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You are not alone in this body.
“Hey,” Hao-ge says, some time into their trek in the sand dunes, which has mostly just consisted of cajoling camels and dutifully drinking entire bottles of water so they don’t shrivel up and die (Li Cu has far too vivid memories of what it feels like to have thirst clawing burning tracks down his throat), “isn’t it kind of weird that you’re, like, still willing to do this?”
“Hao-ge,” says, Su Wan, who is far too much of a pacifist for his own good sometimes, half scandalised. “Ya Li’s decisions aren’t bad! ”
“I didn’t say they were bad, ” Hao-ge grumbles, “I was just saying, isn’t it kind of weird that that Wu Xie guy kidnapped him, and now he’s running off to, to, help him, or whatever?”
It is, Li Cu Will admit, probably kind of weird. The thing is, there’s honestly not anything not weird about all of this. The kidnapping thing was weird, the Jiumen thing is weird, and Gutongjing, well, that’s weird as fuck, for sure. He thinks that you probably, in this line of work, either accept the weirdness, or you die, and he’d rather not die, at least not right away, or at least not slowly, of something like thirst. He turns to remind Hao-ge and Su Wan to drink some more water (Wan-jie is a doctor; she’s been hydrating far more frequently than the two of them have).
When he turns, though, Su Wan and Hao-ge are looking at him strangely. “What?” Li Cu snaps. “Do I have something on my face?” His eyes are itching slightly, probably because of the aridity—it takes a bit to grow accustomed to that.
“Nothing,” Su Wan says. Su Wan, it has to be noted, is a shit fucking liar, but he looks stubborn, and also a little frightened. “Hao-ge, weren’t you saying something about camels?”
“I was, ” Hao-ge says, nodding vigorously, though Li Cu is about ninety percent sure he doesn’t remember anything about camels. “Useful to have them with us. Can you imagine carrying all of our own stuff? Your back would give out and then we’d have to carry you the rest of the way.”
Li Cu—well, Li Cu, Li Cu has gotten better, he thinks, at letting things lie. Maybe it’s that the months of almost dying drilled into his head that being too curious is a good way to have your head lopped off, or your throat choke you to death, or, well, any other of a number of things. Maybe it hasn’t stuck that much, though, because he says, “It’s important to not keep secrets in the desert,” pointed and clear.
Su Wan gives him a panicked little start. “What? No, of course! No, no, I’m just saying, it’s a good thing we have the camels. Oh, hey, wait, I think there was a problem about camels in our exam review...if you have three camels at three different points, and you know the distance between—”
“Su Wan,” Hao-ge says, exasperated, “shut up.”
Hao-ge, Li Cu thinks, is interesting, in that way that dangerous animals are interesting because you don’t see them much—Hao-ge is like one of those stray dogs that you have to slowly coax into not biting you when you touch them. To be fair, Su Wan did most of that coaxing, because Li Cu is shit at being gentle, and would have just gotten into a fight. Like that, he and Hao-ge fit—sharp edges, bared teeth, if maybe for different reasons. The camel’s lead is digging into the palm of his hand, the leather new enough that it’s yet to be worn, and the sun beats down like an ever-watchful master. The sun, so vital to life, will get you killed out here. Li Cu fishes the half-empty water bottle he’s been working on out of one of the satchels and takes a slow pull, cool relief sliding down his throat in the wake of it. On the horizon, the sand turns into oases of shimmering darkness, false water that’ll lead you astray. He watches the darkness, and his eyes itch. His ears are filled with a high pitched whine, almost drowning out those around him, but he knows that, too, is part of the acclimatisation—had happened the first time he’d been here. When there’s no wind, the sands are deathly silent, and your mind starts making up sounds so it doesn’t go insane.
You are not alone in this body.
There is another presence, another mind. When you reach out, it draws back from you. Through its eyes, you can see the wake of a thousand mountains, ground down into fine, golden particles. Somewhere in there, somewhere through there, is It. You were born in It, and your first memories are of It, before you had been confined. Now, you will return to It. The other presence doesn’t know this yet, but you have already nudged at it, whispered at it that you must go back to It. It is the genesis, It is the creation, It is where you will finally become something more.
Li Cu’s eyes haven’t stopped itching. The wind, which has picked up in the dead of the night, the moon a luminous eye in the sky, batters against the fragile tissue, and even when he blinks, he doesn’t get much relief. They’ve been walking for hours in the dark, and his stomach has started to turn. Su Wan is almost asleep on his feet, and Hao-he doesn’t look far behind. Liang Wan is faring better, but not by much.
“I’m tired,” Su Wan mumbles, his feet dragging in the sand, leaving treadmarks worn quickly by the wind. “Ya Li, Ya Li, when...when are we going to stop? I’m so tired.”
“We’re not there yet,” Li Cu says, and adjusts the strap of his backpack; blinks, long and slow, hoping it’ll soothe the burn. Images of stones and dried vines are imprinted onto the insides of his eyelids.
