Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The town fell in the span of one night. It fell in silence. Without fear. Without pain. Or, well, with as little fear and pain as the bloodhound could manage. The bloodhound set upon the vulnerable humans while they slept, swooping from house to house like a vulture, ripping their dreams from them one by one until all that remained of their lives were eyeless shells. 

Men, women, little children, the elderly. The bloodhound devoured without distinction, swallowing dream, after dream, after dream until its stomach bulged, distended, threatened to burst. It was agony to be so full. Agony to eat. It must eat. It had no choice. 

The people it found still awake, it pierced with the spear in its hands. Ichor and desire stained the cold earth. Soon, the grass around the houses was slick with blood. Those ones— the conscious ones— were the ones the bloodhound hated killing most, for there was no way to make their deaths painless, and despair spoiled their dying ambitions, burning the bloodhound’s throat as it swallowed them down. 

It ate, and ate, and ate. It could not stop, no matter how much it wanted to.

Bloodhounds did not want. They only obeyed the will of their masters. 

When the first fingers of dawn stretched across the sky, the bloodhound stood alone amidst the destruction it had wrought, and wept. 

A settlement falling into ruin was nothing unusual. They were at war, after all. But this settlement, according to Morax’s scouts, had been wiped out in the space of one night — and the method of slaughter had been especially evil: the consumption of dreams, ambitions, hopes, torn from their bodies until they turned to dessicated husks. The mark of the craftsman was unmistakable: Aite, a repugnant but weak goddess whose domain shared a border with the Guili Assembly. Until now, Morax had simply had bigger problems to worry about, but the settlement in question had been in the contested space between them — and so this attack was too close for comfort. 

Morax’s invitation to conference was nothing more than courtesy. So too was his offer that they meet on Aite’s side of the contested border, rather than his own, for the comfort of the goddess. They both knew that if Morax so chose, he could crush her just as easily as she had destroyed that human settlement. 

Morax took to the skies with Menogias and Bosacius, and the three of them soared over Aite’s miserable little territory to her court upon Wuwang Hill. 

When he descended in a great spiral of golden-scaled coils, the feet that touched the earth were that of a man.

By the time he and his yakshas strode through the door into Aite’s throne room, Morax was recognizable as the co-ruler of the Guili Assembly: a young emperor of surpassing beauty, clad in a black and gold hanfu — one of the forms most comfortable for the people of Liyue to look upon.

Aite’s throne room was a vast cathedral of limestone. The air was thick with the smell of opium, myrrh, and overripe fruit. The goddess herself sat upon her throne among her own various retainers, holding a long-handled smoking pipe in one hand. As they entered, she set her pipe aside, rose, and tipped her head in greeting, the opulent gold buyao in her poppy-red hair swaying with every movement. 

“Lord Morax,” she greeted, “I count myself very fortunate indeed to have the pleasure of hosting you in my realm. Tell me, what is it you have come to speak with me about?” 

The slight quaver in her voice was not lost on him, and in truth she had every right to be afraid. Morax had felled a hundred gods greater than she. 

At Guizhong’s advice, Morax had intentionally left the topic of discussion out of his message. He was here to negotiate. To have a frank discussion. They wanted to give Aite no time to weave one of her webs. 

“I wondered if you would allow me to borrow a map,” Morax said. 

Aite faltered. She stared at him. “A map?” 

Next to him, Bosacius snickered. It was hardly audible, but even so Morax shot him a glare. Then, he returned his attention to Aite. 

“Yes,” he said. “I would like to look at our borders together.” 

The confusion in her face gave way to panic. She snapped her fingers in the general direction of her kneeling retainers. One of them crawled off and then returned a moment later, carrying a scroll. This, he brought to Morax, shuffling on his knees the whole way across the room.

Morax bent and gently took it from him, disguising his distaste. He had never understood why so many gods preferred the people under their command to debase themselves like this.

Though, in Aite’s case, he had his guesses. Weak gods were always searching for ways to make themselves feel powerful.

Morax unrolled the scroll and examined it, making a few soft, thoughtful rumbles in the back of his throat — allowing the stone beneath his feet to tremble in menacing resonance. He muttered something to both Bosacius and Menogias, who closed in behind him to make a great show of looking over the map, as well. 

As the moment dragged out, he could hear how frantic the chime of Aite’s gold buyao became with her anxious fidgeting. He let her suffer a little while longer. At last, Morax looked up. A thin, too-polite smile sliced across his face. He re-rolled the scroll with care, then inclined his head.

“I see that our maps do agree. I had wondered if yours were, perhaps, different — in which case I might have been more understanding. ” He waited until the exact moment that Aite began to open her mouth — likely to ask what he meant — before he decided to put her out of her misery: “A human settlement on our shared border was slaughtered last night. The nature of that slaughter was… vicious. There are some gods who might consider an act of such violence carried out so close to their own territory as a declaration of war.” 

All the air went out of the room. A beat, then — Aite let out a nervous laugh. “Of course, Lord Morax, I have coexisted peacefully alongside the Guili Assembly for centuries. I would not dare—” 

“But you did,” Morax cut her off, voice soft but imbued with telluric power. Once again, the limestone beneath his feet shivered. “Their dreams were eaten. This is your work. Your mark is plainly on it.” 

“Allow me to explain,” Aite said, voice sickly-sweet — just like the stench of overripe fruit that pervaded her hall. “I believe I know how this… mistake… was made.” 

“Oh? Then explain.” 

Aite snapped her fingers once more and, inexplicably, snarled: “Dog.” 

From beside the throne, a sack of flesh in crept on all fours to her heel.

Aite reached down, grabbed a fistful of this creature’s stringy black hair, and hauled him up until his back bent at an unnatural angle and he was obliged to look her in the eye. Morax, instinctively, reached behind him to put a hand on Bosacius’ arm, even as he fought his own flash of indignation. Regardless of what this creature… was, or did… this treatment was excessively cruel. 

Then again… Aite was excessively cruel. She always had been. 

“Dog,” Aite hissed again, “Is this what I am to make of your disappearance last night? Did you set upon a village on our southern border and eat their dreams?” 

The creature visibly shook in her grasp, eyes clouded with abject terror. When he opened his mouth to speak, his voice was hardly audible and hoarse from disuse. “This one… did set upon a village and eat their dreams, goddess.” 

Aite tossed the creature away from her in (theatrical, Morax thought) disgust. It was difficult to watch as he — a little adeptus, or a yaksha? — struggled to fold his trembling, thin frame into a deep kowtow immediately once he hit the stone floor. Aite turned her attention back to Morax, and gestured to the little adeptus. “My deepest, humblest apologies, Lord Morax. It seems my bloodhound acted beyond its directive. It’s a greedy little thing, and will be duly punished. This will not happen again.” 

Morax took a step forward, summoning his spear to his hand. “Do you so swear it, Lady Aite?” 

That veneer of calm which had settled upon the goddess the second she’d had a subordinate to focus on abusing fractured. She took a step backward, as if seeking the solace of her own throne.

“Do I—?” 

“Do you so swear that you, nor anyone under your command, shall kill, maim, or otherwise harrass any mortals who live on our contested border — neither shall you cull them for dreams?” 

Between the two gods a gold thread spun and stretched, reaching out in a spiraling tendril from Morax’s palm, stopping just shy of the goddess’s wrist.

Aite looked down at it and scoffed. “If you would make a new contract with me, Lord Morax, I would hear your end of the bargain.”

Morax tilted his head. He gripped the haft of his spear a little tighter. “Of course, Lady Aite. So long you uphold these terms along with the terms of our original contract, my armies will not set foot in your lands, and I will make no declaration of war.” 

Her eyes narrowed. As she studied him, no doubt attempting to discern a loophole or lie, he felt Aite’s magic clawing at his senses, at his eyes, sifting up through his nostrils. The second Morax’s head began to thin and lift with the cloying fog of opium, he drummed his spear against the earth and said: “Enough.” 

The entire hall quaked in resonance. Aite scrambled back to grip the arm of her throne to steady herself. Her retainers cried out and clutched at each other, and for that Morax did feel regret. Only the little adeptus remained where he was, glued to the ground as he had been all this time.

“Your arts are impressive, Lady Aite, but they will not work on me. Do you so swear?” 

“Yes!” she gasped out as dust sifted down upon her head. “Yes. I swear.” 

All at once, the hall went still once more. Morax inclined his head and replied: “So be it.” 

The contract was solid as stone. 

The bloodhound’s mistress begged to offer Morax and his yakshas her hospitality. It had never known its goddess to be so… frightened. 

Unhinged, yes. Malicious, yes. 

Frightened? 

But then again, this fearsome god of earth…this Morax… was infinitely more powerful than she was. Even the bloodhound in its ignorance could feel the disparity of power between them. She was as to this god as a mouse was to a tiger. A mouse could wile its way out of a lot of things, but the tiger would always, eventually, eat the mouse. 

That was why it was so baffling when Lord Morax agreed to allow her to entertain him . He cited something about how it would be indecorous of him to refuse. The bloodhound did not pretend to know what that meant. It did not pretend to know anything. It was still reeling from the horror of its goddess pinning the blame of last night’s culling on it, and the horror of what she might mean by impending punishment. Its goddess took great delight in finding new and creative ways to make sport of her bloodhound. It could not imagine what she was planning. It only hoped that this time, she would spare its wings.

That was a selfish thought. It stamped on it the second the thought arose. Who was the bloodhound to deny its goddess anything? It was nothing more than an object, a weapon of war to point at her enemies and threaten her subjects, a toy. It existed to be used. Objects had no choice in how they were used. Their only purpose was to obey.

The bloodhound remained where it belonged: folded to the floor in submission, as its goddess called for refreshments for her guests, and told her servants to prepare a feast and a suite of rooms. After that, she shook out the train of her hanfu, snapped her fingers, and called her bloodhound to heel. 

The bloodhound crawled after her, swearing he felt the ground tremble once more beneath his bruised knees. 

As soon as they were alone in the chamber behind the throne room, the bloodhound’s goddess spun on him and delivered a swift, harsh kick to its ribs. 

The goddess may be weak, but she was a goddess still, and the force of the blow sent the bloodhound sprawling, its vision blurring with red fog. As it coughed, it righted itself back into position — kneeling there on the floor, waiting for whatever next correction its goddess decided to bestow. 

None came.

“Go bathe yourself,” the goddess commanded. “You’re filthy. Tonight, you are to present yourself to Lord Morax and show him the depth of your obeisance.” 

Its heart dropped into the pit of its stomach.

No, it wanted to beg, no, please do not make this one—

It kept all supplications behind its teeth. Weapons did not have thoughts. Toys did not have thoughts. Already, it felt the threads of magic weaving through its sinew and bone, stitching the order straight into its marrow. It could only obey. 

This was not the first time the bloodhound had been sent to the chamber of one of its goddess’s guests. It was nothing the bloodhound was not used to. But the bloodhound had wronged Lord Morax. Had angered Lord Morax. Had erred, somehow (even if it had erred on his goddess’s orders, it had erred nonetheless), and Lord Morax was a warrior god, a killer of gods. What horrors would he inflict on a worthless, useless, lowly bloodhound who had sinned against him? 

This must be the punishment, it thought to itself. Of course. 

“Did you hear me, dog?” Its goddess’s voice was pitchy and razor-thin with fury. “Go.” 

The force of the command hurled it through space. The bloodhound flashed from the floor of that chamber to the floor of the bath-house it shared with the other slaves.

Everything hurt. Its stomach still cramped from all the dreams it had been forced to consume, and now it was even more difficult to fight nausea as it sank into the cold bath and scrubbed itself down, as it washed its hair and perfumed it with oil (it did not know what scent Lord Morax preferred, so it chose a simple blend of sandalwood and mint — common and pleasing enough), as it lined its eyes with red powder, as it dressed itself in a gauzy robe that was as pretty to look at as it was easy to remove, as it found as private a place as it could to prepare its body for use. 

(It did not deserve privacy, it knew. Even so, it sought out a corner of the baths where a wooden dressing screen stood, and that little illusion of a shield helped it to keep from vomiting).

Briefly, it wondered if it ought to take on a different form. Perhaps Lord Morax might find a feminine form more to his taste, but the bloodhound’s goddess preferred this yang infused one for her own cultivation, and it did not dare to presume she wanted it to give Lord Morax the chance to use a yin-infused one in his own. 

Once it was ready, the bloodhound chose a place to kneel on the ground and wait. There would be no point in going up to the feast. Its goddess had not called it to do so. Neither should it go to Lord Morax’s chambers early. That would be presumptuous. Instead, it turned its mind inward toward the bindings around its heart and waited, knowing that its goddess would tell her bloodhound when the right time came to seek Lord Morax out.

It did not know how long it waited.

Time did not mean anything to a dog.

It only knew that eventually, it flashed from its place on the floor of the bathhouse to the floor deep inside the maze-like corridors of the goddess’s palace. The floor here was made of colorful glass mosaic tile. It bit into its skin. 

The bloodhound looked around. Ah, yes. It recognized this hall. These were the guest rooms. Tentatively, it extended its senses just enough to feel the weight of geo resonating from a specific door. 

(Weight…but a good weight. Steady. Sonorous. Somehow calming. That was a surprise. The bloodhound would have thought someone like Lord Morax would feel more…oppressive, but it was not so).

It could also feel two other presences: one geo, softly resonating with Lord Morax’s energy. The other tingled on the bloodhound’s tongue — electro. All three came from the same room. Yes…Lord Morax had arrived with retainers. Yakshas. 

Saliva flooded the bloodhound’s mouth as its stomach, despite its best efforts at quelling it, threatened to rebel. Was it expected to entertain all three? The goddess had said nothing about Lord Morax’s retainers…

But…she had made it clear it was to put itself at Lord Morax’s disposal. And so the bloodhound supposed that in the end, it would be up to Lord Morax just how much torment he wished the bloodhound to endure. 

The bloodhound schooled its breathing, did its best to quiet its own energy and keep it from souring in fear, and crawled forward to that door. It softly knocked, then folded itself once more to floor as far as it could, pressing its forehead against the tile. 

Footsteps. The door opened. For a moment, nothing was said.

Then, the person above him (not Lord Morax. It was not his voice), called out: “Uh. Morax? Looks like Aite sent a messanger for you.” 

More footsteps. The tiles shivered with the weight of them the way leaves shivered in a great storm. The bloodhound folded itself still tighter, trying to get still lower, and fought the urge to shrink from the unspeakable power radiating from the being now just a mere pace away. 

Quietly, jarringly quietly, Lord Morax intoned: “Speak, little one. On what errand has your goddess sent you?” 

The bloodhound wet its lips. It would not do to muffle its voice against the floor, so it lifted its head just an inch, just a hair, enough to say: “This lowly one was sent to apologize to you, mighty god, as it was this one who sinned against you.” 

Someone — the bloodhound could not be sure who — sucked in a sharp breath. Lord Morax sounded perplexed when he commanded: “Sit up. Lift your head.” 

The bloodhound did as it was bid, though it kept his eyes fixed right where they belonged on the floor. 

One of the retainers — the one in command of electro, the hound thought — said: “Aite’s hound.” 

His voice was tinged with surprise. 

The bloodhound curled its hands into fists atop its knees, fighting the urge to fidget with the fabric of its robe. “Yes, honored one. This one is…Aite’s bloodhound. This one slaughtered the village on the edge of the borders of the Guili Assembly and ate the people’s dreams. This stupid one has been made to understand that it has erred, and begs forgiveness—” the bloodhound caught itself there. Its voice was beginning to shake, for the next phrase was wholly sincere: “...though this wicked one does not deserve it.” 

Another long, painful beat of silence stretched out. The bloodhound held its breath, and could not force back the shivers wracking its body — from pain, from hunger, from exhaustion, from the sheer might emanating from the god before him.

The god bent —no— knelt, down on the ground next to the hound, the rich black silk of his hanfu gathering on the tile like a puddle of ink.  

With haste, the bloodhound crunched back down as far as it could go, grinding it face into the floor. If the god meant to strike it, it didn’t understand why he didn’t just honor the bloodhound with his boot. Why on earth would he bother to stoop himself—?

A hand was placed upon the bloodhound’s head, the span of it so wide and the fingers so large that it could have crushed the bloodhound’s skull in one easy motion. For a second, it expected the god to do just that.

But he didn’t. Instead he just kept his hand there, fingers sinking into the bloodhound's hair like a blessing. The touch was so gentle and so chaste that the bloodhound had no idea what to make of it.

“You are forgiven. Return now to your mistress, or to wherever you must go.” 

The bloodhound’s mind emptied. It did not move, even as the god removed his hand and stood once more. 

Lord Morax did not even sound angry. Surely— surely he meant to lull the bloodhound into a false sense of security. Surely a blow was coming. Surely he would pin the hound’s head beneath his boot and press down, down, down, until its vision went black. Surely he would break one of the hound’s hands, or a wrist at the very least— surely—

“Is there more?” Lord Morax asked. “Why do you tarry?” 

The bloodhound’s tongue turned to sand. Its goddess’s command rang in its ears, pecked at its skin, tearing its spirit in a thousand different directions — threatening to cut it apart if it did not do as it was bid now. 

“This one—” it gasped as a fresh wave of agony assaulted him. This one is good, it snarled back at the spell strung through its bones, this one is obeying! At last, it was able to fight through the pain enough to explain: “This one has been sent by its revered goddess as an offering for the great god’s entertainment. As…an extension of the venerable goddess Aite’s goodwill and hospitality.” 

The yaksha to Lord Morax’s left snarled, and the bloodhound felt his own hair lift beneath an electric current. 

“Bosacius,” came the swift reprimand. The current died, though that felt…reluctant. Begrudging, almost, if such a thing was possible. For the bloodhound’s part, it was once more half on the verge of both tears and vomit. It had not considered the possibility that it might incite one of Lord Morax’s retainers to jealousy. Before it could say anything, though, Lord Morax spoke: “No. Tell your goddess that I am honored by her gracious gift, but that…will not be necessary.” 

He did sound angry, now. It was a simmering, quiet sort of anger…but the bloodhound recognized it for what it was nonetheless.

To leave without being used would count as disobedience. It could not disobey. 

“Please, this one has many uses,” the bloodhound dared to whisper, unable to keep that whisper steady. Neither could it disguise the tremor in its hands. “Please— allow this lowly one to serve you, Mighty Morax. You will not be disappointed.” 

Yet again, the god crouched. The bloodhound flinched, expecting that surely, surely now it would be struck, but— no, the god commanded it to sit up again, and when it obeyed, the god placed the crook of his finger beneath the bloodhound’s chin and told it to look at him.

The god was very beautiful, the bloodhound thought, if the bloodhound could be any judge of beauty. His features were noble and strong, imbued with a sense of rightful pride, but for all the stony lines there was a softness to his face, too. His eyelashes were long and thick, almost like a woman’s; his eyes blazed gold, warm as sunlight, and were…startlingly kind. 

His mouth, though, was set in a hard, hard line.

“Answer me truthfully, bloodhound of Aite,” he said. “If I send you back to your mistress now, will it be held against you?” 

The bloodhound could not bear the weight of the god’s gaze, so it disobeyed: letting its eyes fall once more to the floor. Hoarsely, it answered: “It would be counted as…failure, yes. This one must please you and make amends.” 

The god sighed. He released the bloodhound and stood, then said: “Very well. Come.” 

“Morax—!” the yaksha…the electro one, cut in. The bloodhound could not help but wince at the blatant disrespect with which this yaksha addressed their god. 

But the god did not rebuke his insolent yaksha. He only said in an even, reasonable tone: “Even if he was sent as an assassin, he would be a poor one. I am in no danger from a little adeptus such as he, and though Aite may be foolish, I do not think she is so foolish as to murder me in the walls of her own palace. She knows she would be destroyed should Guizhong lead the Guili Assembly to war in revenge. And besides: I trust my generals to guard me.” 

Was that humor in the god’s voice? Humor…never meant anything good. The bloodhound suppressed a shiver.

It was not its place to wonder or worry about it. It put that out of its mind and instead focused on the relief that it had not failed. The god would deign to make use of it in whatever way seemed good to him. The bloodhound would do its best to be pleasing, and perhaps that would soothe some of its goddess’s ire. It was not stupid enough to think that pleasing Lord Morax would get it out of its due punishment, but perhaps it would lessen the severity. 

Once it was inside the room and the door was shut, Lord Morax commanded: “Rise to your feet if you are able. It is not my custom to have those in my service creep about on their hands and knees.” 

Had it been displeasing already? 

The bloodhound unfolded itself and, shakily, stood. It felt wrong. Its place was at the god’s feet in the dust where it belonged. 

But this was Lord Morax’s preference. It must do its best to be obedient. 

The bloodhound busied itself with studying the room, so it was in no danger of offending anyone on accident by looking them in the face. This was a suite that was well-known to the bloodhound: its goddess’s most opulent guest suite, complete with a sitting room filled with treasures, trinkets, and books, two adjoining baths, and three adjoining bedrooms. The bloodhound had been in all three of those beds at one point or another. It wondered which one Lord Morax would choose. 

One of the retainers — the other one, spoke, their voice carrying the same sonorous timbre as Lord Morax’s: “Rest, Morax. Bosacius and I will keep watch. If anything happens we’ll need you at your best.” 

Again, the manner of address made the bloodhound twitch. 

Lord Morax hummed. The walls reverberated the sound back to him. “Very well. Little adeptus, come join me. Bosacius, don’t give me that look. I know what Aite intended to happen tonight. I would like to be able to at least say I took him to bed without it being… false.” 

The electro yaksha — Bosacius — laughed, a laugh that sounded like a peal of thunder, and replied: “Are you positive you’re not the god of technicalities?” 

Lord Morax laughed too. It was a bright sound, a rich sound — so different to the sharp laughter of the bloodhound’s own goddess, for when Lord Morax laughed, there was no cruelty in it.

This god behaved like this in a private room where he only had his trusted retainers for company. Was he like this…with his people, too? The people of the Guili Assembly were very fortunate to have such a god, if he was the same on his throne as he was here in this bedroom. 

Focus. It must focus. It must listen well to Lord Morax and learn what would please him. However kind and lenient he might be with his own people, the bloodhound was under no illusion that he would be the so kind and lenient with it. Lord Morax had already been merciful. Surely there was a limit to that mercy. 

As Lord Morax’s two retainers took up their posts — Bosacius outside the door, and the other yaksha on the inside, seating himself on one of the couches — The bloodhound trailed behind Lord Morax to the middle bedroom. Ah, yes. It remembered. This one was the largest. That made perfect sense.

The bedroom was bathed in gentle tangerine light. A stick of incense burned in its holder on the shelf on the far wall. The bed was huge, pre-eminent, with four posts and blood-red drapes. Lord Morax tugged his sash free, then stripped down to the waist. When the bloodhound moved to match him, reaching for the ties of its gown, Lord Morax’s hand shot out and covered its own.

“Leave it on,” he said. 

Not an unusual request. The bloodhound was well aware that this body it wore was starved and ugly, constantly sporting marks from his goddess’s corrections and whims. He let his hands fall to his sides and awaited further instruction. 

Lord Morax crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, then commanded: “Come.” 

The bloodhound’s stomach twisted. It swallowed back the new surge of bile filling its throat and obeyed. Lord Morax might not be so bad. He has been gentle so far. 

The bloodhound knew that could go one of two ways. Either Lord Morax was just as gentle in bed as he was out of it, or that gentleness was a front. Often, the ones who were the cruelest liked to toy with their food first.

Should it kneel? It felt wrong to stand here in front of him, but Lord Morax had not commanded it to do otherwise…

The bloodhound ventured: “How…would you like this one, mighty god?” 

When it glanced up at Lord Morax through its lashes, it saw Lord Morax nod in the direction of the mattress. “Here,” Lord Morax said, peeling back the thick coverlet. It was as red as the canopy, and patterned with gold ginkgo leaves. “Lie down.” 

Terribly unspecific. Should it lie on its back? Its side? Its front? Did he mean for it to present? It didn’t know, and nothing about Lord Morax’s expression or posture gave any indicator of what he might prefer. 

The bloodhound sank down onto bed, then took the option it deemed safest and eased itself down flat on its back. 

Bewilderingly, Lord Morax drew the coverlet up around him, then slid over to the far end of the bed, slipped beneath the coverlet himself, rolled over to face away from the bloodhound, and said: “Sleep.” 

What? 

The bloodhound stared up at that canopy. It knew that canopy as well as it knew the back of its hand. It had stared up at it just like this so many times. 

