eating it alive? The changing of its chains, its own personal jingle, wishing it a happy birthday when no one else thought to. In this cell away from the world he hopes that whatever lives up there is nothing like him. Hopes with all of his heart that if they are similar that the critter can leave, therefore escaping their shared fate.

 

He yawns and his eyelids droop, he tries to keep them open, he really does. Hates the vulnerability that comes with sleeping, even after all these years, but even he can’t keep his eyes open forever. With the sound of clinking chains his body goes limp and his mind is at peace.

 

What good is being trapped, hidden away from everyone and everything, if you cannot repent?

 

He wakes up to something dripping on his nose, he’s surprised when he notices it’s wet, even more so when he realizes the liquid is coming from him. He’s crying. He doesn’t know why, cannot recall any dreams he’s had or any reason behind this. It’s different than before though, before he was angry—frustrated and wanting to be let out. Now, why is he crying now? He’s no longer angry, he’s accepted his fate, finally, he no longer questions if he deserves this, no longer—

 

Oh.

 

He’s accepted the fact he can no longer escape. The dreams of seeing the sun, of adventuring out into the world and discovering everything it holds—it really is all just a dream. He laughs, he can’t help it, even though he’s accepted this, acknowledged that this is his life, he still feels sad?

 

Can he not win?

 

He leans back, the only thing stopping him from falling is his bindings. He laughs as tears run down his face, and soon enough his laughter turns into full body sobs. His screams are entirely different than before, these have a sadder note to it, like you’re hearing the cries of someone who’s about to die or who has long since been dead. Really though, when you think about it, isn’t he both? His cries somehow occupy the entire room, echoing out into the halls, ensuring everyone is a part of his despair.

 

His pain is so loud he doesn’t hear freedom walk in, but that’s okay; freedom waits for those who are too hurt to know it’s an option.

 

He lifts his head, his hair sticking to his body, gaze locking with the person who walked in—the general, a face that he should remember but doesn’t.

 

“Dan Feng—”

 

“That’s not who I am.”

 

“Then who are you?”

 

“I was never given a name.”

 

“Hm, how about Dan Heng?” It’s close enough that it reminds him of his past sins; it’s far enough away that he can breathe. “Well, Dan Heng, congratulations, you’ll finally be able to leave this place—”

 

There’s hope in Dan Heng’s eyes.

 

“—with the exception that you never come back to the Luofu.”

 

“That’s fine, just please… let me leave.” There’s not much left for him here, the home false memories show is but a distant reality.

 

When he’s finally let out he’s met with the blinding sun, it’s so warm and full of life. It’s nothing like the gray in his cell—he thinks back to the freedom he wished he had, and looks at the freedom he now has. He smiles, writing down all the answers he never thought he'd have: the sun is like a big ball of life, sending rays down on earth to help sustain us. The feeling of it on my skin brings emotions I can only describe as childlike joy. It’s warm and bright, and there’s so many colors it reflects, wherever I go next I hope the sun follows suit.

Notes:

This is actually a work I made to apply for two separate honkai star rail zines; I got rejected by both. At first it did genuinely make me disheartened when they both came but I also want to look closer as to why I may have gotten rejected. One of the main reasons I think I got rejected was lack of recent work, I post and write long works sparingly. There was only 2 fairly recent works in my portfolio/sample—this made me realize I DO need to write more consistently. I often end up writing only when the inspiration/motivation comes, but if I want to be an author (I plan to go to college for creative writing in spring) then I need to learn to write regardless of if I'm inspired or not.

Getting rejected also made me analyze my writing more closely; what do I need to work on? The main weaknesses in my writing for me are: dialogue, endings, momentum/pacing, and overall thought put into it. By overall thought put into it I mean, have I planned this work out? Do I know where I'm starting? Where I'm ending? Do I know what's happening in the middle? I often don't outline/plan out what I'm going to write, and for the most part I think that's fine. I have fun when I write without a concrete plan, but for me at least I've realized that if I don't at least brainstorm the main plot points a bit it tends to feel dragged out. Like I don't know where I'm going/headed. For example, for this work I planned it out for my zhongchi fic I didn't, and I think you can tell.

It *feels* like it doesn't have a direction. The ending is lacking because I didn't plan out an ending other than "angst ending." The dialogue also feels stiff, maybe that's on account of Zhongli and the way he talks. But I believe if you look through my fics just on this site you can tell. I tend to stray away from dialogue and do what I'm doing for majority of this fic. For some fics it works, but if I ever want to be an author, to build a connection between two separate characters, I need dialogue.

Even though I planned out this fic the ending still feels somewhat rushed? It feels like something got lost in translation and we ended up with *this*.

I picked back up blue period (manga) and caught up to it in 2 days—it reminded me why I love writing so much. Even though it's about painting and other forms of physical art the same concepts are there. Art, such as painting and drawing, is a language without words. Writing however uses whatever language it's written in to draw an image for the reader, so for me, they're the reverse of each other. It seems almost like fate that a manga about falling in love with art would make me fall back in love with art myself. I wasn't even really aware of how hard those two rejections hit me, I was really feeling down and I honestly didn't want to write at all. Then I was talking to a friend about blue lock, which then reminded me of blue period due to the name, and here we are.

"Just because I'm doing what I love, doesn't mean it's always going to be fun." It's quite fitting that this quote from blue period opened up my eyes.

I'm mainly posting this piece because despite everything I'm still somewhat proud of this fic and how it turned out. I might also write something for blue period to show my love and appreciation for that manga and what it's done for me personally.

I'm only 17 (18 in 9 days!!), I have *so* much to learn in terms of writing, so much knowledge and appreciation to gain. I love writing so much, it's been my everything since I was little. I want to experience more and more of it, I never want it to stop consuming me. I love art and I love creativity, I want to do both for the rest of my life.

Sorry for the long ass chain of text but really just needed to get that off my chest, if you DID get this far I would appreciate constructive criticism of any kind! As I can only ever critique my writing from my own perspective I would love to know what I can improve on in other people's eyes. People tend to notice different things and I want to keep on improving as I love writing so much that it's hard to express it sometimes.