“We’re not going to make it there in one night,” Hao-he says, sounding irritated. “Are you fucking stupid, or what?”
“ We’re not there yet, ” Li Cu says, and it sounds more like a growl as he jerks around to face the other, eyes narrowed. Even like this, they still sting. It’s strange, to hear himself say it; almost feels like he’s on the outside watching as his body moves and speaks of its own accord, but of course, that’s a stupid fucking thing to think, because why would that even make any sense?
Su Wan’s eyes are wide, and he’s half ducked behind Hao-ge, who’s glaring at Li Cu. “What the fuck is your problem?” he demands.
Li Cu blinks; or, maybe, doesn’t blink, and the world just goes dark, flashing sunspots behind his eyes, burst of shadow-darkness. The next thing he knows, he’s laid out on the sand, jaw aching, as he stares up at the stary night sky above. When he tries to speak, he voice comes out as a croak. Hao-ge is standing over him, and his eyes are wide and shocked. He must have—punched Li Cu? Why can’t he remember it? He doesn’t think you can get a brain injury from being punched, especially not one that makes your memory disappear. How long does he not remember? Has the moon above moved, or is his mind just exaggerating its path?
“Hey!” comes Liang Wan’s voice, “enough!”
Not yet, Li Cu thinks, nonsensically, but he’s not even sure—what does that even—he’s just—and his eyes feel like they’re on fire. He clumsily shoves himself into a seated position, presses his eyes shut, and tries not to claw at them as he rubs them with the heel of his palm. It’s almost like the sands have crept behind his eyelids, like they’re scratching at his eyes, but that doesn’t make any sense, he doesn’t think that’s how eyes work. He must let out some sort of sound, because a moment later, Liang Wan’s pulling his hands away from his face, knelt before him. “Hey, hey,” she says, and Li Cu can see Su Wan, behind her, doe-eyed and uncertain, a hand on Hao-ge’s arm. “Don’t do that. You’ll just make it worse. You need to let your body work it out naturally—give it a moment and the tears will start.”
Except, the thing is, he doesn’t feel like he’s going to cry. His eyes feel drier than those bones he’d seen with Wu Xie, all laid out in that seven finger pattern, the same one scored into the skin of his back, the scars that part of him is certain will never disappear. He doesn’t feel like crying—he doesn’t feel like his body could produce any sort of liquid, let alone tears. He feels dried, and empty, and hollow. When he blinks, he’s standing again, and Liang Wan is digging through her bag for something—a dropper bottle. “Here,” she says, handing it to him. “You might be too dehydrated to cry—drink some more water, and put two drops of that in each eye.” She grabs a water bottle from the camel pack and offers it out to him. Li Cu takes both of them, feeling off-kilter; drains half the bottle and then tilts his head back. He can’t get the drops into his eyes; each time he tries, his eyelids flutter shut at just the wrong time. He lets out a low sound of frustration. His hand is shaking from the angle, now.
Surprisingly, though, Hao-ge steps forward. “Give me that,” he says, and it’s terse in that way that means he doesn’t want Li Cu to comment on it, so instead, Li Cu just gives it to him; tips his head back. His throat is bared. He wonders if Hao-ge realises that; if he realises just how easily he could sever Li Cu’s life from his body. Would his blood bleed red?
The eyedrops hit his eye like raindrops on a scorched asphalt; for a second, he thinks they’ll turn to steam. Instead, they just spread, dousing the flames that have been gathering—for the moment, at least. Hao-ge shifts, and repeats the process on the other eye. Li Cu’s mind, fuzzy and confused, clears, at least for now. He can breathe again, and it no longer feels like he’s hovering somewhere outside of his own skin. He clears his throat. “Thanks,” he mutters, and Hao-ge stills, for a moment, gaze flickering down to the motion of his lips.
“Don’t,” is all he says, in the end, and, well—it’s not exactly a surprise. Hao-ge hates being reminded when he does something kind. Li Cu thinks, sometimes, that half the reason he’s always been so awful is that the prospective of being anything but terrifies him—the vulnerability of it. He tosses the bottle at Li Cu, who manages to catch it without fumbling, and tucks it into one of the thousand little pockets of his outfit. When he glances over, Su Wan, two camel bits in hand, smiles at him, bright as the moon.
You are not alone in this body.
This body is new. This body is young, and doesn’t put up the resistance you’d expected. It’s easy, with this body—it doesn’t question you, doesn’t try and shove you away. It doesn’t even realise you’re there, at least not yet. This is better, for you, because it means it’s easier to slip into the recesses of its mind, to cast a net across its senses, across its limbs. The Other has started to notice your presence, but the Other doesn’t know what you are. The Other doesn’t know what to do, or even that it needs to do something. This is better for you; the Other will be easier to suppress, to misdirect. By the time the Other realises what you are, what you want, you will have arrived at It. By the time the Other sees with clear eyes, the Other will have no ability to wrest that control away from you. The Other will merely be a passenger in this body, as you once were, and it will give way to you, as you are born out of this shell, this chrysalis. You will thank this body as you leave for its service to you, and you will commemorate what it has done as it withers, and you become.