“M–My lord?” 

“Sleep,” Lord Morax repeated more firmly. “If you can. Rest or meditate if you cannot. That is what I want from you, little adeptus.” 

The bloodhound wondered if perhaps it was the god’s preference to press himself into a sleeping body. One of its goddess’s allies found that very amusing. He had fucked the bloodhound until it had passed out, and when the bloodhound had next awoken — he had still been fucking its body. Perhaps that was Lord Morax’s preference. It…didn’t seem to fit, but it could not presume to understand the amusements of the gods.

It was here to be of use. To serve. To entertain. To obey.

It must obey.

The bloodhound closed its eyes and tried to sleep.

Chapter Text

The hound had many uses, and every god it had ever encountered had delighted in making use of it. 

Lord Morax, though, left it untouched in the morning, dismissing it after he had eaten breakfast (he had tried to command the hound to eat, but the hound knew better. It could not eat, and after several attempts the god gave up. He had not punished it, though, for its refusal. He had only looked displeased and turned his attention to his yakshas). 

When the hound returned to its goddess, it told her it had done all that was asked of it. It was not so bold as to say whether it had been good. That was up to Lord Morax. The hound hoped that it had not caused too much offense this morning — and hoped that despite that one measure of disobedience, it had otherwise pleased the god. 

Lord Morax, before he took to the sky to return to his own domain, made sure to tell its goddess that it had. 

It had mattered little in the grand scheme of things. Its goddess was still in a foul mood from her humiliation, and so she called it to her playroom — the one that adjoined her bedchamber, and had hard surfaces and a tile floor for easy cleanup — and made it summon its wings. 

It trembled as she ran her hands over them in her excitement, squeezing its eyes shut. It held its breath. By some miracle, it did not beg. 

It behaved. 

Even as she grabbed hold of the left wing and tore it from its back. Even as its vision flashed white with agony, pain exploding down its spine. Even as she cooed, mocking it, digging her thumb into the fresh, bleeding wound, and then turned her attention to the other wing. 

Even as she tore that one out, too. 

Its goddess made a pleased, thoughtful sound as the hound shook and its chest heaved with gasping sobs, as it retched — even though there was nothing tangible in its stomach to come up. 

“Grow me a new set,” she commanded. 

It wasn’t sure if it still had enough strength of cultivation left to do so, but it did its best. 

The new set was ragged, the feathers missing most of their barbs. Incapable of flight. Broken. Twisted. Just like the set before it had been, and the set before that, and the set before that…

The goddess ripped them off with the same glee, licked the hounds tears from its face, and then commanded: “Again.” 

The hound had many uses. 

Tonight, it was brought to a temple at the foot of its goddess’s mountain, and compelled to eat. The priests there had brought sacrifices to please Lady Aite — young human men and boys — and drugged them into deep, deep sleep. 

“Eat them. Aren’t you hungry, dog?” Its goddess said, holding it by its jaw to look at the vulnerable bodies. “They will taste so sweet. Oh, do you feel sorry for them, hound? Don’t fret— I know their hearts. This one…” she nudged one body with the sole of her shoe, “This one makes a great show of piety, but I see the way he looks at his sister. And this one—“ she nudged another, “Would have run away from his family to gamble away their fortune. It’s better this way. Here, their deaths honor their families, and we… we get to eat.” 

The dog sank to his knees, saliva filling its mouth, stomach gnawing at its ribs. The cost of its wings had been so great — had hollowed it out. It was weak. Starving. And this was the only meal it was ever allowed to have. 

Even so, it wouldn’t be right. No matter what darkness lay in these mortal hearts…their lives were no fit exchange for something as worthless and evil as it. 

It wet its lips and whispered: “This one…would rather eat snow.” 

The goddess snarled and commanded: “Eat.” 

The spell in its bones compelled it. It sunk its teeth into the skull of the first sleeping man, and ate. 

The hound had many uses. 

Gorged on dreams, its qi had recovered. It was now once more fit for its goddess to use to strengthen her own cultivation. 

It lost track of how many times its goddess had her pleasure as it lay beneath her on her bed, engulfed by her body. Her pace was relentless, as were her hands around its throat. 

It wasn’t so bad, the hound reasoned as things started to go gray around it, as its body jerked and spasmed, fighting for air. 

It wasn’t so bad. 

All it had to do was lie here, and let its goddess feed. Let her rake angry, bleeding scratch-marks down its chest, bite at its nipples, drive its body to a torturous, frenzied peak again, and again, and again, until there was nothing left to drain out of it, and it was once again weak. 

Its goddess always glowed afterward, flushed and radiant in her cultivation. It always put her in such a good mood. Sometimes she would pet the dog’s heaving, sweaty, blood-slicked sides, laughing when it flinched and cried. 

“You stupid thing,” she said. “You don’t know the difference between cruelty and kindness, do you? I grace you with my touch and you cringe from it like it burns. How ungrateful.” 

She struck it, and then she got up so she could strike its cock, too. 

Afterward, she sent it out again to feast. 

The hound had many uses. 

When its goddess ran out of fresh dreams to consume, it became a spear to conquer new territory. 

It slew the weak lake-god of a little village near its goddess’s eastern borders, routing that god’s servants and soaking the ground with their blood. A fresh supply of humans were brought to the temple of Aite, and the goddess and her hound both ate. 

It vomited afterward, but of course the only thing that came out of its body was water. Dreams could not be expelled from a stomach. 

Its goddess still beat it for the presumption of the attempt. 

The hound had many uses. 

Its goddess lounged on her couch, taking a long drag from her smoking pipe, as she watched the hulking god grasp a fistful of the hound’s hair in one hand and part his robes with the other. 

The Chi had once been far too powerful to take any notice of Lady Aite, but a few more decades of dream eating and dual cultivation had made her strong. Today, they negotiated an alliance. 

“Your dog would sweeten the conversation,” The Chi had said only an hour earlier. 

Its head was fuzzy and distant now. It hardly felt the slide of the thing in its mouth, nor the spit dripping down its chin, nor the way the thing bullied the back of its throat as the two gods discussed their plans to snap up more territory. 

“To think,” The Chi said, “The other gods fear your beast,” a laugh, a stab of his hips, “It’s fearsome on the battlefield, but I think it’s better as a set of holes. Maybe I’ll keep it.” 

“Careful, it still has teeth. It’d bite your cock off if I bid it to.” 

“I jest, Lady Aite. But your point is made. Won’t you join me?” 

Time did not matter after that. The dog was not a dog anymore. Just a lump of flesh. Nerves responding to stimuli. Disgust and pain and overstimulation all warring within it, too overwhelmed to even cry. It just lay pinned beneath the god ramming into it and became an eyeless, thoughtless thing, trying to ignore the awful feeling of tearing flesh and the fresh surge of wetness leaking from between its legs. 

Leave me, it told its mind, go away from here. Don’t watch. Don’t feel. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t. Please… don’t. 

The hound had many uses. 

It was once again ordered to feed. 

It went along its way to the newly-expanded borders of its goddess’s realm — where a fresh village lay ripe for the taking. Halfway along the path, in a moment of insane disobedience, it decided to take a quick detour. It went as far south as the tethers on its soul would allow, then climbed up, up, up (it could have flown, once, couldn’t it?) and hauled itself atop a high, rocky peak. 

The wind buffeted its face, clawing through its matted hair. The hound looked south —as far south as it could possibly look— and studied the vast expanse of the territory that belonged to Lord Morax. 

So many lights. So many villages. So much color. Green farmland. Glowing deposits of jade. What must it be like…? 

For one brief moment, it allowed itself the fantasy of plummeting into the wind’s arms, of intact wings, of tetherless flight. It would soar down to Lord Morax and beg to be made into his tool. His weapon. For surely, surely…

It still remembered that hand upon its head. That miracle of being left in peace. At how the god laughed, and did not reprimand his generals for impertinence. The god who had not punished it for disobeying him — even when it was fully within his right to do so. The god who had even said that the hound was good. That it was pleasing. That it was forgiven. 

It still remembered those eyes: beautiful, and gold, and kind as sunlight. 

Blasphemy, this is blasphemy. 

But surely, it would be better to belong to Lord Morax, would it not? 

No. It was not worthy of service to a god such as him, the hound fiercely reminded itself. It was wicked and worthless. Why else would it live every day in such torment? It deserved this. It deserved this pain. This was merely a natural result of its karmic debt, its just reward for all the evil it had done — for the blood and viscera staining its hands. It could not serve a god like Lord Morax. It would sully everything it touched. 

But…even if it deserved whatever cruelty its goddess deigned to bestow…her people…those humans…

The hound ran its tongue over its teeth, fighting the urge to vomit. 

How many children had it killed, now? How many powerless humans had it murdered in its goddess’s name? No matter what its goddess read in their hearts…how could such terror and suffering belong to them? It…did not seem right. She often said humans were little more than cattle. That their place was in service to the gods, just as the hound’s place was, too. But…the humans could not possibly, in their short lives, commit so much evil as to be counted in the same lot as the hound. They were fragile, stupid creatures. Any…any reasonable person did not mistreat a helpless animal. That was cruel. The animal was too ignorant to be capable of deserving such treatment. Wasn’t it the same with humans? Shouldn’t they be…protected? Wasn’t anything less than that…taking advantage? Unjust? Evil? 

Another blasphemy: to presume to know better than its goddess. 

Still, it knew that before the night’s end, it would swallow the dreams of not only men and women, but of babes no more than two years old — all in order to strengthen itself so it could be a useful tool for its goddess in the pursuit of her cultivation. 

Please. I’m so tired. I do not want to do this. I don’t want to hurt them. I don’t want to be a weapon in such a cruel goddess’s hands. When will it end? 

The hound looked south, chest aching, eyes welling with tears, and in his heart of hearts it thought of those kind eyes of the god who had crossed the whole of his territory to hold another god accountable for the slaughter of people who weren’t even his — and the hound prayed. 

Morax did not sleep well of late. 

Most nights, he found himself standing on the balcony outside his chamber — eyes fixed north, toward Qingce, catching faint traces of burning incense on the wind. 

The supplications of his own people were always sweet on his tongue. But these…these reeked of desperation. And more and more voices had joined the chorus over the past few decades. What was happening there, in Qingce? Guizhong kept a close eye on the inner workings of the ever-shifting power play between the other gods that Morax was not directly at war with, and she always kept him apprised. The last he’d recalled hearing of Qingce, Lady Aite had been slowly growing in strength, but it had seemed like nothing to fret over. She was a weak goddess, would likely never pose a threat, and was bound by contract not to attack Morax’s people. But this…

He consulted Guizhong the next morning, and she agreed to further investigate by way of subterfuge. The results were worse than Morax could have imagined. 

Entire towns had been consumed. Her people were either dessicated to litter the flower fields of her territory, or otherwise sent as sacrifices to Aite’s temple, subjected to heavy taxation, or enslaved in her opium dens to further feed her relentless hunger for dreams. The suffering was unimaginable, and she was using it to generate new strength. Slowly, slowly, she was oozing out into other territories. 

That alliance she’d struck with the Chi was starting to look more and more like a threat. How long would it be before the two of them decided they had enough power to challenge the Guili Assembly? 

The contract would break. That was one thing. But Morax was more concerned about what this spelled for the humans caught beneath it all. 

No wonder her people were praying to another god. 

Morax summoned Bosacius, and said: “Gather our army and march to Lady Aite’s border.” 

“But…” Bosacius crossed one set of arms over his chest, “The contract…? What are you going to do?” 

The smile he gave Bosacius was grim. “The contract only forbids a declaration of war, and forbids my armies from entering her lands. It does not mention me.” 

Bosacius shook his head and laughed — equally grim. “You really are the god of technicalities. So, we’ll wait for your signal to cross?” 

Morax nodded. He laid a hand on Bosacius’ big shoulder. “The army is a precaution, this time. You are there to liberate her people and subdue any oppressors. I wish not for dominion, but I…cannot let the common folk suffer.” 

”I understand,” Bosacius replied. “I’ll muster the yakshas.” 

It ended in impact: a meteor, blazing with light. It punched through the roof and shook the very foundations of the goddess’s domain.

Dust choked the room. The hound’s ears rang as he hacked, sucked in air, coughed again. The whole place erupted in chaos. Some retainers were caught in the falling rubble. Others were screaming and fleeing for the exits, trampling their companions underfoot. What…? What was going on? 

“Dog!” it was an ear-splitting shriek. “Dog! To me!” 

It teleported, yanked by its leash, straight to the goddess’s side at her throne. She was standing on the seat, clutching the back, wild-eyed with terror. 

The hound summoned its spear on instinct and followed her line of sight, and its heart leaped into its throat. 

There: burning white-hot like a star in his wrath, was Lord Morax. 

There was no way the goddess’s army would get here in time. Most of them were human, anyway. None of her adepti were very strong. She relied on the Chi for that. The best weapon she had right now was her hound. 

Despair and hope filled the hound in equal measure. It would die here, but the people were saved. It was over. It was over. It was over. 

Its goddess had grown in strength, but she was still no match for this god. 

“Call your dog off and face me, Aite,” Lord Morax called. “I tire of your cowardice.” 

Its goddess scoffed. She climbed over the back of her throne, likely to make for the chamber behind — but with a gesture from Lord Morax, pillars of earth rammed up through the floor, singing in terrible resonance, and a jade screen closed them in to an arena of Lord Morax’s making. 

He circled them now: the hound and its goddess. The hound would not strike him unless directly bid. It would do its utmost to disobey. 

Kill her, please. Kill her. 

His goddess placed a hand on its shoulder, leaned in, and whispered in his ear: “Eat.” 

Tears filled its eyes. In a burst of wind, it surged forward and aimed its spear for Lord Morax’s heart. 

For the briefest moment, surprise flickered across Lord Morax’s face. Then, he neatly sidestepped. He swatted away the next blow, and the next, as effortlessly as if the hound was a troublesome insect. The hound attacked again and again — disappearing, apparating behind him to strike his back, sending forth a gust of wind that would have knocked anyone else flat — but Lord Morax remained cool, unmoved, steadfast, and never once did he retaliate with a killing blow. 

Only when the hound began to tire did its goddess swear in frustration, summon her catalyst, and split herself into a hundred copies. 

On the hound’s next attack, Lord Morax feinted right, the blade of his spear ripping a shallow gash in the hound’s side. Then, he plunged the point through the meat of the hound’s thigh, and sent it toppling to the floor. In the next instant a golden barrier, shimmering with talismans, encased it, leaving Lord Morax entirely free of distraction — just in time for him to shield himself from its goddess’s first blow. 

The hound collapsed, gasping for air. No matter how insistent the call of its mistress was, no matter how painful — it could not break past the warding barrier, not even by teleportation. It could only lie there, bleeding, and watch as Lord Morax tore through one simulacrum after the other until its mistress was forced to contend with her worst nightmare, alone. 

“Oathbreaker!” Aite’s accusation rang through the room, her voice shaking with rage and desperation in equal measure. Her fist glowed green with livid dendro energy. She pulled back her arm, then slung the shot straight at Morax’s head. 

“I broke no oaths, lady Aite,” Morax called back as the blow broke upon his shield. 

“You swore that you would leave me in peace!” 

“No, I swore I would not make any declaration of war. I do not need to make a declaration of war in order to answer a call for protection.” 

“Protection?” Aite laughed — a horrible, grating sound. She struck out again: a whip of greenery biting into his jade barrier. 

Morax steadied his shield and pushed forward, step by steady step. “Your people pray, Aite. It is not always to you.” 

Aite snarled, raising her hand, crafting six lances of green mist, then hurled them down with enough force to crack his shield. “I am their god. I have done nothing but use my worshippers as I see fit. Ah, but yes. What is it your humans call you? Rex Lapis. Rex Lapis the just? Rex Lapis the merciful? Rex Lapis, the generous? Rex Lapis, their protector? Lies,” she spat. The floor beneath her feet glowed, then began to bleed with poppies, tendrils of verdant mist whipping around the hem of her hanfu. “I see you for what you truly are, Morax,” the energy pulsed, “God-killer,” it boiled, creeping grasping roots toward him, clawing up and over his shield, enveloping it, seeking a way to pierce inside. “Hypocrite! You veil your thirst for power in such a pretty package. ” 

The smell of opium sifted to his nose, but it was fangless, utterly impotent against Morax’s own will. Morax built his shield anew, clicked his tongue, summoned his bow, and fit a jade arrow to its string. “Lady Aite, your self-absorption will be your downfall. It clouds your discernment, and without sound discernment your craft is useless to you.” Morax drew back the shot, took aim, and said: “How weak you’ve become.” 

The jade arrow slipped through his shield, sliced the encasing phantasm, and struck its mark: lancing through the husk of Aite’s skull to pierce the elemental being within. An ear-splitting shriek escaped the husk — then a huge whoosh, like a deep breath before a plunge—

—But before an explosion could wreak havoc on the humans still fleeing Aite’s domain, Morax commanded the floor of the throne room to split open and encase her. It snapped shut again like a maw, and the vestiges of her power — the green mist, the smell of opium, the phantom vines — vanished. Morax strode forward, summoned a seal, and laid it upon the ground, locking Aite’s wrathful remains away until such time that his yakshas could deal with the mess she left behind. 

It was finished. Aite’s hold on her territory was gone, melting like so much snow. In the wake of her death, Morax felt the contract between them dissolve just the same. 

Any second now, Bosacius would lead the armies of the Guili Assembly over the border and put the land to rest. Of course, they would have to contend with the Chi next, but that was a problem for another day. 

Morax let out a long, shaky breath, called his spear to his hand, and leaned upon it. Just for a moment of rest. Though that crowd of Aite’s thralls had long disappeared, to be safe he did not lift the warding circle just yet. The rest of her ceiling could cave in at any second. He needed a moment to gather himself, and to…

Yes, Morax’s attention turned at last to the little adeptus. He was still there, locked behind that jade fence Morax had hedged him in. The creature lay in a crumpled heap on the blood-soaked tile, still staring at the place where the ground had swallowed his mistress whole, and Morax now felt how whatever sorcery Aite had wrought on this adeptus named him Morax’s by right of conquest — just as surely as if it had placed the end of a leash in Morax’s hand. 

It left a vile taste in his mouth, but no matter how hard he tried he could not immediately dispel the binding. This was no contract. It was something else that he did not understand how to untangle. Wards, contracts, shields, and seals were his strength. But this— this was not a seal. This was no retaining wall to guard against an intrusion, or lock to prevent evil from escape. This was… a web, a mutilation, a maiming. Morax was accustomed to leaving things intact no matter how well he sealed them away. Aite, instead, bent things to her will and twisted them beyond all recognition. A cursory scan of the spell could not give any answers as to how to lift it — it only told Morax that this…adeptus was tied to him, and his well-being, perhaps his very life, his qi itself , now depended entirely on Morax’s will. 

When Morax reached the place where the adeptus lay, the boy would not look at him. He merely tilted his head, exposing his neck, still staring —dead-eyed— at that one spot far away. 

The gesture was clear: pure submission. Morax could drive his spear into the adeptus’ chest and pin the boy to the ground with it if he so wished, and he’d just take it.

(Could he even defend himself? Run? Did Aite’s reprehensible spell deprive him of simple self-preservation? The most base of instincts?)

Before he could follow that train of thought, lightning cracked through the ruins of Aite’s throne-room, followed by a peal of thunder. Bosacius appeared at Morax’s side, kneeling on the shattered tile, and announced: “We’ve done as you asked, my lord. Our armies crossed the border and are dispensing of what remains of Aite’s forces. Most of them put down their weapons and fled as soon as their goddess’s bonds broke.” 

Morax nodded. “Thank you, Bosacius. Go and urge your soldiers to treat them with mercy— as best as they are able. I doubt anyone under her command was in their right minds. Also seek out the leaders or elders among them, if they still have any, so we can offer to negotiate a contract.” 

Bosacius rose, saluted him with his spear, and then noticed the adeptus.

“Oh. Aite’s hound survived?”

Morax turned his attention back to the shaking figure. 

“Yes,” he said. 

“Let me send one of the other yakshas to assist you—”

“—no need,” Morax interrupted. He dropped the barrier around the little adeptus with a flick of his fingers. Still, even with no visible cage, the little adeptus did not move — just as Morax had expected. Morax hummed: a rumbling sound that rolled through the quaking ruins of the room. “Whatever… hex Aite cast upon him has now passed to my hands. It would be safer if I took him into our custody on my own. He cannot cause harm to me now, nor escape even if he wanted to.”

And I do not think he does. 

I think he wishes to die. 

Morax kept that troubling thought to himself and dismissed Bosacius. It was more important that Bosacius continued to direct the army in its liberation of Aite’s territory, rather than linger here without good reason.   

Dispelling his spear, he closed the last distance between them, bent, and gathered the adeptus in his arms, grimacing at how featherlight he felt, how fragile. He had struggled admirably against Morax, and only several debilitating wounds and that barrier had stopped him from fighting to the death at his goddess’s behest. Even with just a perfunctory check of his meridians, Morax could feel how weak his energy was: a mere candle-flame, flickering on the precipice of going out. Another adeptus could have easily survived wounds like this on their own — drawing on their own qi and the energy of the earth itself to heal, but this adeptus was far too weak for that. He needed a healer, or at the very least an intermediary wellspring. Now.  

And even then — Morax wasn’t certain he’d last the trip to one.  

Morax was a poor substitute, he knew. He had some skill with the healing arts born from the necessity of the battlefield, but this little adeptus’ vital energy was so low that Morax feared his own qi was far too potent to serve as a safe wellspring. Even so, he spoonfed the adeptus some of his own energy — as gently as he could to avoid hurting him, but hopefully enough of it to stop the hemorrhage — and took flight. 

In his wake, the earth rose up and covered what was left of Aite’s foul domain with fresh, fertile soil. The land would heal quickly. Morax wished the same thing could be said of its people. 

At the very least, they would be safe. Morax would ensure it.

The rest would have to come with time.

Chapter Text

A crowd of healers scattered, squawking like geese in their surprise, as Morax barreled straight through the open window of the temple clinic at the edge of Luhua Pool. Just as he was wrestling his shape into something that fit the room a bit better, head physician Dangshen burst through the door with an exasperated expression on his usually-cheery face. 

“Lord Morax, please, this is a place of healing. Some of my patients are human. A dragon crashing in may upset the delicate balance of— oh.” 

Morax could apologize for the manner of his entrance later. He didn’t want to waste time. He just held the little adeptus out to Dangshen. “Can you fix him? He is…stable for now, I believe. But—“ 

“You flew all the way from Qingce?” Dangshen beckoned Morax after him, hurrying out the door and down the hall to the nearest unoccupied bed. “Isn’t the field hospital set up?” 

Morax winced. “Well, I suppose it must be. I hadn’t exactly thought of that. I— I must admit I was not clearheaded.” An understatement. He’d been panicking ever since the adeptus began to slip in and out of consciousness during the flight. The bleeding had stopped — and his wounds had even closed somewhat under Morax’s power, but was it enough? 

“Put him here,” Dangshen directed, patting the surface of the bed. Morax obeyed, depositing the little adeptus as gently as he could while Dangshen crossed the room to close the curtain on the doorway. Then, he came back over, took the adeptus’ thin wrist in one hand and scanned his meridians. Morax held his breath. 

After a moment, Dangshen’s face darkened and he murmured: “I see.” 

“Can you save him?” Morax pressed. 

“That depends. He…has more energy than I expected. You stopped for a wellspring?” 

“Not…exactly,” Morax muttered, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Dangshen’s eyes narrowed. “Morax.” 

“I couldn’t let him die!” 

With a wave of his hand, Dangshen dismissed it. “What’s done is done, but you could have killed him, you know.” 

“Well, I did not.” 

“In any case,” Dangshen went on testily, “He has strength of cultivation enough to survive. I will do what I can, but at this point it’s a matter of will.” 

Morax’s heart sank. Will. He feared Aite had broken that long ago. The image of the adeptus lying on the ground, baring his throat, prepared for a killing blow was emblazoned on his memory. This adeptus seemed so ready to die — did he want to? 

And if he does die, it will have been at my hand. 

Morax had done his best to avoid striking him anywhere fatal, but the loss of blood and adeptal energy…

“Don’t look so sullen, Morax. That sour look is going to upset my stomach, and I had a very enjoyable lunch,” Dangshen said. “Give me space. I’ll fetch you when I have answers.” 