Something is wrong. Something is wrong, and Li Cu doesn’t know what, and he doesn’t know what to do. Something is wrong, and he’s not sure there is something he can do, and every time his mind strays in that direction, something trickles down his spine, cold fingers that caress each knob of his spine in what would be comforting, if he weren’t so horribly, gut-churningly certain, certain that it’s wrong. Something is wrong, whispers the shards of his broken lungs, his broken mind. Something is wrong, whispers the echo of his footsteps. Something is wrong.
But even if something is wrong, Li Cu still—he has to make sure no one else gets hurt. He has to make sure that Su Wan, that Hao-ge, that they make it out of this alive. He thinks maybe he can see the darkness that’s festering in him, that’s telling him that what matters isn’t them, but it, this. But that’s stupid, that’s stupid as fuck, it was them who made sure he was okay, it was them who made sure he could even come back, again, them who he swore unspoken oaths with. Liang Wan can take care of herself, but after what he’d learnt, he feels—not an obligation, maybe, but a duty of care towards. Funny, isn’t it, that it’s him who feels this when it’s her who’s the doctor?
The snakes.
It always comes back to the snakes; snakes in the waters, snakes in the sands. Su Wan yelps and stumbles back, cartwheeling his arms, fever-pitch terror; even Hao-ge, stoic as he usually is, jerks back, eyes wide. I see you, the snake says. I see you, and I know you. You and I are the same.
“What,” says Li Cu, or maybe croaks it, or maybe doesn’t even say it at all, is he on his feet at all, where is he? “What does that—no, don’t, come back—”
“Ya Li,” comes Su Wan’s voice, high and afraid, and when Li Cu blinks, he’s crouching on the ground with his teeth bared, chin tucked to hide his throat. “Ya Li, Ya Li, stand up, don’t—come back, it—”
And then: Hei Xiazi. What’s he doing here? Did he ever even leave? But he’s all dark, fluid lines, gunpowder smirk, razor’s edge, if you get cut, you’ll bleed out without ever noticing the pain. Calls them idiots, doesn’t, though, as what Li Cu thinks he’s doing. Maybe that’s better? Maybe that’s worse. Li Cu can’t—it’s all— something’s wrong, something’s wrong, something’s—
He wants to throw up. He’s walking but he can’t really see the ground before him, is he running? Were Su Wan and Hao-ge even there? Liang Wan? Hei Xiazi? There’s something else here with them, with him, and it’s not just the snakes, not just the hydra cypress, not just the—the—those, those, the human-skinned snakes. His thoughts are fluttering in his mind like ashes, and each time he tries to catch them, they just smudge and blacken his fingertips, and the darkness spreads like rot. His eyes are dry, dry as flames, acrid and burning, and each time he blinks, the walls around him have changed, has shifted, he’s not where he was. Something’s wrong.
With a clumsy hand, he drags out a piece of chalky stone from somewhere in his pockets, drags his hand along the wall. When he blinks, when he looks back, the line is interrupted, broken, shattered. Snakeskin shed in rings, looping and tattered. His breaths are too even, too calm, even as the panic crawls up his spine—why is he so calm, why is he so even, why is his body not—
The stone scrapes against the wall. Li Cu breathes, and blinks, and you are not alone in this body the other has noticed you the other must not be allowed to Li Cu wants to run wants to drown himself until the sensation leaves the panicked sparrow in his chest the body will listen to you and you will return to It because that is the only way this can end one foot before the other move slowly move steadily don’t harm this body it is all you have until It do not let the other do as it wishes Li Cu wants to yell wants to scream Li Cu wants to flee Li Cu is a rabbit in a snare Li Cu is a deer’s neck snapping beneat the force of a tiger’s jaws Li Cu is a sparrow Li Cu is a mouse Li Cu is fucking done no he is not fucking letting this thing do whatever it wants with the body is no longer listening the other has grown too strong a flameburst a flash of fangs the other has noticed the other should have been excised Li Cu is not fucking letting this be his end Li Cu is not fucking dying down here Li Cu is not, Li Cu is not, fingers clumsy on the zippers, fumbling as they shift through the contents, tubes and papers and they’re heavy on the hands they fit so nicely isn’t it strange it’s never been thought of before that excision isn’t always cutting isn’t it strange that excision can be burning too that you can cauterise an infection can cauterise an interloper can cauterise
Firebright. Ears ringing. Head pounding. Hair wet. It seeps out from beneath his skin as he coughs, body heavy and battered, oozing black. He can hear it screaming, in his mind, as it realises for the first time in its existence that it has no recourse. That this is it. As his head lolls back, he wonders, sardonically, if maybe it was never a sparrow and a snake but something more like an ouroboros—if you want one gone, both need to have their heads cut off.