Morax allowed himself to be shooed out of the room and found a seat in the hall to wait. Briefly, he entertained the notion of flying back to Qingce to take his place at the head of his army. The little adeptus was in capable hands — More than capable. But… no, as soon as it came to him, he dismissed it, for just as soon as he’d stepped out of that room, a strange tension had crept over him — something deeper and more troublesome than mere anxiety over the little adeptus’ condition. No, this tension was more material than that. It wasn’t painful, but it still felt…strange. Wrong. Morax found himself irrationally irritable at the adeptus’ absence, found himself hyperaware of the fact that his adeptus wasn’t right here at his side. The sensation was utterly alien. Morax hated it. He didn’t know what to do with it. It seemed that Aite, in her terror, had yanked the boy’s jesses tight during that final battle. Even in her death, they had not slackened. And now that the jesses were in his hands, Morax had no idea what might happen if he went all the way to Qingce and put that much distance between them. It was an annoying feeling for him, but…he worried that it might be painful for the adeptus, and Morax feared he’d be in danger of causing real harm if the tension on the jesses got any worse. 

He tried once more to dispel that accursed tether, but to no avail. It would not budge. 

Morax could not help the frustrated growl that escaped him. He got up to pace, then realized the ceramic tile beneath his feet was shivering, and some dust was sifting down from the ceiling— and ah. No, that wouldn’t do.

He took a deep breath and quelled that irritation and the shuddering building. Then, he took his seat again. 

A few minutes later, he heard a very familiar voice call: “Zhongli!” 

Morax’s head shot up. There was Guizhong in a sky-blue hanfu, storming down the hall, looking very stern. 

“What are you doing here? What happened in Qingce? I saw you fly in! Where is everyone else?” As Morax stood, on habit he extended out to take her hands, but Guizhong kept her own well out of reach. “You are covered in blood,” she scolded. 

“Ah.” Morax grimaced and retracted himself.  “The battle was successful. Aite is dead and sealed.” 

“But?” 

He glanced around, then tipped his head in the direction of the door leading to the hospital courtyard. “Let’s take a walk, qīn’ài de.” 

Guizhong’s eyebrows drew together, but she knew him well enough not to push him for answers. Together they went outside, and Morax found a secluded section of the courtyard beneath an ancient sandbearer tree where they could talk away from any itching ears.

Quietly, Morax asked: “Do you remember what I told you of Aite’s bloodhound?” 

Guizhong clasped her hands together inside the billowing sleeves of her hanfu. “That…adeptus she pushed on you all those years ago? The dream-eater?” 

“Yes,” Morax replied. “He survived the battle. It seems Aite put some sort of spell on him to keep him in her thrall, and somehow ownership of the spell transferred to me in the wake of her death. I tried to dissolve it, but I have no familiarity with—” he bit the inside of his cheek, “Hexes.” 

Guizhong’s eyes turned to the door they’d just come from. “So, you brought him here.” 

“He’s dying. And…I do feel responsible.”  

Guizhong turned her attention back to him, and her dove-gray eyes softened. She reached out to touch his shoulder. “I doubt you had much of a choice. Don’t torture yourself. If he does die, the fault for that belongs to Aite.” 

Morax kept chewing on the inside of his cheek and did not answer her. 

The beat of silence that passed between them was filled only by the whistling wind, the sound of flowing water, and chirruping birds. At last, Guizhong sighed and said: “We ought to keep him hidden for some time until I can find a way to introduce him to the assembly. Nobody is going to be pleased that Aite’s dream-eater is among them. Especially if her people decide to join us.” 

“Should we refrain from drawing up a contract with them until they know? I mislike the idea of them agreeing to terms without full awareness of the present situation.” 

“Perhaps that would be best,” Guizhong agreed. “Offer them protection, for now. I will come up with some official reason for why we’re stalling on something more formal.” A pause, “While I am glad to see you, should you not return to Qingce? Dangshen and I can keep watch over your adeptus.” 

His adeptus. If it were any other person, that would feel natural. Right. Good, even — for he was the prime, the progenitor. He felt responsible for all of them, but the present context only filled his mouth with a taste as bitter as violetgrass. Morax shook his head. “Some portion of Aite’s hex corresponds to physical distance. I fear I will hurt him if I leave.” 

Guizhong shook her head. “Well. That’s going to take some getting used to. I’ll ask Streetward Rambler if she can take a look at the hex when he is in better condition. Or if she knows someone who might be suited.” 

It was a good idea. Aite’s alignment with dendro wasn’t so far off from Streetward Rambler’s skills. 

Of course, this all assumed that the little adeptus would live. 

Morax stomped on the assumption that he would not. It was hardly helpful.

“Come, then,” Guizhong said. “Have a bath. Change. Meditate. Eat something, and put those fangs away. If he wakes, it’s better if you don’t look so fearsome when you go to see him.” 

Morax ran his tongue over his teeth. Oh. He hadn’t even realized. 

As usual, Guizhong knew best. 

Day dragged on into purple-hued night. Pervases flew to and from Qingce several times, keeping Morax apprised of the situation there and relaying his wishes back to his four generals. Only when the moon began its downward descent toward the eastern horizon did Dangshen send a messenger to ask Morax to meet him back at the hospital.

Dreading whatever he might hear, Morax went.

But…as Dangshen greeted him in the courtyard, he looked far more relaxed than Morax might have expected. 

“He’ll live,” Dangshen said before Morax could ask. “It seems your little adeptus has some spark left.” 

Morax let out a long, shaky breath. 

“As far as his condition…” Dangshen went on, “It’s— perplexing. Who is he, exactly?” 

Morax trusted Dangshen’s discretion, and so told him the truth.

Dangshen made a soft, displeased noise. “That only raises more questions for me. It seems…counterproductive of Lady Aite to keep her best warrior in such a state.” 

Aite had never been one for practicality, but Morax decided not to make a snide remark about it. He was too worried. “What state, exactly?” 

“He has a strange imbalance in his qi. It’s awfully low overall. But…for an adeptus that chooses to take on a male form, he is almost devoid of yang energy. There’s no heat in his body. And it seems he’s starving, which doesn’t make any sense.” 

No. It didn’t. Even without access to food, an adeptus ought to be able to feed upon the energy of the earth. But…decades ago, when Morax had first met the little adeptus, he’d seemed terribly thin and he’d refused food — so, this information wasn’t too surprising. And yet…it didn’t seem to fit the present situation.

“If he was Aite’s hound,” Dangshen whispered, voicing Morax’s own thoughts, “I don’t see how it could be possible for him to be starving like this. All the reports I’ve heard said he was eating entire villages’-worth of dreams. With all of that energy, he should be incredibly strong.” 

Morax was starting to see the outline of a shape he did not like. 

Dangshen frowned at him. “You’ve thought of something.”

“No,” Morax shook his head. He had, but it was nothing he wanted to voice at present. “We don’t have enough information. Is he awake?” 

Dangshen shook his head. “I could send for you when he is.” 

“Would it be too much of an imposition on you if I stayed with him?” 

“I suppose not,” Dangshen said. Something Morax read as fond and amused crept into Dangshen’s expression. “Just try to refrain from crashing around my clinic, won’t you?” 

That pulled a laugh out of Morax. “I do apologize for that, doctor. Pass along my regrets to those healers for me. I am afraid I gave them quite a fright.” 

Dangshen let out a low chuckle, too. He started down the courtyard path to head back inside. “Come on. He ought to wake up in a few hours. I’ll have someone bring you a tea set while you wait. I suspect you’ll want to brew it yourself.” 

It was dead.

It had to be.

That was the only plausible explanation for why it felt so little pain, and was so comfortable. 

The ever-present ache of its karmic debt was inescapable, but that was the only pain it felt at present. Everything seemed so far away and fuzzy, and no matter how hard it tried to open its eyes, it couldn’t seem to make them obey. 

What had happened? 

It remembered…

(A meteor. A blaze of light. Its goddess…swallowed by ravaging earth.) 

(Lord Morax.) 

(Lord…Morax?) 

Even as it thought of him, something seemed to echo in its ribcage, to toll like a great bell, to reverberate through its bones — it was oddly…grounding. It had expected the usual guilt to wash over it, just as always happened whenever it committed the blasphemy of thinking about another god. But…there was no guilt. Only a mindless lack of noise which it usually associated with standing at the side of its goddess. 

Curiously, as it drifted on the edge of sleep, it turned its heart inward, listening to the magic stitched through its bones that always told it of its goddess’s will and…

…felt…nothing. No call. No tether. None of the ever-present anxiety and smoldering pain it always felt whenever there was any distance between them. 

(She really was dead. But then…isn’t this one dead, too?) 

Before it could think about that too hard, it slung straight back into sleep. 

It did not know for how long it slept. It only knew that when it woke, things hurt again, and it realized that it was alive, and that it must be in a bed. 

It held its breath. Someone…was in the room with it, and that someone felt familiar, and very, very powerful. It lay still. As still as it possibly could. The person wasn’t in the bed with them —it couldn’t feel that telltale weight dipping the mattress by their side— that other person wasn’t moving around, either. At least — not that it could discern anyway. They weren’t taking off clothing or putting it back on. They weren’t talking with someone else. They weren’t doing… anything. Why weren’t they doing anything? 

A sound rustled through the room…the snick of paper. Perhaps the scritch-scratch of a pen. Then, a ceramic clink. 

And… it was still clothed, which was a puzzle. The clothes felt…soft. Nice. Better than it was used to. 

It forced itself to start to breathe again. Slowly. In, out. Like it was still asleep. 

Why was it in a bed? And why was it still clothed? This was wrong. It shouldn’t be in a bed. Not like this. Not if it wasn’t being used. If it was here simply as decoration it ought to be on the rug, the floor, or at the very least sleeping curled up by the footboard. Not…not lying in the bed with its head cradled on a pillow like…a person. How presumptuous! It knew better. It hadn’t…meant to be in a bed. It didn’t even know how it had gotten here, but that didn’t matter. A sin was a sin. 

Frustratingly, it was still having trouble parsing where it might be. If its goddess was dead, and if it was still alive, then…had Lord Morax taken it as a spoil of war? Why? Had he perhaps given it away? Sold it? Passed it off to be someone else’s problem? That seemed more likely. It had seen Lord Morax’s yakshas. It was nothing like them. Lord Morax had no need of something as evil and weak and ruined as it. 

But then…if Lord Morax had taken it as a spoil of war, that might explain why it was in a bed, and clothed. Lord Morax had insisted on it keeping its robe on that first time. He hadn’t deigned to properly use it then…but maybe that would change now that it belonged to him. Perhaps it had been deposited here after the battle, and Lord Morax would come to claim what was his. 

Lying here and wondering was torture. It would have to face reality, use, and an inevitable punishment sooner or later. It might as well be sooner. 

It peeled its eyes open, turned its head, and found out why the presence in the room had felt so familiar. 

Immediately, it rolled itself out of the bed and hit the floor with a crack. 

While it tried to force its stupid, uncooperative limbs into the right position, Lord Morax made a sharp, startled sound and shot up out of his seat.

It must be horribly ill, or broken, because its ungrateful, weak body flinched away when Lord Morax reached for it. 

And yet…somehow, Lord Morax didn’t strike it for the impertinence. Instead, he scooped it up and deposited it back onto the bed.

“I am not displeased with you,” he was saying, just as it managed to get its ears to start making sense of speech. “Lie back and be still.”

He called someone’s name, and a man in a black coat appeared. It tried to make sense of his face but…couldn’t, somehow. Neither could it make any sense of the little square room they were in. All of its thoughts were running so slowly. Thinking felt like swimming through syrup. What was wrong with it? 

“He fell out of bed,” Lord Morax told the man. 

The man clicked his tongue. “Probably an instinctive reaction. He’s stronger than I thought.” As he came over, it (was it a dog, anymore? What was it now that its goddess was dead?) managed to be good and stay still, just as Lord Morax had commanded. The man sat on the edge of the bed and asked it: “Can you understand me? Nod once if you do.” 

It glanced at Lord Morax, and then nodded.

The man smiled — a nice smile, it thought. His face was round, flat, and good-natured, eyes a deep brown. Sharp-looking, but kind. “Very good,” he said. “I’m going to hold up my finger. I want you to follow it with your eyes as well as you can.” 

What kind of test was this? 

It did its best.

“Good,” he said again. Then, he held up two more fingers beside the first. “How many is this?” 

It was supposed to answer? Another nervous glance at Lord Morax. But…the god only gave him a nod that it took to be…encouraging?

“Three,” it whispered. 

“Good!” the man said a final time as if being able to count was something worth cooing over (it fought the urge to bristle — that would be insolent — but while it was worthless, it wasn’t stupid ). “I am called Dangshen. I’m a doctor. Do you know how you came to be here?” 

That was…a tricky question. It didn’t even know where ‘here’ was. 

It stole one more glance at Lord Morax, who was unreadable. Then, it opened its mouth, and its voice came out…slowly. Like a gust of air through a cracked flute. “Goddess Aite is…dead?” 

“Yes,” Lord Morax said. “And you were injured in defense of her. I brought you here to my territory in the Guili Plains, far south of the area that once belonged to that goddess.” 

A very odd, warbling sound sifted through the room.

A second later, it realized that the sound was coming from its throat. That was mortifying. It clapped a hand over its mouth to stifle the noise. 

Everything was so confusing. It was all so much. It didn’t know…it didn’t know what this feeling even was. It had to be ill, surely. It was almost…nausea. A terrible headache. Its head felt thin, and the room kept shifting in and out of focus. Why did everything look so hazy? Why couldn’t it seem to get enough air? Nothing made any sense— nothing made sense— nothing made any, any sense—

“It is natural to be overwhelmed,” the doctor, Dangshen, said. “And you are probably feeling off from the medicine I gave you. Are you in a lot of pain?” A pause, and then when it couldn’t answer, the doctor rephrased: “Are you in…more pain than might be usual for you?” 

Focus. It tried to take a few steadying breaths, just so it could think. The pain was… worse than it had been earlier, it supposed, but it had no right to complain. It clamped its mouth shut and, without meaning to, gripped onto fistfuls of the bedsheets. 

Lord Morax cut in, voice firm: “I want you to be honest with him, hǔ zi.” 

The nickname was disorienting, but it was hardly its place to question whatever Lord Morax wished to call him. Lord Morax was…its god now, wasn’t he? Lord Morax was its god, and he had given a command. It must try its best to answer. 

“This one…” it began, voice still very hoarse, “...is used to pain. It’s fine.” 

For a moment, nobody said anything in response. Lord Morax and the doctor only stayed right there, remaining very, very quiet, though a soft, uneasy rumble pulsed through the floor. It didn’t even need that to know that Lord Morax was displeased. It could feel it like a fist around its throat. That must have been the wrong thing to say, but it hadn’t known how else to answer. It had tried to be honest, hadn’t it? Its knuckles turned white as it gripped the sheets. Then, it kneaded the fabric, trying to work out the tension. Deep breaths in, then out. It would do no good to make itself so stiff right before a blow. Better to relax. It wouldn’t be so painful that way; it would cause less damage, and if it accepted the punishment with clear submission — rather than presuming to flinch or appearing to attempt to defend itself — then perhaps that would alleviate its new god’s anger. 

But nothing happened. 

Finally, the doctor stood and said: “I’ll prepare a second dose of medicine for you. I want you to take it just this once and then decide how you feel afterward. If you don’t want it again after that, I won’t force you to take another dose. Deal?” 

Why was he asking like it had any choice? 

It just shrugged. Both yes, and no, were too dangerous to say. A… weapon, object, toy, did not have opinions. 

Once the doctor stepped out, silence descended on the room again. Every single fiber of its being wanted to cower away from the god at its bedside. It had no idea what to do now, how to behave, what was expected of it. Lord Morax seemed so different from its goddess-that-was, and he had been so patient, but surely there had to be a limit. Surely, it would make a mistake. Surely—

“Hǔ zi,” Lord Morax interrupted that train of thought. He pulled up his nearby chair and sat, and when it tried, once more, to get out of bed because it could not possibly be so disrespectful and sacrilegious as to stay flat and useless like this in front of its god, Lord Morax only put a hand on its shoulder and said: “No, be still. I wanted to ask you if…you have a name. Lady Aite never referred to you by any use-name, to my recollection. Is there something you would like to be called?” 

It stared at the ceiling and swallowed. 

Before…

Before it had been a hound…

When it had still been a wingèd creature…

…But that time was so distant. It had been so long ago. Lady Aite had ripped all knowledge of it out of its skull and eaten it away. There was nothing left of those days except the vaguest reminiscence of flight. 

Nervously, it licked its lips and whispered: “This one begs forgiveness for its faulty memory, mighty god. This one…does not know.” 

Lord Morax made another chasmic sound that rippled in waves through the room, filling up the ever-empty cavity of its chest. This time, it was loud but not frightening. It was a thoughtful sound. A considering one. He did not seem angry, even at this obvious shortcoming. 

At last, Lord Morax said: “I would like you to have one. In the fables of another land, the name ‘Xiao’ is that of a spirit who encountered great suffering and hardship. He endured much suffering, as you have. Use this name from now on."

Xiao. 

What an odd feeling. To have…a name. To have something to be called. Not a nickname, or an insult, or a designation of use. Just…a name, all its own. The first thing bestowed upon it from its new god. 

It was accustomed to constant cold all throughout its body, but the sensation settling over it now was distinctly warm, just like summer sunlight. Just like Lord Morax’s gaze. 

“This one,” it murmured: “Would be honored to bear such a name.” 

Lord Morax made another one of those rumbling sounds: a deep, pleased purr, resonating with every nearby stone surface until the entire space seemed to quake with approval.  

Then, he reached out and gently ruffled Xiao’s hair. 

Chapter Text

The only command Lord Morax gave it was “rest”. 

It did not know how. This sort of command had never been given to it before. Weapons and toys had no need for rest. What was the point? Lord Morax did not seem…displeased with his new acquisition. No, he’d said he wasn’t. So…why wasn’t it being put to use? 

When the doctor, Dangshen, brought it a cup of bitter medicine, it took the drink without complaint. The medicine helped matters. It didn’t like feeling so drowsy, but at least it made Lord Morax’s command easier to obey. The hound — no, Xiao — Xiao fell into an uneasy unconsciousness. The back of its eyelids stained red with nightmares, but it could not wake from them, not fully, and that was fine. Its body had never been its to command. Not that it could remember, anyway. It was easier not to fight, and so it simply succumbed to all the phantom sensations — of pieces torn from its body, sliced apart to make room for something else to bully inside, to rearrange its guts, to carve a place inside it to accommodate it. Needles sinking into skin, thread strung in the shape of a cage, cotton soaked in a strange, sweet scent stuffed into its nose and mouth—

Xiao sucked in a gasp as it woke, shooting straight up in bed. It clawed its hands through its hair and pushed it back from its face. Behind it, the twisted nubs jutting out of its back beat against the headboard. Wings. What was left of them. Unable to grow or heal past this point. It must have summoned them by accident, on instinct. Already, its mouth watered, teeth itching to bite, to yank, to pull. Its fingers curled into its hair. It wound a black lock around its forefinger and yanked. 

A pop, a prick of pain, good and comforting. Distracting. It took a deep breath, then let it out, and dispelled that poor excuse for ruined limbs. It wasn’t sure if Lord Morax knew it had wings. If it could keep them secret for a little while…if it could just…cultivate enough to grow them again…

Cultivate how? 

Lord Morax would never command it to eat dreams. That was clearly detestable to him. That was the whole reason the god had killed Aite in the first place. He was being merciful toward…toward Xiao for some reason. He hadn’t decided to enact justice just yet. Perhaps simply because he wanted time to enjoy his prize first.

Prize. 

What a poor prize it was. 

A chill wracked its body. It shivered and pulled out another chunk of hair, then cursed. It shouldn’t— it shouldn’t tear at itself like this. That was bad. It was a sin to presume to damage a body that belonged to its god. 

Footsteps sounded from the hall, heading this way. Xiao grit its teeth. The hair. It had to hide it. Lord Morax would be furious…Xiao couldn’t bear to disappoint him. To anger him. The footsteps were getting closer, drumming against the floor, and Xiao was too new to Lord Morax’s court to be able to recognize them by sound alone. Frantically, it collected up all the incriminating clumps of hair it could find. Where to hide them? Where could it possibly…? 

Putting them under the pillow would be stupid. For now, the mattress would have to do. It could pull the hair back out later and find another place to dispose of it. There was no time to find somewhere better. 

It managed to stash the hair right as the curtain to the room opened. In the fuzzy darkness Xiao recognized the figure for the doctor: Dangshen. 

“I thought I heard you wake,” he said. “You shouldn’t be sitting up. Lie back.” 

Xiao obeyed immediately, clutching fistfuls of the soft blanket around it and finding a spot on the footboard of the bed to look at, swallowing an apology. 

Dangshen crossed the room and stood at the edge of the bed, and Xiao fought the urge to curl up on itself, to presume to pull away. It forced itself to lie flat, to stay still, to be good.

“May I take your wrist, Xiao?” Dangshen asked. “I’d like to check your meridians. How are you feeling?”

Why was he asking like it was Xiao’s right to give him permission? Xiao merely offered up its arm. It ought to answer the question, but all of its words were piling up on its tongue and refusing to come out. 

It felt a sweep of power…cool, but not cold, almost…refreshing in a way… hydro, perhaps, as Dangshen took hold of its wrist. It pushed some of the tension out of Xiao’s body, and that made it easier to think. Xiao’s instinct was to say that it felt fine. Well, even. It had no right to complain about anything. Beyond that, it had no right to allow pain or discomfort to get in the way of its usefulness to its master. But, as it tried to formulate an answer along those lines, the spell inside it constricted, thread biting into the roof of its mouth. That would be a lie. And Lord Morax had commanded it to be honest with this doctor.

“This one feels…pain,” it admitted, because that was true. “And it’s tired, and cold.”

Dangshen hummed in the back of his throat. “Thank you for telling me. Good, Xiao. That is to be expected, I’m afraid. Your energy is very low. I can bring you more medicine for the pain, but before that…could you tell me when the last time was that you ate? Do you remember?”

Xiao frowned at the footboard. This was a question it did not know how to answer. Dangshen released him, so it returned its hand to its chest, grabbing hold of the blanket again. Its fingers itched to tear, to wind around another lock of hair and pull. It squeezed the blanket instead.

“This one…ate dreams perhaps…four or five days ago.” 

As it confessed to this obvious crime, shame lanced through its chest. It still remembered the sweet taste, the way the bodies caught in its teeth had shriveled and hollowed. Nausea climbed up its throat. It swallowed and tried to think about something else. 

Dangshen was quiet. Xiao risked a glance at him and the shape of his expression in the dark room was hard to discern, but he seemed…perplexed? 

“And food, Xiao?” he asked. “Or perhaps energy from the earth? When was the last time you ate something other than dreams?”

Saliva filled Xiao’s mouth. It looked away again, kneading the blanket. This was some sort of trick question, it had to be. 

But…no, perhaps it was not? All those years ago, Lord Morax had tried to get Xiao — when it had been the hound — to eat from his table, and had seemed unhappy when Xiao had refused. Xiao did not know how it was meant to answer. This felt like a test of its knowledge of the rules, but in truth…no matter how hard it tried, it could not decipher what the rule might be if it was different from the one its goddess-that-was had set forth. Xiao knew its place. Its needs were secondary. To take its own life in its own hands by tending to them without permission was blasphemy. Surely, Dangshen was only trying to get it to confess to another crime. But Xiao was…not disobedient. It was a lot of things. Bad. Sinful. Evil. Worthless. But it was not disobedient. It had not been so impertinent as to do something with its body that was not allowed. 

Tired. It was so tired. 

“This one would never dare to eat anything that is not permitted,” Xiao answered carefully.

Dangshen made a soft sound, and Xiao did curl up then — protecting its soft belly, because Dangshen sounded very, very displeased.

This one tells the truth, Xiao wanted to insist, but that would be pointless. It was only a tool, a toy. It would be presumptuous to try to defend itself against one of its betters. Dangshen was in service to Lord Morax, true, but Dangshen was a person, a skilled doctor. Lord Morax had clearly made him responsible for Xiao. And so all Xiao could do was submit to Dangshen’s conclusions. 

When Dangshen next spoke, his voice carried a chill. “I’ll be back soon,” he said, “Keep resting. You’re doing well.”

That wasn’t at all true. Xiao wasn’t stupid. From Dangshen’s tone, it was perfectly obvious that Xiao was doing nothing of the sort.

Still, it did its best to obey. To be good. A punishment was coming. It must accept it with appropriate contrition, and prove to Lord Morax that it could learn how to behave according to its new god’s wishes.

Some time passed. Xiao tried to lie still. It stayed right where Dangshen had left him, fighting the urge even to fidget — lest that count as disobedience.

But then, it sensed the familiar resonating weight of geo in the hall, and Xiao panicked. 

Guizhong had joined Morax in bed for the night. Usually, they both liked to keep their separate spaces, but with so much to keep track of with the ongoing absorption of Qingce and everything with the little adeptus, he found himself restlesss and wanting her company, and Guizhong was gracious enough to give it.

Currently, she was asleep, her pale eyelashes fluttering on her flushed cheeks, her chest rising and falling. Morax had indulged a base protective instinct and fallen into a shape large enough to coil thrice around the room, great head resting on the bed next to her, the room pulsing in time to the sound of his own rumbling purr. It was soothing. Of course, what he really wanted was not here, but in the clinic across the pool. The separation from his adeptus set his teeth on edge, but no matter how irksome it was, Morax could not allow himself to indulge to that extent. It would only frighten the boy, and that was the last thing he wanted. What Xiao needed was rest, and the less stress the better. Morax could handle a little discomfort — especially when he knew that discomfort was partially the result of this hex of Aite’s. Part of him refused to answer the pull on the jesses out of pure spite. 

When a knock came on his door, he snarled, and didn’t move. 

A minute dragged by. Morax willed whomever it was to go away and leave them in peace, but irritatingly, they only knocked a second time — and this time, it was louder. 

Guizhong stirred, then rolled over, thumped one delicate fist against his huge scaled nose, and sleepily complained: “You answer it.” Another growl. He nudged his nose against her shoulder, but she pushed him off. “Go, you moody fossil. It’s surely for you anyway. If they’re knocking this late it has to be important.”

Morax let out one last petulant grumble. The intruder banged against the door a third time, sounding even more insistent. Ugh. 

Morax shoved himself into a more appropriate shape, snatched his sleeping robe off the back of the nearby chair, wrapped himself in it, and crossed the room to yank the door open. 

All the annoyance drained away the second he saw it was Dangshen, who peered past him to spot Guizhong, then flushed pink. “Sorry, Morax. I didn’t realize you weren’t alone. I suppose it could probably wait.”

“No,” Morax said at once — though it was a relief to hear it wasn’t a dire emergency. “Is something the matter with Xiao?”

Dangshen’s face pinched. His mouth tightened. “He’s awake. I was hoping I could get something in him before I put him to sleep again, but when I asked him whether or not he felt hungry he wouldn’t give me a straight answer. I think you should talk to him.”

“I don’t see how I would be helpful in this situation,” Morax said. “Perhaps Guizhong—”

“With respect, Morax, I suspect it has to be you. I asked him if he had eaten anything besides dreams lately and his phrasing was…focused on permission. He seems to think there is some rule. Perhaps there was, with Aite. Perhaps it is in the…” he guestured, the motion dripping with disdain, “The hex. I don’t know.” 

Morax’s stomach clenched. His nostrils flared. The tiles beneath his feet trembled in answer. He yanked his robe to its proper shape and secured it with a knot to the sash, and didn’t bother with shoes. He didn’t need them. As he pulled the door shut behind him so they could head to the clinic, Dangsheng put a hand on his arm and warned: “Morax. Horns.”

Ah. Yes. If he was going to go speak with Xiao, it would be best if he looked as non-threatening as possible. As reluctant as he was to waste any time, he took a moment to center himself, letting his eyes fall shut, dispelling the hot anger coursing down his spine, shelving the urge to protect, protect, protect. He took a breath in through his nose, let it slowly out through his mouth for a count of five. There. 

“Better,” Dangshen said. 

Under the pale, silver moon, he and Dangshen rounded the steaming Luhua Pool and went into the quiet, dark clinic. Morax sped down the hall in long strides, outpacing Dangshen. He reached Xiao’s sickroom, ducked past the curtain, and stopped short.

The bed was empty.

What— 

Morax tested the air with his tongue, searching out a source of heat. Finally, there: he made out a lump of dull warmth on the ground, folded in a very unmistakable bow.

“Xiao,” he said, unable to sheathe the sharp edge in his voice. “You are not meant to be out of your bed. Why are you on the floor?”

He sent out a pulse of power through the ground, up the walls, to light the cor-lapis crystal lamps with a dull orange glow. By it, he could see that Xiao was trembling — though it was impossible to determine whether or not it was from cold or terror or both. More worrying than that, though, was the scent of blood that pervaded the room. It lay heavy and metallic on Morax’s tongue.

Xiao did not move. “This one would not presume to laze about in bed while it awaits the righteous punishment of its god.”

Dangshen caught up, just then, stepping into the room. Morax heard him make a soft sound of dismay. He darted forward — likely to help Xiao back into bed — but Morax threw an arm out to hold him at bay, then approached Xiao himself.

The way Xiao made himself still smaller on the floor was expected, but still painful. Morax knelt down in front of him and, baffled, asked: “What have you done deserving of a punishment?” It could not be the fact that he’d gotten out of bed. That would make no sense. But Morax was struggling to imagine what rule Xiao was so sure he had broken. He wanted Xiao to phrase it himself so that there would be no ambiguity, so Morax could clearly and efficiently resolve this misunderstanding. They could deal with the fact that Xiao kept trying to get out of bed despite all orders otherwise later.

Xiao’s fingers twitched on the tile like he was trying to keep himself from fidgeting. He seemed to be considering how to answer. No doubt, he thought this was some kind of game. It was not difficult to imagine Aite stringing him along, teasing him with anticipation of punishments, pulling confession after confession out of him as some form of twisted entertainment. The only way Xiao would ever understand that Morax was not that kind of god was to show him otherwise.

At last, Xiao said, voice stitled and uncertain: “This one…ate dreams.” 

Morax frowned. “I am aware. I have absolved you of that. You had no choice in the matter and thus it would be unjust to hold you responsible.” 

Another stretch of silence. Xiao then guessed: “This one was dishonest.” 

Again, baffling. Morax glanced over at Dangshen, who looked just as clueless as Morax felt. Morax returned his attention to Xiao and tilted his head. “How so, little one?” 

Xiao’s visible trembling only worsened. He looked fit to shiver apart at the seams, and only Dangshen hurrying over to place a steadying hand on Morax’s shoulder stopped Morax from either gathering Xiao up or otherwise slipping into the shape of something huge and scaled and strong— to show his adeptus how safe he was, how well-protected — how capable Morax could be of guarding him— how there was no reason to fear. No one could hurt him now. No one. Morax would ensure it. 

He will not understand. 

Get ahold of yourself. 

Another deep breath in. Deep breath out. 

Xiao’s voice was muffled against the floor, and so, so tiny when he answered: “This stupid one does not know, but it does not have to know. This one was dishonest to Honorable Dangshen, and this worthless one apologizes for its offense and will accept due punishment, and if…if the honored one…or if its god— will be kind enough to explain how this one has caused offense, it will be careful never to do so again. This one swears it.”

“Xiao,” Morax measured his words carefully. “It is impossible to lie without knowing what you are lying about.” 

Xiao went very, very still. 

“Dangshen is not angry with you,” Morax said. “Are you, Dangshen?”

“No, Lord Morax,” Dangshen was quick to say, clearly and loudly. Perhaps a bit theatrical. But that was no doubt necessary for the situation at hand.

“And neither am I,” Morax went on. “I am going to collect you and put you back to bed.” 

That was all the warning Xiao got before Morax scooped him up and placed him back where he belonged. As he did, Morax told Dangshen: “I smell blood. You ought to check his dressings and make sure he didn’t rip a stitch. Now, Xiao,” he readdressed the adeptus as Dangshen came over. “Dangshen says you are reluctant to eat.”

Xiao rolled to his back, expression placid and blank as Dangshen hiked up his sleeping shirt to examine the dressing on that gash on his side. “This one would never dare to eat anything that is not permitted,” he whispered.

Another glance exchanged with Dangshen told Morax that had been exactly what Xiao had said earlier.

Morax brought his hand to his mouth, considering, yes, but also pushing back on the anger roiling in his chest. Xiao would assume it was directed toward him, and not at Aite — and that would hardly be helpful. At last, he said: “If I had known that Lady Aite had disallowed you from sustaining yourself at your own discretion, I would have never asked you to eat all those years ago. I apologize, Xiao. I had no intention of coaxing you into breaking a command set forth by your goddess. As for me, I have no such rule.”

Xiao kept his eyes trained on the ceiling, but he looked lucid enough. He was listening. Good.

“Look at me, Xiao.”

Xiao obeyed, dragging his head to the side. His golden eyes were wet and round as they met Morax’s, and again Morax had to fight with his own shape. 

Protect. Protect. Protect. 

Morax crossed his arms over his chest and pinched the tender flesh of his upper arm between his thumb and forefinger, running his tongue over his teeth, ensuring that they remained blunt.

“Xiao,” he said again, mostly to center himself. “I wish for you to regain the qi you have lost, and for your physical body to heal. In order to do that, you will need rest, yes, but you will also need to eat.” A pause, then firmly he clarified: “Food. Real food. Not dreams, or anything of that ilk. Dangshen and his healers will bring you things appropriate for the restoration and rebalance of your qi. You are to eat what you are given. Is that clear?” 

Though Xiao answered that he understood, Morax did not need verbal confirmation. He felt it: a new stitch in the hex, could almost see it as a physical red thread punching through Xiao’s skin, and Morax’s stomach turned.

It seemed intent did not matter to Aite’s wretched hex. A command was a command, and whether Morax actually wished him to be bound or not, the hex would chain Xiao to obedience. 

Morax pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, shoving back the growl that wanted to surge out of his throat. He hated this. He had no desire to be complicit in it.

But until they could figure out a way to dispell the hex, it seemed he would be whether he wanted to or not. 

“His wounds?” Morax asked Dangshen, just for something else to focus on. He found a spot on the wall to look at while Dangshen tugged Xiao’s sleeping pants down to check the dressing on Xiao’s thigh.

“He seems fine,” Dangshen said. “Nothing’s been torn open.”

Then where had the smell of blood come from?

Strange.

But…perhaps it wasn’t coming from Xiao. There were plenty of other wounded people in the clinic. Morax’s judgement was likely clouded in his worry.

“Good,” he said. Once the blanket had been replaced over Xiao, he returned his attention to him and Dangshen. Xiao looked so…small. So thin. So fragile. So frightened. He’d been unable even to take care of a basic bodily need under Aite’s authority. Stripped even of that. 

There was so much that would have to be righted and restored. The hex was one problem, but the way that Aite had broken Xiao was quite another. Morax was a creature who longed for clear, simple solutions. For unambiguous results. But this? No, there would be no simple fix for this, no matter how much he wanted one. As Morax looked at Xiao, his limbs grew heavy with the weight of it — of how overwhelming this was. How many more unspoken rules was Xiao trying to follow? How long would it take to return him to some sense of normalcy? He referred to himself as it. A thing, not a person, and in the face of that… Morax felt horribly impotent. The worst of it was that he wasn’t even sure they could address any of this until that hex was gone. If Xiao had any will left in him, surely he couldn’t access it. 

“Morax,” Dangshen called. It was soft, but the inflection was clear: give him space. 

Morax shot Dangshen an apologetic smile. Then, he repeated the command: “Rest, Xiao.” 

Command given, he retreated, chafing at the way that stupid, stupid hex protested at the distance. He’d ask Dangshen tomorrow how soon Xiao would be able to withstand any internal meddling. Guizhong would talk to Streetward Rambler. And…in the meantime, Morax would do his best to stay occupied with Qingce so as not to make a nuisance of himself. That was the best he could do for now. 

Chapter Text

The smell drifting up from the cup in Xiao’s hands was making its stomach clench. When was the last time it had put anything in its stomach except for water? Did it still even possess the capability to digest anything? 

“… appetizing , but it’s all your stomach can handle right now. I’m sorry, kid.” 

Xiao blinked. It looked up at Dangshen. What had the first half of that been? Xiao supposed it didn’t matter much, but why couldn’t it seem to focus on anything? That didn’t bode well for later, not when it had so many new rules and customs to learn. 

It resisted the urge to ask whether or not it was allowed to eat. Even if this was a trap — voicing the same question over and over again could be read as stalling or back-talk, which was just as bad as taking the bait. Traps were traps. There was no getting around them. And…in any case, this didn’t seem like one. Lord Morax’s command had been quite firm. The best Xiao could do was obey and brace itself for the worst. 

The liquid in the cup turned out to be a warm, clear broth. The first gulp hit like a punch to Xiao’s stomach and had its tongue coating in saliva, but it refused to throw up. What, it wanted to shout at itself, after all this time — it’s real food that disgusts you? 

“Whoah! Xiao,” Dangshen caught the cup, tugging it away. “Go slowly. You’ll make yourself sick.” 

A cramp slammed into it. Xiao coughed, then apologized. Dangshen let it have the cup back, and the next cautious sip went down a little easier. 

“There you go,” Dangshen said in that weird, soothing tone of his — the one that kept making Xiao fight the urge to bristle. The approval laced through Dangshen’s voice felt…good, sure, but something about it irked Xiao, too, which of course was ridiculous. Xiao pushed back on the disrespectful feeling and made itself focus on finishing the soup. 

Strange: how it could feel somehow both so hollow and so full. Something inside it insisted that broth wasn’t nearly enough, longing for something solid, but its stomach felt fit to burst just from this alone. When it was finished, Dangshen took the cup away and then handed Xiao that same bitter medicine, which Xiao drank without question. 

It slept fitfully, but it did sleep. More than once it woke, shivering, to see pairs of eyes watching it from the curtain — all different colors, belonging to figures of different heights — staring at him with unblinking curiosity. Xiao would lie there for a few moments, baring its teeth at the specters, willing them to go away. Sometimes it worked, and they fled back into the shadows, but sometimes they only stayed there studying it until the drug overtook it again and it had to succumb to sleep.

Hours passed like that — with Xiao drifting in and out of consciousness — just as miserable asleep as it was awake. When the specters weren’t flitting to and from the room, nightmares pounced — evil dreams of metallic ichor dripping between its teeth to stain its tongue, dreams of sightless pain, dreams —chiefly— of Lady Aite, of being swallowed whole, surrounded, engulfed, hollowed-out, eaten, eaten, eaten. 

The next time it woke, it couldn’t breathe, or hear, or see. Light lanced into its skull. And by the time it realized that light was the sun, and it was morning, it already held another loose tangle of black, bloody hair in its palm. 

No. It couldn’t keep doing this. But it hadn’t meant to. It hadn’t meant to! 

A pointless, pathetic excuse. Once, it had tried to plead ignorance — for it had been an ignorant, stupid creature, having only just cultivated itself to a new form, a beast that knew nothing of the world. Its goddess had only scoffed. Ignorance was no justification. Do you not sin naturally, then? Must you not beg for correction and enlightenment? 

Its head was light, threatening to float off its shoulders. Xiao couldn’t seem to get enough air. Everything felt…fuzzy. It reached up and ran its other hand through its hair, grateful —for once— that its goddess-that-was had always preferred it long. The few bald patches were hidden, and though the new one was bleeding, Xiao was relieved to find it wasn’t bleeding…very much. 

It sucked in air through its nose, then let it out through its mouth. It stared down at the clump of hair. Hiding more under the mattress would be stupid. It still needed to figure out what to do with that stash. This new clump…

It could haul itself over to the window and throw it outside, but it was clearly disallowed from getting out of bed. Which would be worse? To break that rule, or for its god to find out about this mess? 

Could be quick. This one could be fast enough. To the window, and back. There would be no proof of that form of disobedience. But the hair was solid evidence. Better to risk discovery, rather than ensure it entirely. 

No. If it disobeyed, the spell would betray it. Guilt would saw its bones apart. Would make it vomit, and they were trying so hard to get it to eat. It didn’t want to know what horrible torture would befall it if it wasted food like that. No. Getting out of bed was forbidden. It could break the rule, of course, but its god would know, and to break a rule in secret would only invite punishment and prove it to be untrustworthy. 

But there was no rule about the hair. Not yet. So in this, Xiao could disobey, could sin without being found out. Could hide the mess, could pretend to be good. At least long enough to buy some time, so it could learn how to actually be good. It wanted to be good. It hadn’t meant to damage itself. It just…needed time to build itself into something more pleasing. But…how to get rid of this without breaking the rule? 

It stared down at the clump of hair. Vaguely, it registered footsteps in the hall. They did not come with the tell-tale weight of geo attached to them, but nonetheless it could not afford to sit around debating on what to do. It had to do something. Hide the mess. Now.

Xiao pushed the hair into its mouth and swallowed.

It was difficult to force it down, but it managed. There wasn’t much hair, anyway, and eating was fine. Eating was allowed. Technically. 

Sure enough, the spell did not punish it. Its stomach, on the other hand…

The nausea was immediate. The hair sat like a rock, pressing down on its insides, and it hated the feeling. Xiao forced itself to breathe slowly through its nose, pinching the skin of its forearm between its thumb and forefinger to distract itself. Its eyes watered. 

Another minute passed. Slowly, the nausea ebbed — just so long as it didn’t think about the horrible, blocked, full feeling that had it itching to grab another strand of hair, wind it around its finger, and pull. Xiao bowed its head; it closed its eyes. Giving in to that impulse would only make things worse. Then there would be more hair to hide. It couldn’t—

It pinched harder on its arm, bit down on its tongue until it burst like an overripe fruit — squirting blood into the back of its mouth. At last, everything went blissfully numb.

A hand closed around its wrist. The world sharpened again to cut like glass. Xiao jumped back until its spine hit the stone wall with a loud crack and curled up like a pillbug, coughing on the blood still pouring into its mouth.

There was Dangshen — standing at the edge of the bed, hands up, palms out, like Xiao was some kind of skittish, stupid animal.

Well…Xiao supposed it was, really. That much had never changed, no matter how much its goddess-that-was had tried to guide it to further enlightenment. She had given up eventually. There was no fixing a creature like Xiao. 

It wanted to apologize, but it couldn’t get its bleeding tongue to twist into the right shape. Stupid. It had resolved to try to be good. And yet here it was: damaging itself anyway. 

“Xiao, stay still,” Dangshen said. His voice was icy, face grim and set. He reached for Xiao again — and Xiao barely managed to stop itself from flinching away. Danghen took Xiao by the jaw with a grip that was thoroughly firm. If he hadn’t been angry with Xiao yesterday, he certainly was now. And why shouldn’t he be, when Xiao had so clearly sinned? 

Dangshen pressed two fingers to Xiao’s sticky, blood-stained lips, and Xiao opened his mouth to accept them without even questioning it. It was sheer muscle memory, at this point.

Dangshen made some sort of odd, unhappy noise, but he pushed inside anyway. Instead of the intrusion Xiao expected, Dangshen only touched Xiao’s tongue with one fingertip, and that same temperate stream of energy passed through Xiao’s body.

The pain eased. Xiao swallowed the last of the blood, and found that no more gushed out to replace it. Dangshen retreated just as quickly as he’d swooped in, then took Xiao’s wrist again to examine the broken skin on its arm, too.

“I don’t want to have to restrain you,” Dangshen said, “But I can’t have you hurting yourself. What was this for, Xiao?” 

Xiao willed its sore tongue to cooperate. It looked down at the floor as Dangshen passed the pad of its thumb over that abused spot of skin, and the pain there, too, eased. In its wake Xiao felt hollow. The whole room seemed to tilt. When was the punishment coming? This was the wind-up before a strike. It would fall on him any second, now. Xiao could almost taste in the back of its throat, couldn’t help but roll its shoulders in, bracing itself, shaking with tension. 

Still, still, nothing happened. 

Why wouldn’t he give Xiao any correction? How was Xiao supposed to learn—? 

“Answer me, Xiao.”

Xiao just shook its head and kept struggling to formulate an answer. It had done this for as long as it could remember. How was it to know why? It always pulled out feathers, when it had them, or hair when it did not. Usually it was strand-by-strand, though, not whole clumps — easy enough to hide. Barring that, yes…there were other ways to generate pain. Pain felt right. Felt good. Pain was its most familiar companion. Pain was boring. It was safe. Comforting. Pain meant it was serving its purpose, or at least it was learning how — for what was it if not a vessel and a conduit for pain? To receive it, to inflict it on others? 

Even so, Xiao knew it was a sin to tear at itself like this, but it didn’t know how to stop. It truly hadn’t meant to. Not earlier. And even now, it hadn’t been thinking… it had just…

There was no excuse. No explanation. Couldn’t that be good enough? Why couldn’t Dangshen just punish it already, instead of sitting there waiting for the hound to come up with an answer? 

No. Not the hound. Xiao. Xiao. 

“This one is predisposed to sin,” Xiao decided at last, echoing its goddess-that-was, because dead and conquered though she may be, she had been a goddess, and of course had known the truth of things. “It has always…done this, in moments of weakness. This is a natural fault.” A pause. Then, when Dangshen said nothing, Xiao decided to offer a little more information in the hope that its efforts at a feeble explanation would be obvious: “Its goddess-that-was tried many times to correct it. But…this stupid one is a slow learner. It…tries to be good,” and here, it could not disguise the warble in its voice. Pathetic, shameful, worthless. “And…it would welcome further correction.” 

Still, nothing happened.

Xiao risked a glance at Dangshen, who looked…well, Xiao couldn’t read the expression. He was frowning. His mouth turned down at the edges. But there was a quirk in his eyebrows that wasn’t quite anger. So…maybe Xiao had done well. Maybe this was sufficient? 

It stomped on the spark of hope. It was never good. It never would be. 

It offered both wrists to Dangshen. “This one would welcome restraint, as well, if the honored one would give it the mercy of taking away its ability to sin.” 

Dangshen made another sharp, unhappy noise. He pushed Xiao’s hands back to his lap. “That’s a last resort, Xiao. Since you’re up, I’m going to bring you something to eat, alright? Are you cold?” 

It was always cold. It couldn’t remember ever feeling anything different. Xiao nodded. 

Dangshen left, then returned with a second, thick blanket and a tray holding a bowl of soup and a smaller cup of that same medicine. After drinking both, it wasn’t long before Xiao fell into another, restless, painful sleep. 

A week after the absorption of Qingce, Dangshen deemed Xiao stable enough to undergo an examination from Streetward Rambler. The little adeptus wasn’t well by any means. He looked nearly the same as when Morax had first brought him to the clinic — if less grubby. Poor Streetward Rambler was so taken aback by his appearance that she’d fled the room, sleeves pressed to her eyes, to find a corner to cry. 

In some ways, it was reassuring. If anyone was to spearhead such an invasion of Xiao’s body and qi,  Morax was glad it was clever, kind, gentle hearted Madame Ping. It was little wonder she and Guizhong were such dear friends. 

When Madame Ping at last composed herself, she rejoined Morax and Dangshen in Xiao’s sickroom and sank into the seat next to Xiao’s bed. Xiao regarded her with barely-masked apprehension. His thin, pale hands trembled as he gripped his bedsheets. 

Madame Ping looked at Morax first. Morax decided to rescue her. His first instinct was to ask Xiao whether or not Dangshen had explained what was about to happen, but he was sure Dangshen had, and if the whole debacle with food was any indicator — even if Dangshen had not, Xiao would never say anything he deemed might reflect badly on the physician. Questions of any kind seemed to be anxiety-inducing, and so Morax instead said: “Madame Ping is well-versed in many spells regarding creation and cultivation. I have asked her to examine you.” A pause. He weighed his next words carefully: “It may hurt, Xiao, but this is not a punishment. Is that clear?” 

Xiao kept his gaze pinned to his lap and nodded. “This one is used to pain and will endeavor to endure.” 

Morax bit his tongue. Dangshen’s eyes turned to the window. Madame Ping made a soft, distressed noise. Morax laid a hand on her shoulder. 

Madame Ping said: “I am going to do everything I can not to hurt you, Xiao-er.” 

Another nod. This one seemed more perfunctory and habitual than anything else. Xiao offered his wrist to Madame Ping, who —after another deep, shaky breath— stood, took it, and then placed her other hand on Xiao’s solar plexus, right at that center meridian.

It took well over an hour for Madame Ping to conduct her examination. Her concentration never wavered. Xiao never moved, though at several points his blank expression flickered as Madame Ping offered him soft apologies, and Morax could only deduce that she had struck a tender place, or a snag in the spell, and had indeed caused some measure of discomfort.

Dangshen disappeared at one point and then came back with a pot of heavily sweetened tea – which was not to Morax’s taste, but he accepted a cup anyway to be polite. He knew Madame Ping found it fortifying — and, indeed, as soon as she released Xiao, she readily took the cup Dangshen placed in her hands. 

Her shoulders drooped and shook. She looked exhausted beyond measure. Morax squeezed her shoulder and hoped it was helpful for her. Xiao, too, seemed to all but melt into the mattress. His skin was gilded with a thin sheen of sweat, black hair sticking to his forehead and shoulders. Dangshen left once more — likely to prepare a dose of medicine for him — and in the stretch of silence that passed, Morax said: “Good, Xiao. Thank you. You did very well.” 

Xiao’s mouth parted. He fussed with the edge of his bedsheet again, but some of the tension rolled off of him, and that was a relief to see. 

It was a struggle not to press Madame Ping for answers. Morax busied himself with his own cup of tea while she drank hers to steady herself. Dangshen returned with a dose of medicine, and once Xiao had taken it, Morax suggested that the three of them find somewhere more secluded to talk. This was not the sort of conversation to be had in the middle of the clinic. 

They wound up retreating to Morax’s own study: a rectangular room fashioned from a single block of basalt, rimmed with towering cases of books and scrolls. Dust swirled in the beams of light streaming into it from huge lance-shaped windows overlooking Luhua Pool. Morax took a seat at his desk and fashioned two more chairs with a flick of his wrist, which Dangshen and Madame Ping took at once.

“So,” Morax prompted. 

Madame Ping folded her hands in her lap. The softness in her face that she’d worn for Xiao was replaced by pensive indignation.

“There is nothing I can do for him, I’m afraid.” 

She might as well have dropped an anvil on Morax’s head. He leaned forward in his seat, leveling a hard, glittering stare at her. “That’s unacceptable.”

Madame Ping’s indignation morphed into unfazed confidence. Her mouth set. “I’m not done,” she said hotly. “This is a complex hex. Aite spared no effort in its craft. The only person who is capable of altering or removing it is the holder. She made certain of it. It’s… laced through every fiber of that boy’s being. I won’t be able to touch it without causing irreparable harm.” 

“We can’t leave him like that!” Dangshen cut in.

“No,” Madame Ping agreed. “Which means Morax,” that was with a very significant, severe look cast his way, “Will have to be the one to uproot it.” 

Morax shot up from his seat. The room rumbled. He crossed over to the window to stand in a patch of warm, yellow sunlight and glowered at the steaming pool below. “We both know I do not have the necessary skill,” he said. “This is far too delicate. You might as well ask—” he threw an arm out, “A saurian to do needlepoint.” 

Madame Ping snapped: “Then you will have to learn. This falls to you, whether you like it or not.” 

Morax snarled, frustrated, and crossed his arms over his chest. 

He trusted she was right in this, of course, or else he never would have asked for her help in the first place. But if he was honest — the idea of him fumbling about with something so intricate and intangible was terrifying. This was Xiao’s soul they were talking about. It felt unspeakably irresponsible of him to attempt such an endeavor when he knew just how ill-suited he was to the task. The spell didn’t respond well to him. He could not seem to get it to, and this was not something he could conquer by crushing it beneath a meteor, or encasing it with jade, or meeting it in battle on an open field. 

…But if Morax chose to leave Xiao this way when he, and only he, was capable of lifting the hex? 

The room quaked again. He started to pace. The crown of his head felt blazingly hot, and — beneath his sleeves, his skin was starting to glow like molten metal. 

“You’re certain there is no one else who could make an attempt?” 

“I’m absolutely certain,” Madame Ping replied. “It would be foolish to even try.” 

“It is foolish of me to try,” Morax grumbled back.

“Now, yes, but with time and study I am certain it’s well within your capabilities,” Madame Ping replied. “A hex of this nature is not so different from a seal.”

“It is wholly different from a seal!” Morax exclaimed.

The room went quiet after that. Both Dangshen and Madame Ping knew him well enough to let him stew, and for that he was grateful. Morax paced, and paced, and paced, until finally he threw himself back into the chair at his desk, placed his elbows on the gleaming stone surface, steepled his fingers, and pressed them to his mouth. 

Madame Ping took the opportunity to say: “I am sure you feel how tight the bindings are. We can start by working to loosen them. Baby steps. It’s going to be some time before you’re capable of lifting the hex entirely so…you might as well learn how to operate it in the meantime.”

A foul, bitter taste filled Morax’s mouth. He leaned back in his chair. 

Dangshen spoke up: “Is that…is it hurting him? Could you tell?” 

“Yes,” Madame Ping answered. “It didn’t seem to be when I was examining it, but I can only assume that was because Morax was in the room with us. It is certainly designed to punish distance from the spellholder, and with how tight the bindings are I imagine it must be causing him a great deal of pain.” 

Morax’s stomach sank. Yes, he had suspected that much. But…it was different to have it confirmed aloud. And…even worse to know it, and also know that it was up to him to do something. “I’ve tried to loosen it several times,” he admitted. “I couldn’t get it to yield. I was hoping…” 

It had been part of why he’d been hoping against hope that Madame Ping would be able to do something where Morax himself had failed. 

Morax was not accustomed to feeling impotent, but in this he seemed to have met his match — and it was vexing. 

Madame Ping clicked her tongue. “Perhaps there is a…temporary solution we could devise while we work on acquainting you with the hex.” She turned to Dangshen. “Might Xiao be able to leave the clinic soon?” 

Dangshen’s round, amicable face closed off. “He’s still far from recovery…” Then: “And incredibly stressed, it seems. Though I cannot say I blame him. I’m unsure he would fare measurably better anywhere else, but—”

“What did you have in mind, Ping?” Morax asked.

“If he could stay with you, he’d at least have a few hours out of the day when the hex isn’t causing him pain while we figure out how to operate it.” 

It wasn’t an…awful idea, Morax supposed. It made him uneasy. As keenly as he wanted to protect and care for Xiao…he wasn’t sure he was equipped— 

—But if the hex was causing him pain, and, again, Morax had the ability to do something about it — then it was his responsibility to do something. There was no escaping that. He could not allow fear of failure to keep him from protecting and providing for one of his adepti — and Xiao was one of his adepti. Every adeptus in Teyvat was his to guard. Xiao’s enslavement to Aite did not change that.  

“Dangshen?” he asked. “I defer to you in matters of Xiao’s wellbeing.”

“He’s stable, physically at least,” Dangshen said, sounding reluctant but resigned. “At this point it’s a matter of keeping him in bed as much as possible while the wounds heal and giving him what he needs to cultivate. I can keep an eye on him and continue his care just as well in your home as I can in the clinic, I suppose. And I must admit he is drawing a lot of attention. I’ve had a terrible time keeping curious eyes away. The privacy might do him good, and if the hex is hurting him that’s probably a large contributing factor to his stress as well — and the less stress, the better.”  

Well, then…

“So be it,” Morax murmured. “I’ll make sure I have space for him. Move him as soon as you deem best.” 

Chapter Text

Morax considered the ornate basalt wall in front of him, then placed his palm flat on the surface and sent out a pulse of power. With a grainy rumble, a square chunk of rock receded in, punching out a cavern which he could then shape into a room. He ignored his instinct to make it too large. There was no way to know what the little adeptus’ beast shape was yet, and he suspected a smaller room would be less overwhelming. Smaller, though, did not mean empty, or blank, or unattractive. Morax sculpted the room as an artist sculpted clay, forming square pillars to shore up the corners, crafting the rock into interlocking tiles on the floor, summoning glowing lamps of jade to suffuse the room with soft light. On the far wall, he cut a door to a smaller room and carved out a bath, connecting it to the underground aqueduct. On the opposite end, he opened some windows that stretched from the floor to the ceiling, overlooking a fine view of the cloud-capped mountains to the east. These, he bounded with one of his own jade barriers. He did not like the idea of fencing Xiao in a cage, but it would be irresponsible to risk the adeptus jumping out. Xiao was indifferent to his own life at the very least, and Morax did not want to find out whether or not that indifference tipped toward disdain, and if so — whether the hex would keep him from causing himself harm.

After more careful consideration, he decided to shape a hollow in the rock wall to place the bed, where it could be bounded on three sides by solid basalt and hopefully feel safe. It had a good view of the windows, too. If Xiao was going to be stuck in here for the time being while he healed, it was better to give him something to look at. 

With the structure of the room finished, he sent for furniture and bedding, and as that was brought in he contented himself with raising a few reliefs on the empty walls to add interest. Perhaps he was overdoing it, but again…if Xiao was to be contained here, it felt cruel to hand him a room little better than a cell. 

Furniture, a view, a few decorations. What else? 

He folded his arms, looking around, and hummed to himself in the back of his throat. It was a good room, but perhaps… hm. 

He sent another pulse of power through the floor, reaching for the underground aqueduct, and called it to him. Yes. Many of the floors in his and Guizhong’s home were heated by volcanic springs beneath, and with the little adeptus’ energy being so low it might be good for him if the room was kept a little warmer. 

There. He hummed again, content. The jade lamps resonated the sound back to him. 

This would do.

Xiao was grateful for whatever medicine Dangshen kept giving it. Without the medicine, it was sure that it would have pulled more hair out by now, or pinched new bruises onto its arm, or chewed its fingernails straight off. This was stupid, of course. Xiao should be happy. It should be ecstatic. Dangshen said that today Xiao would be moved to Lord Morax’s house in his sub-spatial realm within the palace, and that was good, wasn’t it? It meant its god still wanted it, still was interested, and that Xiao would finally, finally have the chance to be useful. 

Even so, it was only the grogginess brought on by the medicine that kept Xiao from dissolving into a fit of panic. The mix of apprehension of what Lord Morax would be like now that Xiao was truly his, and terror at the new possibility of failure was a special kind of torture. It was still weak, and of little use as a weapon. It wasn’t pretty enough to be decoration, really, and so that narrowed down its uses considerably — and none of those options were pleasant. 

No, but it didn’t matter whether or not they were pleasant. And, besides, wasn’t this what Xiao had wanted? What it had prayed for? To be of use to Lord Morax? Why did it quail at this now? 

Worthless coward. 

It really must be broken. Why else would the idea of serving its god make it so sick to its stomach? 

But Xiao had seen Lord Morax’s yakshas. At least, it had seen two of them. They were hale, and attractive, and mighty — all things which Xiao was not, and a god like Lord Morax surely had even more yakshas and adepti in service to him — like Madame Ping, and Honored Dangshen. It was little wonder that Lord Morax was so mighty when he had so many different tools at his disposal for cultivation. Next to them, Xiao was nothing. Especially not now that it was so weak. 

That relegated it to the role of entertainment. What else was there? 

It should be grateful. It knew that. Lord Morax hadn’t killed it, hadn’t punished it for its service to its goddess-that-was, hadn’t even come to claim what was rightfully his — not really. He’d waited until now, after giving Xiao some time so its wounds wouldn’t be so fresh. Whatever Lord Morax had planned would be painful either way — punishment or not. That was inevitable. But at least this wait seemed…merciful? 

Afternoon rolled around. Or, Xiao supposed it was afternoon — the light shining into the clinic was a pale yellow, and the shadows it cast were short. Dangshen brought Xiao another meal and a dose of medicine, and just as it was handing the empty bowl back to Dangshen, someone knocked on the wall next to the curtain. 

Xiao tensed, bracing itself — for what, it didn’t know, but this couldn’t be anything good. 

Dangshen seemed unbothered — because, of course, why would he be? He called for whomever it was to come in. 

A slender woman stepped through — a yaksha with tenebrous blue hair and a set of curved horns growing out of her head. Her face was round and soft, like Dangshen’s, but her eyes held a fiercely intelligent glint. 

Dangshen said, “Ah, General Bonanus. I take it you’re our escort?” 

So this was another one of Lord Morax’s prized yakshas? Xiao turned its gaze to its lap at once, keeping its head low. 

General Bonanus’ voice was smooth and as clear as a calm lake when she spoke. “I’ll craft a mirage so we can pass undisturbed. It won’t be difficult. So, this is Xiao.” 

“This is Xiao,” Dangshen replied cheerily. Xiao, for his part, said nothing. 

“Can he walk?” General Bonanus asked. 

Yes, of course, this one is no burden, Xiao wanted to say — but it had not been addressed — and ultimately this was up to Dangshen. 

Dangshen said no. Or, rather, he advised that it would be unhealthy. Before Xiao could fret over the imminent humiliation of being carried, Dangshen stepped out and returned a moment later with a squeaking contraption: a chair with wheels instead of legs. 

Xiao let Dangshen lift him into it. General Bonanus raised her arms and moved her hands in a wheel-like motion, and the air around them shimmered. 

“There,” she said, “Discreet as discreet can be, so long as we don’t physically bump into anyone. Off we go.” 

A mirage, she had said. Some way to disguise them. Why all the secrecy? 

Xiao pushed the question aside at once. It was not its place to question anything, or to think about this, for this was clearly Lord Morax’s will. So, what business was it of a toy? 

Instead, it decided to take advantage of the fact that they would not be seen to observe their path — the winding hall of the clinic, the courtyard outside dotted with spreading golden-headed sandbearer trees, the maze of tall, proud stone buildings and towering statues made in the likeness of great spearmen, trying its best to form a map in its head. The sooner it knew the area, the sooner it would be useful. It was not Lord Morax’s responsibility to hold Xiao’s hand and explain every little piece of direction. It was Xiao’s responsibility to learn how to obey, and how to avoid being a nuisance. 

Well, at least less of a nuisance than it already was. 

What was most startling about this complex was just how different it was to Lady Aite’s — not necessarily in substance or shape, but in mood. As it had been all those years ago, it was a surprise to find that Lord Morax did not imbue the place with the rigidity and oppressive weight that Xiao might have expected from a god so powerful, a god of stone and war, who was said to value order. No, instead the complex thrummed with vitality. The sun overhead was bright and warm. The place was composed of rock and jade, yes, but there were plenty of plants too, clusters of flowers, singing birds, colorful scurrying lizards, and buzzing insects. 

A sulfurous smell hung in the air from the hot pools down the hill, but it wasn’t unpleasant, and the people here seemed… so calm and blithe that it was disorienting. This place was clearly Lord Morax’s palace and temple, but the people — adepti, mostly, but humans too — were not solemn and contrite, nor even especially reverent. Neither did they crawl along the way everyone was made to in Lady Aite’s realm. They walked, heads high, locked in animated conversation with each other or otherwise hurrying from place to place. Xiao couldn’t spot anyone who seemed fearful or especially stressed — not even the humans, who ought to be creeping about in reverence. No, this felt like… well, Xiao did not know what this felt like. It had nothing to compare this to. It had never had the occasion to be anywhere other than the realm of its goddess-that-was, but this felt how Xiao imagined a city to feel: busy, bustling, alive. Everything seemed so healthy, from the realm itself to the creatures inhabiting it. 

Before long, they came to the largest building in the whole complex: a towering structure carved into the cliff-face of the huge mountain that presided over the area. A door frowned down at them, covered in iridescent warding seals — the entrance to an adeptal sub-space. 

Xiao swallowed, nausea twisting in its stomach. It had quelled, somewhat, during the distraction of the trip, but now it returned in full force. What would it be like inside? What waited for it in there? What would Lord Morax do with it once he possessed Xiao in the privacy of his own home? 

It is not your place to wonder, it repeated to itself. You must only be good and submit. 

General Bonanus touched the seal, like a question. It flickered, changing its shape, and that must have been permission because she stepped through the door, and Dangshen followed shortly, wheeling Xiao in with him.

Inside it was bright and warm. The portal spat them out into a cavernous room with a domed ceiling that stretched high above their heads. The walls themselves seemed to be fashioned out of pure living cor lapis, glowing gold and giving off a low, rhythmic hum. 

Footsteps that Xiao now recognized resounded from the far hall. It ducked its head right as Lord Morax stepped into the hall. 

“Ah, your timing is impeccable. I’ve just finished preparations. Bonanus — thank you.” 

“Of course,” General Bonanus replied, which was a strange thing to say in response to thanks from one’s god — which in of itself was ludicrous. Xiao could hardly believe its ears. Every single time it had been around Lord Morax and his prized yakshas, they were all so informal with him. Maybe it was due to their rank, but still — what was a general, even, in comparison to a god? 

Lord Morax dismissed General Bonanus, then fabric rustled — a gesture perhaps, Xiao was pointedly keeping its eyes on the ground — and Lord Morax said, “This way. I placed Xiao’s room adjacent to my own.” 

‘Xiao’s room.’ 

The chair squeaked as Dangshen began to wheel Xiao after Lord Morax. Xiao wished for something to grip onto. A blanket, or a fistful of clothing. The clothes it was in were too close-fitting to be of any comfort. Instead, it folded its hands in its lap and squeezed until its knuckles went white as its scalp tingled, itched, as its breaths sped in its chest. Of course, Xiao’s room. A room to store it in. A playroom, like Lady Aite had. That was where they were going. 

It tried to push its mind out of its skull. To empty itself out and become a hollow thing. It wasn’t easy. Not when there was so much to worry about, anticipate, take in. It couldn’t seem to make itself sink into that comforting numb nothingness that it was usually so good at finding, but it needed to — had to — because it needed to be good, to lie still, to be pliant. No matter what happened in the next few hours, it must not struggle or complain or cry. 

Unless Lord Morax liked tears. Lady Aite did, but not the loud kind. She liked soft, pretty, silent tears. Noisy, ugly wailing only ever spoiled her pleasure. That was the last thing Xiao wanted for Lord Morax.

As they walked, Xiao tried again and again to shove itself into that comfortable little box. It couldn’t get there, and that only made the panic worse — which was bad. Panic would lead to sin. Xiao couldn’t afford that. Not this early. It needed to be perfect— 

“Xiao?” 

That was Lord Morax. They’d stopped in some hall. A hand sat warmly on Xiao’s shoulder. Xiao’s vision cleared, and it realized that it was looking straight at Lord Morax, who had crouched in front of it. The hand on its shoulder belonged to Dangshen. And Lord Morax looked…

Xiao couldn’t read his expression. It shouldn’t try. It shouldn’t be looking at him in the first place. At once, it looked away, finding a spot on the floor to stare at. When had he crouched? Why had they stopped? Had it already spoiled everything? 

It should apologize. Say something. It couldn’t seem to. Its tongue felt thick and unwieldy. 

Xiao felt the air bend and shift before the touch came. It only just managed to avoid flinching, its eyes whisking shut, but the hand on its face was gentle. Only the crook of a finger beneath its chin, guiding its head back to center.

“Xiao,” Lord Morax said, “What is it you’re afraid of?” 

Xiao’s mouth twisted, hands twitching. It wanted so badly to do nothing but grab a strand of hair and yank. It didn’t want this gentleness. It wanted a strike. It wanted pain, because that was the only thing that made sense. 

“This one is a nuisance,” it managed, “It apologizes for this shortcoming and begs for correction from its god.” 

“No,” Lord Morax said beyond all reason. “You have not broken a rule, and I am not displeased with you. Is that what you’re frightened of?” 

Xiao shook its head. “This one is…ungrateful for its opportunity to be of use. That’s all.” 

Lord Morax cocked his head. He seemed puzzled. “We are bringing you to bed, Xiao,” then, a pause, he cleared his throat, then swiftly added: “To rest. To sleep. I am sure Dangshen told you.” 

Dangshen must have, of course. Xiao was just too stupid to understand. 

“Well,” that was Dangshen from behind him. His voice was strained with regret. “That is not exactly what I said, I am afraid.” 

Lord Morax’s eyes snapped up over Xiao’s head and hardened until they glittered. 

“My fault,” Dangshen went on. “I wasn’t specific. I’m sorry, Xiao.” 

The sound of it came muffled to Xiao’s ears. Again, it must have misheard, or misunderstood. Dangshen could not possibly be apologizing to it. 

It was shaking all over, it couldn’t seem to stop. Obviously, it had made a mistake, so why wouldn’t Lord Morax punish it already? How many more punishments would it bank up before the debt finally came due? Lady Aite had never waited so long. She would toy with it, of course, but not like this. 

But Lord Morax was patient. Enduring as stone.

It is not your business. It is not for you to know. You cannot presume to understand the mind of your god. Justice will come when he pleases. 

Lord Morax’s fingers twitched on Xiao’s face. Xiao closed its eyes again, expecting, waiting, hoping. But, no. Lord Morax stood and lifted it out of that stupid chair, gathering it up, and though it jostled its wounds — it didn’t hurt. Not meaningfully, anyway, compared to all the pain Xiao was accustomed to, and it didn’t seem as if that had been Lord Morax’s intent.

“Put your arms around my neck. There. Good. That will be more comfortable. Do you remember all those years ago? You slept next to me?” 

Xiao nodded, because it did. It had never forgotten. How could it? 

“It will be like that,” Lord Morax said. He was starting to walk again. Xiao could hear his heartbeat ticking steadily against its ear, sonorous and deep. “We’ll only be near each other. That’s all that I wish for. That’s what is going to happen. It was Madame Ping’s idea. We all thought the quiet and privacy would be good for you while you heal. Dangshen tells me you’ve been stressed at the clinic.” 

Xiao was very aware of Dangshen trailing silently behind them. It was starting to become accustomed to this feeling — of being completely adrift. Everything felt like it was slipping on ice. Lord Morax was addressing it. Talking to it like it was a person. Like it was at all its right to know what was going on — and while Xiao was grateful for the attempt, it was too stupid to understand anything, for this made just as much sense as everything else. 

You do not need to understand, Xiao repeated to itself. And, there: the tail of that comforting, cottony feeling was in reach. Maybe it was Lord Morax’s arms around it, or the sound of his heartbeat, or his guileless, firm tone of voice. You only need to know one thing. Just one. 

“This will please you?” Xiao whispered. 

Lord Morax hummed. The sound ricocheted around the hall, belling out in waves and then returning to surround them. “This will please me,” he affirmed. “Humor me, Xiao.”

Xiao grasped onto that knowledge with both hands. That was all that mattered.

Chapter Text

It could not be said that it was Dangshen’s fault for how vague he had been about what was happening today. No, Morax supposed that fault belonged to him for keeping his worries from someone so closely involved in Xiao’s care. Dangshen did not know the specifics of the events long past when Lady Aite had offered Xiao up to Morax as a plaything. All that Dangshen knew was that he and Xiao had met when Morax had gone to treat with Lady Aite all those years ago.

Even so, it was difficult not to feel angry. He did his best to manage it as he placed Xiao down in the soft bed and drew the covers up around him. Dangshen announced he ought to fetch some things, then stepped out. Morax told Xiao he’d be back shortly and went after him. 

Dangshen was waiting in the hall, looking duly apologetic. Morax pulled the door to Xiao’s room shut and held up a hand to stay Dangshen before he could say anything.

“I knew, and I ought to have warned you,” Morax said. 

Dangshen shook his head. He reached up and scrubbed the back of his hand over his brow. “I suspected. And either way, it was careless of me not to explain more thoroughly. It’s best for his stress levels if he knows exactly what to expect.”

There was nothing more worth saying about the matter. Morax moved on. “I see you don’t want him walking long distances. What about short ones?” 

“On crutches, it’s fine. It might even be good for him. He just needs to keep the weight off that leg. I’ll bring him a pair from the clinic. And I do mean short, Morax. A jaunt around the hallway, or to that washroom you made for him and back is as much as he can reasonably handle.” A pause, then a smile. “You outdid yourself with the room. It’s beautiful.” 

Morax resisted the urge to preen. “Well,” he waved it off. “I wanted him to be comfortable. There’s no sense in him being cooped up somewhere he hates.” 

Dangshen hummed in agreement, then nodded in the direction of the hall toward the entrance. “I’ll be back in under an hour to make sure he’s settling in, and I’ll bring some supplies. I still want him to spend most of his time asleep for now, but maybe you could see if there’s something he might be interested in to occupy him when he’s awake.” 

If there was, Morax doubted Xiao would tell him, but it was worth a try. He thanked Dangshen, then knocked on Xiao’s door to announce himself before stepping back inside.

Xiao was curled up beneath the thick blue blankets. 

(blue, Morax had chosen, because he remembered that red coverlet in Lady Aite’s guestroom and had no desire to remind Xiao of it. Gold was too opulent. White too bland. Green…well, he worried the wrong shade would also remind Xiao of that detestable goddess. Perhaps he was overthinking it. Still, he settled on blue. It contrasted nicely with the rest of the room, and blue seemed a calming color).

While he’d been alone, Xiao had pulled a lock of his black hair around toward his face and into his mouth, and was chewing on it — anxiously, perhaps thoughtfully, with a distant expression clouding his amber eyes. 

He stopped just as Morax started to cross the room, pushing himself up to his elbows — then paused, as if remembering himself, and eased back down to lie flat on the mattress.

“Good, Xiao,” Morax said at once, because it seemed Xiao had finally begun to accept that rest was considered far more important than any attempt at performative respect. “Though, Dangshen just informed me that he’s comfortable with you walking with the aid of some crutches, so I suppose if you would like to sit up, you may.” 

Xiao turned pink under the praise. It would be almost adorable, if it wasn’t indicative that Lady Aite likely never rewarded him in earnest. Morax couldn’t picture her doing so. That only made him doubly determined to reward Xiao for every little bit of good behavior he could. Xiao needed to feel secure, or else they’d never get anywhere. 

He should stop looming at Xiao’s bedside like some fell specter. Morax summoned a seat out of the floor — a simple block of basalt — and sat upon it, considering how to ask his next question. So many words he could use might have double meanings for Xiao. He discarded are there any games you enjoy? immediately. ‘Pastimes’ might be a better option, but he worried Xiao might not know what he meant, and beyond that — perhaps it was too open-ended. 

At last, he decided on: “Can you read, Xiao?” 

Morax doubted it, but he thought it best not to assume.

Xiao hung his head and shook it. 

Bother. Morax forced back his indignation — he didn’t know what else he expected — and rummaged around for something else. “Have you a craft? Perhaps something you like to do with your hands?” 

The question seemed puzzling. Xiao’s eyebrows drew together. Morax tried to elaborate: “Drawing, carving…music, even?” 

It all seemed unlikely. He doubted Xiao had ever had the time. 

Again, Xiao shook his head. “This one is useless in all things save violence and… bedsport,” he said dully. 

Morax’s heart sank. Another spike of anger shot down his spine that he fought to squash. He took care with his tone when next he said: “If you have never been allowed anything else, that is not your fault.” A pause. He bit his tongue on I only don’t wish for you to be bored out of your skull. He had no idea if the hex would twist it into some kind of command. “Dangshen…” he began, “Dangshen considers it unhealthy for you to be cooped up with nothing to do. As you’re stuck in bed for the time being…I was hoping we might find something you enjoy.” 

“Enjoy, my lord?” 

Again, Morax bit down on his tongue so hard he tasted iron. This conversation was getting worse by the minute, like slipping down a hole. 

“Nevermind,” he said, because how on earth was he meant to explain this? “We’ll come back to that. How’s the temperature? Too cold, too warm?” 

At this question, Xiao shot him an incisive, apprehensive look. Cautiously, he said: “This one’s lowly opinion is irrelevant.” 

“I decide whether or not it’s relevant,” Morax answered sharply, “Tell me the truth.” 

Xiao was swift to turn his eyes back to his lap. His fingers curled in the coverlet, twisting the fabric this way and that. “It’s— it’s comfortable. This one is grateful. It does not deserve—“

“Xiao,” Morax interrupted, “Why would I give you something you do not deserve?” 

Xiao was quiet. Perhaps he smelled some kind of trap in that question. At least it was certain that Xiao wasn’t lying, even if Xiao must couch it in self-flagellation. Morax made a mental note to double-check with Dangshen that it was optimal, but at least it wasn’t noticeably disagreeable to Xiao’s fragile balance of energy. 

“It’s important to tell someone if that changes. Dangshen, if not me.” Morax was willing to phrase this, at least, as a command. 

Xiao quietly nodded, which would have to be good enough. Morax stood, dispelled his basalt seat, then bid Xiao a good afternoon. Dangshen could take care of the rest. 

Frustration still clawed at his insides, and a sweeping tide of pure overwhelm rushed over him. Morax stomped on it. However bad he felt, he knew Xiao felt worse. And fussing, prodding, pressing would help nothing. What was needed now was patience. 

Good thing Morax had that in spades. 

Xiao knew it was stupid, but every little interaction since it had been taken by Lord Morax only strengthened the truth of that fact. How had it misinterpreted things so badly? Of course Lord Morax would never wish to use it in the state it was in — not when he had so many better options. How foolish of Xiao to think otherwise! Worse still, it had made a fuss, no less. Burdened its god with this lack of self-control…

Xiao really was a dumb, panicky animal. Prey. No amount of correction could change that. Just a bunch of base instinct encased in pulsing meat. Why had it ever taken this shape to begin with? What right had it to presume to be enlightened? 

Of course, it was too late to do anything about that now. Xiao had long ago lost control over its shape. It could not even rightly recall what the old shape had been — save for a bird of some kind. And even if it could change, what would be the point? It was not as if it could take flight and leave, even if it wanted to…and it did not, because where else could it go? No, that was a pointless thought too. It could not go anywhere. The spell kept it tethered to Lord Morax’s side. 

At least the spell didn’t seem so agitated now that Lord Morax was close by. Xiao couldn’t differentiate one level of pain from another, but its mind felt clearer, its body void and pleasantly numb, just as it always felt whenever it had been near its goddess-that-was. It had seemed like a curse, then — the clarity — but here Xiao was glad for it. It had so much to pay attention to, and to learn. 

Dangshen came and went, bringing Xiao a dose of medicine, a cup of more thin, salty soup, and a pair of crutches that Xiao couldn’t stop itself from glaring at, which was blatant disrespect. It felt like a miracle when Dangshen didn’t react to it — he only reiterated that Xiao was not to walk without them, and that it was not to walk far. 

Dangshen ordered more absurd rest. After he left, sleep overtook Xiao without trouble; no nightmares manifested — and when Xiao next woke, the day was growing dark. 

Xiao looked around the room. It was difficult to breathe. Each intake of air felt shallow, like it wasn’t quite hitting Xiao’s lungs. Sometime while it had been asleep, a fist had closed around its heart, a creeping dread, a pressing need to rise and find its god. Lord Morax must have left the house. 

Xiao kneaded the blankets. It must not tear at itself. It must not. It didn’t matter how bad it felt. It could not presume to damage itself any more than it already had. 

Lord Morax and Dangshen both had said that it was permitted to get out of bed. Of course, even it could assume that trying to find its god would be considered too far of a walk. But…the bath wasn’t. It must be for it to use — Lord Morax would never allow Xiao into his own, obviously. 

Xiao took as deep a breath as it could manage through the anxiety, pushed itself to sit up, then swung its legs over the side of the bed. The crutches were a humiliation that could not be helped. Xiao used them to get over to the bath, then sat on the edge of the empty tub. It had never…seen one like this. The great bath-house in Lady Aite’s realm had always been full, constantly fed through pipes. One would rinse the worst of the grime off before getting in, so as not to dirty water that was constantly shared. 

But…this one was empty. 

It could figure this out. It must. This was not the sort of thing Xiao wanted to admit it needed help understanding, because if Lord Morax had thought it stupid enough to need an explanation, than he would have given one. No, to the contrary, Lord Morax clearly expected him to know what to do without being told. 

A pipe pushed out of the far end of the tub. Levers were attached to it. That had to be the solution, right? Unless this bath was meant to be filled by hand, but Xiao could not imagine that Lord Morax would want to burden his house servants with something so menial has filling a bath for his…

Toy, slave, pet. Whatever Xiao was, now. It wasn’t clear, yet. It was not Xiao’s business to worry about it, either.

Pulling the lever on the left made the pipe gush cold water. Xiao tested the one on the other side and was shocked to find that the water turned warm. 

It felt like a waste to fill the whole basin just for it, and besides, Xiao didn’t want to risk getting its bandages wet. Xiao just washed in the flowing water. It wasn’t nearly so grimy as it usually was since it hadn’t had any excuse to pick up dirt when it had been kept in the clinic, so it didn’t take long. Xiao didn’t know how to describe the scent from the bar of soap left in a niche in the wall, but it did smell a great deal like Lord Morax, so it must be one he liked, which eased a little bit of the knot in Xiao’s stomach. There was only one bar of soap, so there was no risk of choosing a scent that might displease him. 

A comb had been left on the vanity on the far end of the washroom. Once clean and dry and dressed again, Xiao considered it. It was carved from antler-bone, gleaming white, precious. It seemed far too good for it to use. Lord Morax hadn’t told it not to touch the things lying about the washroom and the bedroom, but he hadn’t told it that it could, either. Xiao didn’t want to leave its hair a mess — it wanted to be presentable, to be as pretty as it was capable of, or at the very least to be less of an eyesore — but this might be some kind of test, and Xiao did not wish to get it wrong.

So, it decided to hobble back to bed. After leaning the crutches against the wall, Xiao slipped beneath the thick covers and tried its best to comb through its hair with its fingers, then to tie it into one simple braid. Having its hair so long was a nuisance, but its goddess had always preferred it, and Xiao didn’t dare hope that it would be allowed to alter its appearance. If Lord Morax wished to cut its hair, he would, and if he was indifferent, then it was not something Xiao ought to ask for. It should not want anything its god did not. 

So, it finger-combed, braided, and then settled back in bed feeling… marginally better, at least. The room was very dark by now, and Xiao’s chest still felt tight and its limbs both restless and wooden — restless to leave and cleave to its god’s side, but wooden and helpless because it had neither been called, nor was allowed to spend much time outside of bed anyway. So, Xiao kneaded the blankets, stared at the shifting patterns of moonlight on the ceiling, and tried to ignore how badly it wanted to summon a wing and chew on what was left of its feathers — if there were any that had grown back in to begin with.

A few miserable hours passed like that. Xiao tried to sleep again, but found it couldn’t, so instead it busied itself with recalling the path from the clinic to Lord Morax’s house, constructing the place in its mind, mentally walking through the streets, trying its best to make sure it knew them. 

At least here no strange apparations came to observe it. Xiao still did not know if all those eyes had belonged to demons or people, and that didn’t especially matter. The room was quiet and empty. The door remained closed. That helped slow the rising anxiety, at least.

Another hour passed. 

The urge to claw at its still-damp hair felt fit to engulf it. Xiao lay twisted in the blankets and sheets, starting to sweat. Dog, dog, dog, the spell inside it drummed, to me, now. 

It couldn’t. It was not allowed! 

Every moment had felt like this ever since Lord Morax had taken it. Somehow it was worse tonight — perhaps because Xiao had been given a brief reprieve, had forgotten how to tolerate it. Maybe that was the point. Maybe it was some kind of punishment. For what, Xiao couldn’t think of, no matter how it tried to wrack its pathetic, useless, stupid, screaming brain for a reason. Maybe it wasn’t a punishment. Maybe it just pleased Lord Morax for Xiao to suffer. That didn’t feel right, but Xiao couldn’t come up with anything else. 

Or…maybe Lord Morax just didn’t care. Yes, that was the most likely option. It was of no consequence to Lord Morax if Xiao was in pain, why would it be? Lord Morax had no need of Xiao, and so it was not as if this was an inconvenience to him. He likely had not thought of Xiao at all when he had left — and why would he? What was Xiao but an insect in the dust? 

At some point, it rolled out of bed and fell with a soft thump to the floor below. The stone was cool against its cheek, almost soothing. Xiao mindlessly wormed over it, crawling all the way to the foot of the door, and curled up with its back against the wood. Maybe it was imagining it, but this tiny bit of movement — the attempt, even, to answer the call of the spell — made the pressure ease. 

It was an infintesimal improvement, but an improvement nonetheless. And if Xiao was punished for getting out of bed, at least it would finally learn what form Lord Morax’s punishments took, which would make things a whole lot simpler and less confusing. 

It closed its eyes, feeling feverish, and waited.

Chapter Text

The running of the Guili Assembly was a welcome and soothing distraction that made it easy to ignore the irritating binds of the hex. Morax spent the rest of the day in conference with his yakshas and Guizhong, poring over maps and intelligence gathered from Qingce about the Chi’s sizable army and recent conquests. It was unwise to make a move on him just yet — too many of the other gods viewed Morax as a warmonger enough as it was without him attacking a second god unprompted so soon after the first — but that didn’t mean preparations couldn’t be made. Much of this lay in banal logistics, which was something Morax found relaxing. Supply routes, weak points along Lady Aite’s border that would need strengthening, construction of forts, movement of troops, cataloging of natural resources and, of course, cartography. Very little of Lady Aite’s information about her own territory had survived the destruction of her domain. It would have to be gathered and rewritten anew. 

The sun went down. They ate dinner together. Guizhong suggested that they all conclude for the day, and — when Morax lingered over his maps, she told him to go home and see to Xiao. 

“Dangshen has it well in hand, I am sure,” Morax replied. “I am of little use to Xiao.” 

“This arrangement is about the two of you being near each other, isn’t it?” Guizhong reminded him, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe to Morax’s study, the gold light catching in her pale hair. “Take your maps if you like. You can look at them in your domain just as well as you can here. Go home, Morax.” 

Morax bit his tongue and carefully rolled up the map. Guizhong was right, of course. Guizhong was always right. If Morax was reluctant to return home… well, in all honesty the idea of it put him on edge. He still had no idea what to do about a pastime for Xiao, nor how much or how little he ought to interact with him. Without the hex, he would have kept an eye on him to be sure — but he would have left Xiao in Dangshen’s capable hands and then turned Xiao over to his adeptal siblings. He’d likely be more comfortable that way. But now…

“What’s the matter?” 

Guizhong. She was still standing there, studying him with eyes that glittered like the edge of a knife. Morax shot her an uneasy smile. 

“I am not good with people, Guizhong.” 

Guizhong scoffed. “It isn’t complicated. You’re there to lend him security, and that is one of your greatest strengths.” 

“I’ll scare him,” Morax answered. 

“Maybe,” Guizhong agreed. “But he’s already frightened. I doubt you are capable of making it much worse. Come on,” she held out her arm. “Let’s go. Tch. You’d think you were headed to a headsman. All you have to do is look in on him and then go about your evening.” 

That was true. Even so, Morax was nervous. 

Guizhong walked with him up the mountain to the palace. They parted ways at his door. Guizhong headed off to her own domain, leaving Morax here staring up at his glowing gold sigils alone. 

He took a deep breath, then went inside. 

It wasn’t a long walk to Xiao’s room. The closer he got, the more uneasy he felt. The cor lapis walls trembled with a strange, uneven rhythm. Morax pressed a hand to them, trying to quell them. The space felt…wrong. He could not distinguish between the tension in his own heart and the tension in the rock. 

Morax gave Xiao’s door a perfunctory knock to announce himself, turned the handle, and went inside. 

Or, he tried to. 

The door stuck half-way, bumping against something soft. 

A taste of the air proved that the something radiated a feeble, familiar heat signature. That was Xiao huddled on the floor in the dark. 

At once, alarmed, Morax lit the room. Xiao was awake. He flinched at the light, then curled in on himself. Morax couldn’t decide if that was better or worse. Should he call for Dangshen? What was wrong? 

“Xiao,” he said, asking just as he had the other day: “Why are you on the floor?” 

He couldn’t help but wince as Xiao rolled himself into an approximation of a bow. That had to be hurting him. Most of his injuries were only just healed, and that punctured leg wasn’t even close. 

“This one…was too weak to resist temptation, and begs for correction.” 

Celestia, this was getting tiring already. Morax bit the inside of his cheek and then crouched. As he did, the flinch from Xiao was predictable. The little adeptus was shaking— though, it didn’t seem to be entirely from terror. His skin was covered in a slick sheen of sweat, plastering his black hair against his neck and shoulders. Xiao’s answer was not very helpful. Cautiously, Morax said: “I cannot decide how best to correct you if I do not know more specifically how you have erred. Elaborate.” 

Perhaps that was unkind of him. Perhaps he ought to have gentled his tone. It was too late to do anything about that now. Xiao pulled himself still smaller, still tighter there on the floor. Morax wanted nothing more to scoop him up, to carry him off to his own bed — to the nest there composed of soft, warm bedding — to coil around Xiao, shut out the world, guard, nurture, protect. 

No. Stop it. That would only make things worse. 

Morax ran his tongue over his teeth and pressed: “Elaborate, Xiao.” 

“Honored Dangshen and this one’s god have commanded it not to go far from this room,” Xiao said. His voice turned up at the end, unsure. 

“Yes,” Morax agreed. “You have not.” 

“This one wished to.” 

Well, that was puzzling. Morax sat back on his heels, studying Xiao, who began to grind his face into the tile. Morax couldn’t have that. He placed a hand on the crown of Xiao’s head to still him.

“You wished to,” Morax echoed. Then, “Wishing is not the same as doing, little Xiao. As far as I am concerned, you’ve broken no rule.” 

Xiao was quiet. Frozen, there on the floor beneath Morax’s touch. A shudder wracked him — and Morax was just about to insist that he go back to bed because he had to be cold when Xiao whispered: “Has this one…remained…?” a choking noise, he caught himself on whatever question had been about to come out. 

“You’ve broken no rule,” Morax repeated, “And so I judge you to require no correction. Come. Your clothes are sticking to you and that chill will upset your qi. I’d like to get you cleaned up.” 

He collected Xiao off the floor, then crossed the room and deposited him by the bath. Xiao, for his part, turned a rather impressive shade of red. 

“This one did wash—”

“Good,” Morax interrupted. “Wash again. There should be a spare set of clothing in the cabinet. I’ll return shortly.” 

Xiao did not know how it felt.

Bewildered, mostly. Frightened, of course. Stupid as always. 

At least Lord Morax had given it a direct command, and so it didn’t have to think too much. The hex pushed it through the motion of stripping down, scrubbing off, drying itself, and dressing in the fresh clothes that — sure enough — had been placed in the cabinet in the washroom. After that, Xiao wasn’t sure what to do. Return to bed? That felt wrong. Its god must require something more of it if he was going to come back. It wouldn’t do to loiter, but its god didn’t seem to like it when Xiao groveled on the floor, either. 

Its hands curled into fists. It did not know the proper posture to await its god. He clearly had different preferences to its goddess-that-was, but Xiao (stupid thing that it was!) could not recall what posture Lord Morax’s servents took around him. It felt sure that it must have seen them do something, but for the life of it — it could not remember what that something was. 

A middle ground, then. Xiao went out to the main part of the room and selected a spot on the soft rug. Even that felt bold. Still, it forced itself to kneel on it, tucking its legs beneath itself, ignoring the stab of pain from the pesky injury to its thigh. It did not fold itself forward as it was accustomed, but it kept its eyes trained on the floor, shoulders rolled back, knees slightly spread, and waited. 

In the silence, it kicked itself for being so dramatic. Everything was fine now that Lord Morax had returned home. It felt fine. How had it already forgotten how to suffer? A few hours of discomfort was nothing. What good was it if it couldn’t endure a little distance? Pathetic. Silly, stupid, pathetic thing. 

A knock belled out through the room. Lord Morax stepped through the door. Xiao’s spine threatened to collapse, every instinct in it screaming to show proper obeisance. Lady Aite had radiated power, yes. Menace. So had the Chi, in a stronger sense, and all of the gods that Xiao had ever had the misfortune to meet. But Lord Morax… his power was something Else. Something weightier, older, transcendent. The tiles quaked beneath his every step — reminding Xiao just how surrounded it was by its master’s element. Encased. 

Lord Morax said something that Xiao didn’t register. Then he collected Xiao off of the floor and placed it back in bed. 

“Did you hear me, Xiao?” 

An obvious failure. Good. Lord Morax would punish it now. Xiao shook its head, then sucked in air, dropping its shoulders, trying to sink as best it could into the mattress. It didn’t know how else to prepare itself — not without knowing what the shape of the punishment would take.

Lord Morax rumbled a sound. The room echoed it. Xiao couldn’t decipher the tone, and that made its throat close. It must not cry. It must not flinch, or make any ugly noises. It must be good. 

“I don’t want you to put pressure on your leg like that until it’s healed. If you wish to be on the floor, sit with your leg outstretched, is that clear? The same goes for when you’re in bed.” 

That was…something of a correction. It wasn’t what Xiao wanted, a thought which made its teeth itch to bite, to tear, because it must not want. It did not want. Wanting was for sentient beings. Animals did not want. They had base urges — eat, fuck, fight. But they did not want. It must obey. It must listen. This was how its god wanted it to arrange itself, Xiao reasoned. Wasn’t that the kind of instruction it had been hoping to be given? Slowly, Xiao unfolded itself, stretching out first one leg, then the other. It felt strange to…to recline, but it heard Lord Morax churr, and so perhaps that had been the right thing to do.

Even so, it would not save Xiao from due punishment for its haughty disrespect. It waited, head bowed for…a strike, for Lord Morax to grab its face, to wrench it by its hair, or to make it beg — to debase it. Instead, what Xiao got was a warm clay cup placed in its hands. 

It was filled with an amber liquid that smelled floral. Xiao’s brow knit. Poison, perhaps? But… no, that didn’t make any sense. Lord Morax had been expending effort toward fixing Xiao up for service, and poison would only undermine that. 

“Drink,” Lord Morax commanded. “You’re likely dehydrated.” 

Ah. Perhaps it would be horribly bitter, or burn on the way down. Sometimes its mistress-that-was had liked to amuse herself by making Xiao eat detestable things if only to watch it retch and struggle to obey. Again, that did not seem to fit with what Xiao knew of Lord Morax so far, but he had yet to deliver any punishments…so Xiao supposed that the options were limitless. 

The drink was lightly sweet. It warmed Xiao’s stomach. Despite its best efforts, Xiao’s sight clouded over. 

There, a displeased noise. More information that Xiao latched onto: Lord Morax disliked tears. He reached for Xiao’s face and Xiao let out a sigh — because finally! Surely! 

But, no. It was that same guiding touch Lord Morax always used: the crook of his finger beneath Xiao’s chin, and it was so disappointing that the tears in Xiao’s eyes thickened and spilled down its cheeks. 

“My Xiao,” he murmured, “What is going on inside that head of yours, hm?” 

“This one is sorry for this…this ugly display of ungratefulness,” Xiao forced out. “Please, will its god not punish it?” 

“Do I not decide when you are to be punished?” came the answer, soft as sifted sand. “Did I not say that I found no fault in you?” 

Xiao fought the urge to squirm from how badly it wanted to press flat down to the mattress — because how on earth could it keep getting things wrong? 

It should not contradict its god. It must not. But shouldn’t…shouldn’t it insist? Was this not a trap? Xiao had obviously sinned in so many ways. It had been nothing but a nuisance, unable to bear a little pain, burdening its god with the state of its useless, weak body and its stupid, weak mind. The correct thing to do was insist, beg, plead, abase. This was a test to make sure that Xiao knew its place, wasn’t it? 

It wet its lips, still staring at the now-empty cup in its lap, even as its god held its face in a touch so gentle that it burned. 

“This one is nothing more than a stupid animal. It…it has only ever…has only ever been taught the way of things through pain. This one knows it has erred. It…it wished for things which have been denied it. It arranged itself in a way that was displeasing. It…it failed to listen to the precious words of its god. S-should it not be corrected?” 

“Look at me.” 

Despite every instinct and trained impulse, Xiao was helpless against the hex. Its eyes snapped up to Lord Morax’s and found…

…no anger.

“Have I not corrected you?” Lord Morax asked. 

Xiao’s eyebrows drew together. It felt…more ignorant than ever. When had—?

“I already told you how I would like for you to arrange yourself in the future,” Lord Morax supplied, taking pity on it. “And I made certain that you heard me the second time. And I have already said: I do not consider wishes to be sins.” 

“This one will…will fail,” Xiao protested. “Without pain as a reminder. Please—” 

“No, I do not believe that to be true. I recall that, earlier, you remembered mine and Dangshen’s commands to lie flat and fought your previous habit to prostrate yourself. You corrected yourself without need of punishment. Do you find fault with my memory?” 

Wildly, Xiao shook its head. “N- no.” 

Lord Morax hummed again — a thoughtful sound. “Lady Aite would punish you for offenses you did not know you had caused?” 

Was that not the way of things? Sin was sin. It did not matter if Xiao had meant to sin or not. Slowly, Xiao nodded.

“That is not my custom.” 

He said it so firmly, so clearly. The words somehow refused to stick in Xiao’s ears. Before it could try to grab ahold of this concept, Lord Morax said, “Tell me, Xiao — what was your wish?” 

A chill sped down Xiao’s spine. It bit its tongue until it tasted metal. “This one failed to endure pain. It wished…to ease it.” 

It was a shameful thing, but still more shameful to admit aloud. Xiao itched all over, face stinging, nails digging into its palms. 

Another displeased noise rumbled out of Lord Morax’s chest, but the way he drew the pad of his thumb over the cut of Xiao’s cheek was disorienting. “What manner of pain, hǔ zi?” 

Xiao couldn’t read his tone. Its stomach felt fit to burst out of its throat.

“The— the binding spell,” Xiao admitted at last. “But it is inconsequential. This one can bear pain. It had a momentary lapse and it swears this will not happen again.” 

An awful, low growl — the sound was like stone fracturing on a mountainside. Xiao curled its fingers in the blankets just for something to hold on to. 

When Lord Morax next spoke, his voice was sharp. “When did it become unbearable? Tell me honestly, as best to your recollection.” 

“It…this one is well, now. Its god needn’t concern—”

“I do,” Lord Morax thundered back. “Answer my question.” 

It wanted nothing more than to disappear. Lord Morax was wroth now, well and truly. Xiao’s gorge rose. It swallowed it back as it wrung its hands and scratched at the skin around its nails. Think, you stupid thing. You have to think. 

“T-this one…it slept, after Honored Dangshen left. It was well. And then…and then when it woke the pain was…” it must not say it was unendurable. Xiao had endured far worse, and so that was untrue. It stuck there, trying to decide how to phrase it, all the words piling up on its useless tongue.

Lord Morax had mercy. “What time of day was it?” 

Xiao shook its head. “This stupid one has never assigned any meaning to time. But…it was dark outside. It tried to endure for…a while. B-but it failed and left its place in an attempt to soothe the pain.” 

The tremor in the room smoothed out. Was it…was it obeying well? Was it giving answers as Lord Morax wanted them? 

“Is that why you were by the door?” Lord Morax asked quietly.

Miserable to its core, Xiao nodded. It hung its head between its shoulders. 

“The hex was…compelling you beyond that, and you were attempting to restrain yourself?” 

Once again, Xiao nodded.

A hiss of air escaped Lord Morax’s chest. Then, his hand slipped into Xiao’s hair. Xiao expected him to pull, but he only stroked it in a way that Xiao, to its mortification, chased. 

Lord Morax didn’t reprimand it, though. He only bestowed more of that touch. Then he said something else. Xiao couldn’t make sense of it. It sounded garbled, far-away, nonsensical. The grip on its head turned a little firmer, and when Lord Morax spoke again it was to draw out the name it had been given: “Xiao.” 

It wasn’t listening. It was failing to listen to its god. Xiao ought to just throw itself out the window at this rate. Its goddess-that-was would have never been so lenient, so patient. Would have never spoiled it like this. She would have been peeling bits of its skin off with a knife by now, or dragging it off to one of her playrooms to break its wings. What was wrong with it? How could it be so ungrateful? 

Lord Morax’s voice cut through: “I absolve you of this guilt. Put it away. Do you hear me?” 

It did. That didn’t mean it understood. 

Why? Why absolve it? Why forgive something so stupid and ignorant as it? What good would this do? Why wouldn’t Lord Morax honor it with a beating? Was it truly so beneath even that? 

What business is it of yours to question the whim of your god? 

Another fresh wave of shame slammed into it until Xiao felt sick. With it came more stupid, fruitless, mortifying tears. It could not remember ever crying so much. When had it developed this new weakness? 

But it didn’t seem to vex its god. Instead — Lord Morax only reached out and caught the tears with the hem of his black and gold sleeve. Then he pet Xiao’s hair again, preening through the black strands with his fingers until Xiao’s spine felt strange and gelatinous, and its eyelids grew…heavy, like it wanted to sleep. The feeling was so unfamiliar, so alien… so unlike anything Xiao had ever felt. It wasn’t pain. It wasn’t… not pain, but it wasn’t the dull nothingness that filled the absence of pain, either. This was certainly not nothing. This was…

Xiao didn’t know. It didn’t have a word to describe it. 

But it wasn’t pain.

Chapter Text

“Morax, it’s going to take time.”

“I want it loosened now,” Morax snarled. 

To her credit, Madame Ping’s expression stayed cool. “It’s going to take time,” she repeated. “You know that. What has gotten into you?” 

“It caused him so much pain yesterday that he felt tempted to disobey a direct order. So much pain that it was insufferable for him. Xiao! Xiao.” 

The two of them were in Madame Ping’s tea-room — a covered veranda in her domain designed to let the fresh air and scent of wildflowers drift into the space. Madame Ping sat on a low couch, her steaming cup of tea poised in one hand, watching Morax as he prowled around the room and jammed his hands through his hair, pushing it back from his face. 

Carefully, Madame Ping said: “if we both are diligent in dissecting how you can operate the hex, then we should be able to loosen the ties within a few weeks without complications.” 

“No,” Morax snapped back. Outside, the huge mist-cloaked tor in the distance trembled as a fault cracked through it.  “That isn’t good enough.”

“Wonderful!” Madame Ping exclaimed, gesturing to the window. “That is going to take an age for the domain spirits to fix.” 

Another growl. Morax stalked to the nearest chair, yanked it out, and pitched himself into it. He sucked in air through his nose and forced himself to blunt his claws into fingers. It would hardly do to shred a piece of Ping’s furniture while he was at it. 

“There has to be a faster way. Something more efficient,” he said. 

“The hex doesn’t respond well to you,” Madame Ping pointed out. 

Yes. That was true. He’d said so himself. Still, he couldn’t stop thinking about it: less than half a day, merely on the other side of Luhua Pool, had been enough to trigger the hex to punish Xiao. Morax had already done that and more all throughout the time Xiao had been in the clinic. He just…hadn’t realized the hex was causing Xiao that much pain. He’d been suffering nearly constantly without indication or complaint. 

Morax’s anger wasn’t entirely aimed at the hex itself. How could he have been so thoughtless? 

“We should have started earlier,” he said. 

“Xiao wasn’t strong enough,” Madame Ping reminded him. A pause, then: “We had no way of knowing, Morax.” 

“I should have,” Morax hissed. 

He had, to some degree. That was the worst part. He had guessed that the hex must hurt, and had known that the discomfort and agitation he’d felt must have been proportionate to how Xiao was feeling, and yet he’d ignored it out of pure, selfish spite. He let his hatred get the better of him. 

Perhaps he ought to pick a different shape to blend into the dragon-one he liked to wear. He wasn’t sure the qilin was still accurate. 

“I apologize, Streetward Rambler,” he said quietly. “You’re right, of course.” 

Madame Ping’s expression softened. She relaxed into her seat. “Yes, well…can you find some time for us to work on this for your Xiao?” 

Morax hummed. “I will make time. I need to return to Xiao by,” he checked the ticking watch on his wrist — one of Cloud Retainer’s creations, “One o’clock. Preferably earlier. How long will this take?” 

“As long as you can spare,” she answered. 

He’ll talk to Guizhong and Bosacius and figure something out. Morax wasn’t willing to inflict more suffering on Xiao — at least, anything unavoidable. Some things would have to change over the next few weeks until they sorted this out, and Morax could loosen the hex enough so that Xiao wouldn’t be in constant pain in his absence. The more they would be able to free up Morax’s schedule, the better. 

The conversation with Guizhong and Bosacius was brief. By Morax’s counting from the limited information Xiao had been able to give him, he could stay away from Xiao no longer than five or six hours without triggering Aite’s hex. As little as Morax liked changes to his own routine, and as much as he hated affairs of state bleeding into his private domain (a place he liked to keep sacrosanct for rest), they all agreed that meetings could be held there in the coming weeks if need be. Guizhong reminded Morax that there was no reason he couldn’t rehouse his maps and scrolls for a little while, and Menogias was perfectly willing and capable of running missives and letters to and from the domain. The Assembly itself would note his absence (it was unlike Morax to be missing from court rulings and disputes), but Guizhong would figure out an excuse for him. The adepti were unlikely to question it — a few weeks meant nothing to them. The human leaders, however, would need to be lied to with some lofty yarn about his godly pursuits. Morax didn’t care to ask what Guizhong would say. No doubt it would be something colorful and creative.  

Morax wasted no time in returning to Xiao, sending a messenger to summon Dangshen. It would be best for Dangshen to confirm the balance of Xiao’s qi before Morax and Madame Ping attempted, once more, to go poking around in his delicate system. The idea of hanging about while Dangshen did his own poking and prodding put Morax ill-at-ease, so he kept to his study as Dangshen let himself in and went down the corridor to Xiao’s room.  

As he sat there waiting, he pondered the matter of a pasttime for Xiao over in his mind. Books were, of course, impossible. It would be no difficult thing to source picture books, but Morax worried Xiao might find that humiliating. Though…with all of this newfound time, Morax supposed he ought to be able to spend an hour or two teaching Xiao how to read adeptal script each day, so long as Xiao could tolerate the mental legwork. That was something well within Morax’s own abilities. It was nothing he had not done for other newly-enlightened adepti over and over again. It was satisfying, really — just as satisfying as watching individual grains of sand coalesce into granite, or enjoying the way the land laughed with flowers in the wake of a silt deposit. Morax loved watching things take their form and follow their due course, loved guiding people just as much as he loved shaping rock. 

But, they would need more than book-work. It was a pity that Xiao had no craft he was already used to doing with his hands. Morax wasn’t keen on asking him to learn something complex just yet. Reading and writing were first priority, and adding another task on top of that risked overwhelming Xiao. Still…Morax had yet to meet an adeptus capable of lying inert for long periods of time. He doubted Xiao was any different. 

But it irked him: even if he crafted some games or puzzles, Xiao would likely view them as tests.

Ah, but that was unavoidable, wasn’t it? The point was to keep Xiao occupied. To teach him that there were other things available to him than war and sex. He must train his mind and hands in other pursuits, to learn to create rather than simply destroy. Even if he wound up choosing to be counted among Morax’s fighting yakshas, Morax would still insist on it. Balance and harmony were, above all else, essential, and Xiao could not learn balance without being given the opportunity to discover what he might have a taste for, and he could not do that without being given plenty of chances to try new things. 

A game or two, then. Morax stood, went out to the sun-filled tea room and perused the shelves. His eyes landed on a Weiqi board. That was a good option, excellent for training one’s mind for strategy, but it could not be played alone. Neither could Go, but it might be better than Weiqi for its simpler rules. Mahjong was instantly ruled out — Xiao could not, in any way, be expected to play a game with a group yet. 

Morax decided to select Go as one option. They could save Weiqi for later down the line. Finding Xiao a partner to play with would be difficult, though. Morax could try, of course, but he worried that — for Xiao — playing a board game with one’s god would be too strange and uncomfortable. Besides, it would be good for Xiao to have a chance to interact with a peer. Perhaps Bosacius would be willing to find some time for a game or two.  

That was a good start, but Xiao also needed something he could do on his own. 

Morax set the game aside, then sat down on the couch, summoned some chunks of cor lapis, and began to knead them like clay into many different interlocking shapes. Rings, spheres, jigsaw cubes: puzzles meant to be taken apart, then put back together again. Good for spatial reasoning and problem solving. A simple pasttime, but one Morax himself found enjoyable…though even Guizhong struggled to build puzzles that were difficult for him to solve. 

He formed a partitioned box from cherry-red jasper — lightweight but durable, and arranged each small puzzle inside. It didn’t feel like enough, but it was better than nothing. Dangshen had been quite firm when he had said that Xiao should still spend most of his time sleeping, anyway. So, between the games, puzzles, a few lessons here and there, and the usual meditation common to gods and adepti — hopefully Xiao wouldn’t be bored to tears. 

“There you are.” 

That was Dangshen. He was standing in the door to the hall, leaning one round shoulder against the frame. Morax closed the lid on the box and stood. “Well?” 

“He’ll withstand some stress,” Dangshen answered. “I’m glad Madame Ping suggested moving him. He is more comfortable here.” 

Morax raised his eyebrows. “Is it that significant?” Even overnight? Hardly any time at all had passed, and the last day had been so tumultuous for Xiao that he had half expected Dangshen to bar them from working on the hex. 

Dangshen’s eyes crinkled at the corners. He nodded. “I taught him a few mild exercises he can do in bed, but could you keep an eye on him and make sure he doesn’t overdo it?” 

“Of course,” Morax replied. “Thank you, Dangshen.” 

Dangshen paid him a bow and headed for the exit. “Send for me if something happens, ok? Good luck with the hex. I’ll have someone bring him some supper later and check on him myself in the morning.” 

Morax dipped his head in answer, then bid him goodbye. Once Dangshen was gone, he collected the box and brought it to Xiao’s room, knocked, and then stepped inside. 

Xiao was upright, chewing on a lock of hair in that odd habit of his — which, of course, he stopped immediately as soon as Morax came in. The light streaming in through the window agreed with him, Morax thought. It was good to see his skin warm from sunshine, with a little color in it, rather than how pale and ill he’d been for…who knew how long. He gave Xiao a smile and approached his bedside, summoning a block of basalt to sit on, then held the box out. 

“Madame Ping should be here any minute, but here. This is for you.” 

Xiao gingerly accepted the box with both hands and placed it in his lap. He ducked his head, hiding behind his black hair. 

“Thank you, my lord.” The inflection turned up at the end; his voice was small and nervous. 

“Open it,” Morax told him. 

Xiao lifted the lid, and was quiet as he looked down at the box’s contents. He made no move to touch them, nor any indication of recognition or interest. Morax shouldn’t have expected anything else, but the lack of even mild curiosity had him at a loss for what to say. Morax bit the inside of his cheek, then asked: “Have you ever seen a puzzle, Xiao?” 

Xiao shook his head.

Morax hummed. With slow, telepraphed movement, he reached into the box and selected a cube. “Do you know what a puzzle is?” 

Again, Xiao shook his head. He opened his mouth — likely to apologize or debase himself. Morax quickly cut him off. “You’re a skilled warrior. I can only assume you are familiar with training your body to fight. This is something you have done in the past, isn’t it? Spear training, martial arts…”

A slow nod. Xiao’s shoulders were gravitating toward his ears. Morax kept his tone neutral as he began to pull the cube apart. “A puzzle is exercise for your mind. Watch, see? It must be disassembled in a certain way.” Each piece, he laid out on the edge of Xiao’s bed, bit by bit until he reached the core. “And then you must remember how to put it back together again,” now, he began to slot the pieces back into place. “And if you cannot, you must try to learn —by trial and error or by deduction— how to do so.” 

The cube took its shape again. Once it was complete, he held it out to Xiao, who took it from him with great care to ensure that he never so much as brushed his fingertips against Morax’s. It fit in the palm of Morax’s hand, but Xiao needed both to hold it. Mm. He’d misjudged. He’d have to make him another set later. Smaller, so they were more comfortable for Xiao to work with. This would do for now, though.

“Give it a try,” Morax directed. 

He watched as Xiao turned the little cube over and over, fingers shaking as he tested first one piece, then another, searching for the first one to pull loose. The cube was the easiest one, but the longer Xiao fought with it, the more Morax worried his own perception of difficulty might be too skewed. He wanted to challenge Xiao, not frustrate him.

It’s his first puzzle, Morax forcibly reminded himself. His first puzzle ever . And beyond that, he doubted Xiao had ever had much occasion to train his spatial reasoning beyond whatever level came naturally to Xiao’s original species — not on the level that one of Morax’s own adepti, or even a human child might. Human children were allowed to play to develop their skill, and most adepti had their own hobbies and natural inclinations that Morax was all too happy to nurture in much the same way. Xiao had never had that. 

A faint pressure in the back of his skull told him that Madame Ping must be at the door to the realm. He touched Xiao’s shoulder, stood, told him to keep working, then left to go and greet Madame Ping and lead her back to Xiao’s room. Ping was one of the few adepti allowed to come and go freely from his abode, but unlike Dangshen she always liked to wait in the entry hall before going any further. 

Sure enough, she stood on the fine embroidered rug, bathed in the orange glow radiating off of the cor lapis walls, dressed in a very practical close-sleeved gown with her pale grey-blue hair bound up in a bun at the nape of her neck. Her bow was polite, perfunctory, and blessedly brief. 

Morax gestured back toward the hall. “Let’s make some tea. We will both want it, and I’d like Xiao to have a little time to himself before we go back.” 

Madame Ping had no objections to this, but asked: “Is everything alright?” 

“Yes. I only…left him with a task, and I think he’ll do better without me peering over his shoulder,” Morax replied. 

“A task?” Madame Ping sounded aghast. 

“You wound me, Ping. I gave him a puzzle. That’s all,” Morax laughed. It wasn’t far to the little kitchen — a room open to the garden and adjacent to the tea room, since Morax had little need for food beyond recreational and social purpose, and mostly used the stove to make drinks.

It was a ritual he found calming: the boiling of the water, the arrangement of the pot, cups, and chá chǒng; the waking of the leaves, the process of infusion. While he worked, Madame Ping asked after Xiao. Morax answered as best he could. Xiao was better than he had been yesterday, at any rate, and Dangshen seemed pleased with his progress.

When the tea was ready, he collected everything on a tray and led Madame Ping to Xiao’s room. He was pleased to find that Xiao was still at work on the puzzle, and had managed to get the first and second pieces free of the cube. As soon as Morax and Madame Ping stepped over the threshold, though, Xiao set the puzzle down and dropped his head again, fingers curling in that deep blue coverlet. 

“This one has failed,” he announced at once, “And apologizes for its pathetic attempt.” 

Predictably, Madame Ping let out a tiny, dismayed noise. Morax sighed. He’d expected this. He pushed the tea tray into Madame Ping’s hands and then crossed the room to sit on the basalt block he’d left at the side of Xiao’s bed. Xiao’s grip on the blankets tightened. He shifted, angling ever-so-slightly away — the smallest twist at the hip, likely to instinctively protect that soft core and all of the vital organs therein.

“Xiao,” Morax said, “What was the task I gave you?” 

“This one was to disassemble and reassemble the…” he tripped over the word. “The puzzle.” 

“Not quite. I told you to try,” Morax corrected. “I see that you have worked two pieces free. That’s good, Xiao. The only way you can fail to try is to sit there and do nothing. You’ve done exactly what I asked you to do.” He reached out and ruffled Xiao’s hair. The flinch was expected. Morax pointedly ignored it. “Good, Xiao,” he repeated. “I’m pleased. Put it away, now. Madame Ping and I are going to take a look at Lady Aite’s hex.” 

Xiao still seemed unsure, but Morax saw his chest rise and fall with a deep breath. He slipped the pieces back into their place in the cube, then put the cube in the box and replaced the lid. Morax took it and set it on the bedside table. He beckoned Madame Ping closer, called up another basalt seat for her, and then told Xiao: “This might hurt again, but—” and here, he took Xiao’s face so that Xiao had to look at him and Morax could be perfectly sure he was listening, “Just as I said last time, this is not a punishment. I am unfamiliar with the machinations of Lady Aite’s hex. The bindings are too tight. We’re simply learning how to operate it so I can loosen it. Is that clear?” 

Xiao held his gaze just long enough to nod before dropping his eyes, once more, to his lap. Predictably, he said: “This one is used to pain.” 

Morax bit the inside of his cheek. He released Xiao, then reached over to squeeze Madame Ping’s shoulder. She had gone very quiet, and her glass-blue eyes were clouded with mist. She dabbed at them with her sleeve and then gave Morax a brave, albiet stiff, smile.

“Shall we begin?” Morax asked her.

Madame Ping nodded. Morax took a deep breath, stood, took hold of Xiao’s wrist in his left hand and placed his right over the center meridian at Xiao’s chest, and waited for Madame Ping’s guidance.

Chapter Text

Morax still could not make any sense of the hex. It was evasive — both there, and not there. Perfectly visible in his peripheral vision, but it faded whenever he tried to look directly at it. This was proving to be an exercise in frustration more than anything else. 

“Morax, focus,” he heard Ping say. 

“Is it so difficult for you?” he asked her. 

“What?” 

“Seeing it.”  

He glanced over at her. Madame Ping looked puzzled. She reached for his hand. “Show me.” 

Morax took her wrist, placing his thumb on her pulse. He tried again.

Madame Ping sighed. “You have to go deeper. You’re only on the surface.”

Deeper? 

She must have sensed his confusion, entwined now that they were. Ping went on: “It’s like a plant, not a capstone. You’re looking at the crown. I’ll show you.” A pause, then: “Xiao-er, this will hurt. Try to relax.” 

If Xiao made some sort of acknowledgement, Morax didn’t hear it. He felt Madame Ping slide in alongside him as she placed her free hand on Xiao’s chest. A gentle stream of viridescent energy seeped into Xiao. Then, gradually, the hex began to glimmer to life. Threads lit up in the black expanse of spiritual space — a muted, inky red, like decaying capillaries. Denser, denser, denser still. A thicket of roots that burrowed all throughout Xiao’s body. Morax had known that the hex was something like thread. He’d already seen how it was stitched through Xiao’s frame. But this was far, far more complex than he had originally thought.

How would they even begin to detangle this? 

“I understand,” he managed at last, talking to Madame Ping. “I understand why you couldn’t take it out.”

He understood, too, why all his attempts had failed. This was like a mushroom, just as Ping said. You could break off the crown, but the mycelial roots would remain untouched, and the crown would only regrow. This truly was like some twisted, corrupt embroidery. It would have to be unpicked from the bottom up, stitch by stitch. 

“Ping,” Morax said, overwhelmed, “What am I looking at?” 

“I don’t know, exactly,” he heard her answer, sounding upset. Vaguely, he was aware that beneath his fingertips Xiao was shaking. “We’ll have to sort through it, you and I.”

That could take ages without more information. Morax pressed closer into that space-between-spaces until the capillaries were the size of tightropes — big enough to walk on. Then, in his mind’s eye, he bent and wrapped his fingers around one rope at a time, testing the give as much as he dared. He wasn’t attempting to remove them, just searching for any that seemed particularly tightly woven.

There were many where he could not find even a hairsbreadth of slack. More than half of the ones he tried. It was impossible to tell which portion of the hex they might correspond to, and every time Morax tested one, Xiao’s breath hitched in discomfort. 

Morax withdrew. 

Ping was quiet at Morax’s side. When he blinked and returned his gaze to what was physically in front of him, Morax froze. 

Xiao looked awful . All the color had drained out of him. His eyes were glassy. His hair was already starting to dampen from sweat. He seemed almost to wilt as he sat there, sagging against the pillows. They truly could not afford to spend long periods of time meddling with Aite’s hex. This was stressful enough as it was, and they’d been at it less than an hour. 

There had to be a better strategy. There is always a better strategy. If not less painful, then at least more efficient to reduce the amount of time spent suffering. 

“You said you could tell that it was hurting him,” Morax said. “How?”

“It’s just a feeling. A sense,” Madame Ping answered. 

Morax made a soft, considering hum in the back of his throat. Perhaps…“Keep your eyes on it for me. I’m going to step out. Call me back if you mark any changes.” 

He pulled away from Xiao completely. Morax knew that, for himself , the sense of disquiet triggered even when he was in a different room. A minor annoyance, like an itch. Ignorable if it were something Morax was used to. He had no idea whether or not Xiao felt something similar, but even if he did Morax doubted it would be distinguishable for him — but perhaps it might be distinguishable to Ping.

Morax walked out of the room and shut the door. He started down the hall, a step at a time, a slow, methodical pace. And — yes, that feeling of irritation descended, creeping over him. Slight, but noticeable. 

He got as far as the entry hall before he heard Ping call his name.

Morax didn’t bother walking. He flashed back to Xiao’s room. 

“Here, Morax,” Ping called. She waved him over. “Come look. I have my finger on it.” 

Morax crossed the room, touched Xiao’s meridians again, and pushed in. 

At first, nothing seemed meaningfully different, but Morax scanned the network and…there, he could see where the little ball of light that was Ping rested on a particular section of ink-red thread. Morax zipped to it, then grasped the thread and tested the give.

He gained a little slack, but it snapped back the second he let go of it, and Xiao made a startled, pained sort of sound. 

Morax swallowed a snarl. Xiao would misread it. He was angry at this curse, not Xiao. 

“Ping?”

The light that was Ping darted back and forth like a firefly, nervously testing the thread herself. “Maybe try a different approach? There might be something else it’s tangled in, or maybe this is intended resistance to disruption, but maybe…” a pause, then: “Your contracts. You spin them, don’t you?” 

He did. They appeared as threads of gold not unlike these, but he never stitched them inside a person. They only existed as an external tether. Morax did not like where this was going. Dread leached into him. “…Yes.” 

“Rather than stretching the whole thread, perhaps try to unweave the fiber of it. You could make it longer that way.” 

“Unweave, then reweave?” 

“Exactly.” 

“I’ll have to sever it if I want to add length.” 

There was a reason they weren’t crashing through the web, slashing fibers as they came across them. The trauma could kill Xiao — if the hex itself didn’t do it first. 

Ping sounded just as uneasy as he felt. “Just one thread should be…well, it should be doable, shouldn’t it?” 

In theory. But the pain would be excruciating. 

But they had to find Xiao some slack somewhere. This wasn’t a solution — merely a stopgap, but a stopgap nonetheless. 

Morax thought of Xiao shivering on his bedroom floor, having crawled all the way to the door in a daze of pain that this hex had inflicted on him…purely because Morax had been on the other side of the complex for a few hours. 

Often, in war, one must choose the lesser of two evils. 

Morax shifted his stance, grounding himself, and sharpened his focus until this wretched thread began to glow, phosphorescent — the afterimage of light.  Now, he could see the ply within the cord. Weaker, thinner, easier to dismantle. He called it to him.

Yes, there. The thread split into three sections. Morax was getting a headache — a pounding behind his eyes — but he persisted, reaching out to touch the fiber. Xiao shuddered as he made contact, so Morax apologized again. 

“This will be very painful , Xiao,” he warned. There was no way around that. Not with what he has to do next. “Ping, give him something to bite.”

Vaguely, he was aware of a green glow. Then, “He’s ready.”

Morax sucked in air: a deep breath for a count of five. He let it out for a count of seven. When he was perfectly, perfectly centered within himself, he took each individual ply and severed them one by one.

Xiao didn’t scream, exactly, but the noise he let out was high and wounded, and it cut Morax straight down to the bone. He wanted to stop. Everything in him wanted to stop, because this was hurting Xiao, but Morax couldn’t spare any time to pull back and reassure him. The fibers were already starting to regrow.

He spun his own gold fiber as fast as he could, working it into Aite’s leavings, adding length. Xiao thrashed, now. Ping was on the bed, a knee pressed to his chest to pin him in place. 

“I can’t hold him,” she warned. “And I don’t think he can take any more.” 

It was not as much slack as Morax would like, but it would have to do for now. He retwisted the fibers together, spinning them until it was — again, a thick cord, then extracted himself.

As soon as his consciousness was cracked, once more, in his physical shape, Morax gathered Xiao up and held him. Xiao was trembling all over. Great sobs wracked his body — sobs that twisted into dry-heaves. His face was wet with tears and mucus, and —alarmingly— Blood dripped sluggishly from his nose. 

“Call Dangshen,” Morax told Ping. “Now.” 

Ping zipped through the window in a flash of feathers. Morax cradled the back of Xiao’s head, fighting the way his own heart raced in his chest. Even when Xiao had been struck through with deadly wounds, with Morax’s spear lodged in his thigh, he hadn’t looked this woozy. He had cried a little, but he hadn’t cried like this. 

This was too much. They’d done so little—

Xiao’s head lolled over Morax’s shoulder. He was still dry-heaving, but the coughs were truncated, like Xiao was trying to swallow them back. Morax combed through his wet hair. 

“You did so well, hǔ zi. I’m sorry. Shh, try to breathe. I know it hurts.” He tried his best to keep his tone even, but he sounded panicked even to his own ears. Half-frantic, he summoned a bowl — cor lapis, and not basalt, which had not been what he had meant to do but it was what had come first — and said: “There. It’s fine if you have to vomit.” 

It was like he’d pulled a pin. The next twist of Xiao’s stomach produced a stream of runny bile. Another wet cough. Another heave. Morax kept an arm locked around him and drew his hair back. 

Dangshen arrived a minute later. He swore when he burst through the door, darting over into snatch up Xiao’s wrist.

A beat. Morax held his breath, wincing when Xiao’s stomach convulsed again.

At last, Dangshen said: “No lasting harm. He’ll be fine. I hope whatever you did was worth the amount of pain he’s in.”

Morax’s relief was proportionate to his guilt. He swallowed, mouth twitching into a dark, rueful smile.

“So do I.” 

Xiao could not ever remember being in this much pain, save only once. The last time it had felt anything comparable had been when its goddess-that-was had devoured its name and first broken its wings. In its memory, that still seemed worse than this, but Xiao suspected that wasn’t the case. It had not known pain then as it did now. Back then, it had no point of comparison. But this? This was not the simmering, unrelenting ache of karmic debt. Neither was it the feeling of wrongness the hex inflicted — akin to a dislocated joint. Compared to this, those seemed boring. Banal. Trivial. This was deep and wholly encompassing, lancing through Xiao’s being, taking up so much space that its stomach was trying to climb out its throat. 

Xiao found it comforting. Lord Morax had insisted this wasn’t a punishment, but it was still pain. Pain at its god’s hands. That was a nice thought. For once, things made sense. A numbing, borderline blissful calm began to settle over it. Whether or not it was a punishment didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. Lady Aite had often enjoyed hurting Xiao to entertain herself. This wasn’t all that different. Xiao experienced pain because its god wished it to. Such was the way of things. Finally. 

Its brain peeled away from its body. Xiao drifted up to the ceiling, observing in detached disgust as its body struggled to endure the task given to it. To vomit like this in front of its god? Especially when Lord Morax had gone to such lengths to feed it? 

Take, and eat — the constant command. Food or dreams…what difference did it make? The purpose was the same even if the method was different: strength in service to its god. And Xiao was failing. 

Dangshen came, worked some of his healing magic, gave Xiao some dose of medicine to soothe its stomach and quiet the agony, fed Xiao a little energy, and said something to Lord Morax that Xiao didn’t bother to try to listen to. Then, he went. 

It was impossible to remain on the ceiling after that. Things were…bearable again, which left a hollow space where the pain had been — and that made Xiao’s scalp itch. The pit of nothingness was too unfamiliar, too threatening. With this new pain gone, Xiao grit its teeth, trying to fight back the rising urge to pull out its hair, or sink its teeth into its wrist. 

But, Lord Morax was still holding it for some reason. It was like resting against a sun-warmed stone — the way heat and pure qi radiated off of him, seeping through Xiao’s skin. 

It was a filling kind of warmth, putting down roots inside him. 

They stayed like that a long time. 

The longer they did, the more the warmth permeated the termite-eaten honeycombed emptiness, and the need to find something sharp to feel ebbed. Xiao closed its eyes. It shouldn’t…this was bad. It shouldn’t take up its god’s time like this. It was fine, really. Honored Dangshen had said so. Its god had no cause to waste time pampering Xiao. Why was he still here? 

“...Feeling, Xiao?” 

Xiao kicked itself. It never used to have this much trouble listening, before. It curled a little tighter. It should apologize and ask for clarification. The words got stuck, so what wound up coming out was a tiny, questioning noise. 

But Lord Morax continued to coddle him. He didn’t get angry. He just asked: “Does it still hurt?” 

Xiao shook its head. Oh. When had it taken hold of its god’s robes like this? Xiao had latched onto fistfuls of black silk at some point. It let go immediately, face heating. It could have ruined the fabric! How could it dare to touch its god without prompting? Why hadn’t Lord Morax corrected it?

While it was fretting about this, a shadow fell over its face that Xiao reflexively recoiled from. He heard Lord Morax sigh. Then, fingers carded through Xiao’s hair, tucking a few stray locks back behind its ear. The touch gave it goosebumps. 

“And your stomach?” Lord Morax went on. “Has it settled?” 

Had it? Xiao had to think. It wasn’t used to paying attention. But..yes. The nausea was gone. Again, it nodded, then it managed to croak: “Yes, my lord.” 

“Good,” Lord Morax said, sounding truly pleased. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” 

The phrase was strange. Xiao had never heard that said to it before. What Morax meant, as it turned out, was that he wanted to wash Xiao himself — from drawing the bath, to working Xiao out of its clothes (it tried to help, it really did, but its limbs felt like they’d turned into wood), to placing Xiao in the water (just shallow enough so as not to ruin the bandages), and cleaning its useless, filthy body. Xiao wanted to protest at the wrongness of this, but again — it couldn’t seem to get any words out. They kept eluding it. Thinking felt like crawling through syrup. It was so, so tired. 

The next space of time seemed to pass in an eyeblink. One minute Xiao was in the bath, and the next it was out of it, sitting on a bench while Lord Morax fluffed its hair with a warm towel. 

It did feel better. It was nice to be clean and to be rid of the set of clothes it had ruined. But things had made sense for a brief, wonderful blip in time and now they were upside down again.

It couldn’t seem to keep its eyes open. 

“Tired, Xiao?” came the question.

“Sorry—” Xiao mumbled. 

Lord Morax scooped it up again, and shushed it. Xiao’s disrespectful head fell to rest against his chest again. It couldn’t seem to keep it upright.

Its goddess would have kicked it away from her by now. Would have abandoned it out in the snow until it pulled itself together. Would have left it to die, if it could not. She had no use for weakness. 

It was so warm. From Lord Morax, from the bath, and that was making it very hard to stay conscious. It had never been this warm — not that it could remember, anyway. Not even in the clinic, or in the bed here that Lord Morax had given it. Which, Xiao supposed, was probably where Lord Morax must be taking him. 

But, no. Lord Morax breezed right past the bed and stepped out into the glowing hall, then went down it a few paces where another door opened for him. 

Inside, it was dim. Xiao had trouble making sense of the room, so it stopped trying. The only thing that mattered was that Lord Morax was beelining for an enormous, blanket-strewn bed. 

Just when Xiao drew its obvious connection, Lord Morax deposited it in the center of the bed and commanded: “Sleep, little Xiao. That’s what I want from you.” 

That wasn’t right. That wasn’t how this went. Xiao was supposed to…make amends for all the trouble it had caused, wasn’t it? It was pliant and relaxed, now, which would make it easy and pleasant to use. But it knew by now that Lord Morax had no preference for an unconscious tool. 

Was this like that first time, so long ago? What would be the point? 

The mattress dipped beside Xiao. Lord Morax climbed into the center of the bed, too, shedding his outer robe as he went. His arms were dotted with gleaming gold scales, now, where before there had been only skin. He sat crosslegged and began to fuss with the bedding, arranging it this way and that, building a shape — a shape that Xiao was startled to find that it recognized. 

Tentatively, it rolled to its side and curled up, placing its back to the wall of bedding Lord Morax was building, and heard Lord Morax purr.

This felt…right…safe… the bedding. Xiao had always done something similar with what little scraps of fabric it could find — roosting up in hidden places. Its goddess-that-was always discovered it, of course, and would have Xiao’s pile dismantled and destroyed, and punish it after for theft. It was lucky it was so useful, she always said. Any other pet she kept would have been put down for such a disgusting, peculiar habit. Xiao had never understood why it did it. It was just something that…happened. It tried very hard to stop. This was something beasts did, its goddess-that-was told it. Do you wish to still be a beast? Did you not beg for enlightenment? 

…so why did Lord Morax keep his bed like this? 

Xiao was too exhausted to ponder it. That feeling was back. The one that wasn’t pain. The one that Xiao had no clue how to name. Once Lord Morax seemed content with the bedding, he lay down next to Xiao. He felt enormous, like he was filling the space with far more than just his physical frame. One scaled arm draped over Xiao, radiating heat like thermal stone, and pulled him close.

Xiao slept.

Chapter Text

The first thing it was aware of when it woke was a strange, still sort of sensation that Xiao had no clue how to parse. It wasn’t a hollow feeling, not really, but it was…missing…something. What that something was, though, remained a mystery. It was very, very warm. Everything felt kind of humid, but not unpleasantly so. It lay curled up in a hollow in the mattress — which was disorienting because the mattress felt huge — and remembered where it was: Lord Morax’s room. Lord Morax’s bed. 

And whatever was in bed with him felt immense. There was no one specific place where it weighed down the mattress. It encompassed Xiao, radiating heat and an odd sonic vibration that Xiao could feel through the mattress more than hear with its ears. Distantly, Xiao felt like this ought to be frightening, but it wasn’t, somehow. 

It opened its eyes and saw a wall of glinting golden scales.

What—? 

Xiao eased itself upright to its elbows and sucked in a sharp breath. The being in the bed —or more aptly… on it, because it was so huge that only half (if that) of it actually fit inside the nest of blankets— seemed part serpent or dragon and part something else that Xiao didn’t recognize. Its tail was covered in a plume of aureate down as big as Xiao, and its head was diamond-shaped like a lizard, with a mane and beard to match the tail. The head rested atop one of its coils. There were three, Xiao realized as it looked around, three coils draped over the bed, half slipping off of it. Xiao couldn’t help the quiet, fretful whine at the sight. Who was this in Lord Morax’s bed? Who had he left Xiao alone with? What were they going to do with it? 

The noise woke the creature…or alerted it that Xiao was awake. It lifted its head and fixed on Xiao, and in those amber-gold eyes Xiao had its answer. Its heart dropped into the pit of its stomach. 

Xiao ought to say something. It ought to look away. This was a sacred shape, and it was quite certain that it was not meant to see this, but couldn’t seem to tear its eyes off of him. Xiao couldn’t read the expression on the dragon’s face. He was so beautiful, but terrible in that beauty. A chill sped down Xiao’s spine. It would be nothing for the god to unhinge his jaw and swallow it whole. 

It took an eyeblink and the dragon was gone. There was only Lord Morax as Xiao knew him, sitting crosslegged on the bed in the same black hanfu he’d been wearing earlier, looking at Xiao with those amber-colored eyes, warm like sunlight. 

“I apologize, little Xiao,” he said at once. He was still rumbling, somehow, just as the dragon had. “I had no intention of frightening you. My shape got away from me, I fear.”

Xiao shook its head, turning its own eyes to its lap. “N– no. You have honored this one with…with a glimpse of a very holy form.” 

Lord Morax laughed. There was nothing unkind in it. “It is only one of many; no different than what I wear now.” A pause. Then: “Tell me how you are feeling.” 

Xiao balked at the command. How it was feeling? It tried to think. That must have been what he had asked earlier. That afternoon after Madame Ping and Lord Morax had looked at the hex all seemed very hazy, but Xiao remembered that he had asked Xiao a question it had only half-heard, but it had sounded like this. He had clarified that he had meant for a report on Xiao’s physical condition. So…

“Warm, my lord,” Xiao said, because that was the easiest thing to distinguish. “But this one is…” it didn’t know what to say. It didn’t feel much at all, which was bizarre, but it didn’t know how to say that. It had no words to describe this nothingness. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it was so wholly unfamiliar that Xiao didn’t want to dwell on it too much, because that kind of unfamiliarity made it itch to start tearing at itself and it could not do that in front of Lord Morax. “Fine,” it decided at last, then quickly added: “Better than it deserves. It is very grateful, and— and it would be blessed if its god would stoop to make use of it—”

“No,” Lord Morax cut in, tone sharpening until it was severe. Xiao flinched and snapped its mouth shut. How had it ruined its god’s good mood so quickly?

Still, still, Lord Morax did not strike it for the mistake. Xiao truly hadn’t meant to insult him with the offer. Xiao wasn’t attractive by any stretch of the imagination, it knew, but that had never been its appeal to the other gods. “This one knows it is…ugly,” it admitted. “But it is well trained and very skilled. It can bear pain. Its god needn’t concern himself with damaging it when he takes his pleasure—” 

“I will not,” Lord Morax interrupted. 

Xiao hung its head. Wrong, again. Bad, stupid, wrong, worthless. A new hollowness leached into it, a new dread. It wanted to beg, even if it would be humiliating, but it bit back that instinct. Everything it said only made Lord Morax’s mood worse.

A long, painful beat of silence stretched out between them. 

At last, Lord Morax sighed. He murmured: “Aiyah, how shall I say it?” Then, quietly, “It is like this, my Xiao: this is what use I would have of you, if I must put it that way for you to understand.” 

This? 

Xiao, try as it might, could not figure out what he meant. If Lord Morax wanted anything, Xiao would bear it with great joy. He had rescued the humans its goddess-that-was had abused and exploited for centuries, and his own acolytes and servants appeared happy and well-cared-for. Xiao could not ever presume to judge a god, but Lord Morax seemed to seek the welfare of his people, and he had already been far, far more generous and merciful to Xiao than Xiao deserved. Xiao wanted to please him. Xiao had known that it wanted to please him from the first moment they’d met. Even if Lord Morax was cruel to Xiao, even if he tore out Xiao’s wings again, even if he made sport of it, or fucked it past what its body could take, Xiao would bear it. He was good to his subjects — to real, vulnerable people that needed protection. He did (and here, Xiao burned with shame at the blasphemy) what gods were supposed to do. And so Xiao would do anything he asked, would bear anything Lord Morax asked it to bear. It was no less than Lord Morax deserved.

This…? 

Xiao must try to figure it out. It must not make its god over explain things. That was not Lord Morax’s responsibility, and Xiao wanted so badly to do something right for once.

But surely Lord Morax didn’t mean…

But maybe he did? 

Some of the gods its goddess-that-was had gifted Xiao to had liked it to pretend to take pleasure in bed. Anything else ruined their own enjoyment. Those had been worse than the ones who had simply pinned Xiao down by the back of its neck and done what they pleased without thought for anything else. It was easier to make itself a limp, empty toy than it was to try to playact. It did not understand the game enough to know how to make itself convincing. It had learned how to perform over the years — mostly by watching other gods’ pets whenever its goddess decided to entertain a group — but it still wasn’t good at it by any stretch of the imagination. 

But this…

…well, really it wasn’t any different, but it felt different. Maybe that was because it was Lord Morax, and Lord Morax had never hurt Xiao and wasn’t asking it to do anything humiliating. It wasn’t anything Xiao didn’t (shamefully) want. 

Tentatively, careful not to put any weight on that injured leg, it inched itself a little closer to Lord Morax. When Lord Morax did nothing to stop it, it summoned a scrap of courage — enough to close the distance and nuzzle into Lord Morax’s side.

Lord Morax made a soft, surprised sound. He lifted an arm like a wing, gathering Xiao beneath it, and that subsonic rumble resounded through the cavity of Xiao’s chest. 

Had it…guessed correctly? 

Lord Morax’s fingers sank into Xiao’s hair. That was…that had that cottony, warm feeling draping over it again. 

“Thank you for humoring me, Xiao,” Lord Morax told it. 

Xiao trembled once: a great shudder like a branch shedding its weight of snow. It crowded a little closer.

If it found…enjoyment… in the way Lord Morax was petting it, that was alright, wasn’t it? Xiao did not know what pleasure felt like, but maybe this was something like it. The pain of its karmic debt was ever-present, a burning ache, but the hex was silent. And this…this made it easy to forget about the karmic debt. It made it easy to forget about everything outside the room, about all the awful memories that prowled at the borders of its mind, about its nightmares, the hex, even its goddess-that-was. Nothing seemed to matter except Lord Morax’s hand in its hair. Again, Xiao had no frame of reference for the sensation, but this wasn’t pain, and Xiao didn’t feel afraid, either, which was a novelty.

Lord Morax was purring, now. Audibly purring. 

Xiao was pleasing him, wasn’t it? 

Its throat convulsed. Xiao hid its face against Lord Morax’s side and found that earned another telluric, pleased sound. If it was allowed to want (it was not, it knew that), it would say that it wanted to stay like this forever. It could not remember the last time it had managed to please a god so well.

When it came to Xiao, Morax found himself often having to resign himself not to victory, but to strategic retreat. Just like the patchy, temporary solution to the problem of the hex he and Ping had found earlier that day, this was not ideal. Morax was under no illusion that Xiao felt safe with him, or understood what this interaction between the two of them meant, or what Morax’s intentions were. But if it would help Xiao feel more secure, Morax was willing to dress up affection in the clothes of service. Yes, it was selfish of him to ask this of Xiao — but not wholly so. As far as Morax could tell, Xiao did crave comfort, even if he might not know that was what he was craving, even if he might not know why. He chased every touch Morax gave him. Morax kept having to remind himself: Xiao had no framework for…socialization. For bonding. Morax guessed Lady Aite had abducted him very early, before Xiao had any time to establish his own newly-found personhood. There was no way to know that for certain without asking Xiao, but his lack of basic understanding of the world was indicative that she had, or that she had at the very least stolen all memory of any personhood or life Xiao had beforehand.

He tried to refrain from reading too far into how Xiao pressed into his side. There was nothing in the way Xiao had decided to curl up with him that had felt natural. It had been wholly deliberate. Morax would not begrudge him for it. So long as Xiao stopped trying to offer himself as a bedmate (no, not even that, really. A toy. A plaything. It turned Morax’s stomach), Morax was content. If redirecting that incessant need to be of use to something more appropriate under the pretense of it being something Morax took pleasure in turned out to be successful, then Morax could shelve his own discomfort with asking Xiao to perform like this. 

Besides, it was not technically a falsehood. It did please him to care for young adepti, just not in the way Xiao was thinking of.

He knew he ought to have brought Xiao back to his own bed after the bath, rather than here. That might have avoided Xiao’s misunderstanding. Morax just…admittedly hadn’t been thinking straight. He’d been frantic. All he could focus on was how disoriented and ill and in-pain Xiao had looked, and how that had been (yet again) at Morax’s hand. Caring for Xiao and coiling around him while he slept had been more soothing than Morax would like to admit. 

He indulged in another half hour of holding Xiao — until a faint pressure hit the back of his skull that told him someone had entered the domain. It didn’t feel like Guizhong; Ping would wait in the entry hall; this person was heading for the living space. Ah, Dangshen must be back to check on Xiao. 

Morax adjusted his grip on Xiao so he could lift him, stood, and padded out of his room to the corridor. He was surprised when Xiao actually locked his arms around Morax’s neck for support. Another rumbling purr escaped him before he could help himself.

“That’s good, Xiao,” he made sure to say. That was exactly what he had told Xiao to do on his first day in Morax’s home. The little adeptus must have remembered.

He met Dangshen in the hall. The physician had a satchel over his shoulder and a metal box in one hand. 

“There you are,” Dangshen said. “I wanted to make sure Xiao had settled alright after that upset, but…” his eyes sparkled. He canted his head to the side. “It seems so?” 

Morax gave Dangshen an embarrassed smile, adjusting his grip on Xiao. “We’ve calmed, I think. But it still would be best if you examined him.” 

He’d like confirmation of Dangshen’s prognosis that there was no lasting damage to Xiao’s body, spirit, or balance of qi. 

Dangshen gestured to Xiao’s door, and Morax crossed the corridor, pushed the door open with his shoulder, and carried Xiao back to his own bed. 

It didn’t take long for Dangshen to confirm that all was as it ought to be. 

“With what happened earlier, I think for today we’ll still stick to liquids,” Dangshen announced as he released Xiao’s wrist. “But I see no reason why tomorrow we can’t start a few soft solids and see how your stomach handles that. How does that sound?” 

Xiao blinked up at Dangshen, surprised at being addressed. He then glanced at Morax. Part of Morax wanted to jump in and give Dangshen a response for Xiao to spare Xiao the stress. Another part of him reasoned that Xiao needed to get accustomed to the idea that he was allowed to have input. The only way to get there was with practice.

“How does that sound, Xiao?” Morax repeated Dangshen’s question. 

Xiao blinked again. He turned his eyes to his lap and, predictably, said: “This lowly one’s opinion is irrelevant. It will eat what it is given.”

Well, Morax supposed he walked into that one. That had been a command he’d set forth. He bit the inside of his cheek. “Yes,” he said carefully, “But I do not want you to eat if you think it will make you ill.” 

Xiao’s pale cheeks spotted with color. Softly, hoarsely, he asked: “This one has never… is it meant to heed a bodily impulse?”

Morax’s stomach clenched. He shared a look with Dangshen and saw Dangshen’s eyes flash. 

“Yes, Xiao,” Morax answered. Then, swiftly, he amended: “I want you to try.” 

That was going to be a problem when it came to Xiao’s cultivation, he could already tell. He ought to have expected this, considering Xiao was trained to ignore pain, exhaustion, and all need for sustenance despite any cues that it might be needed. The root of discernment stemmed from first gazing inward to connect with one’s own impulses and desires — and thus master them. Self mastery was not the same as whatever idiotic complete detachment Aite had forced on Xiao in her enslavement of him, though that was no surprise. Aite had clearly never had any intention of helping Xiao along with his enlightenment. No. She had set up obstacles at every step. 

Xiao curled his fingers around fistfuls of the blue blanket and kneaded the fabric. “This one will—” he tripped over the word, but managed: “Try.” 

If he looked at Morax, he would have seen the way Morax beamed at him.

“Good,” Morax answered, relieved. “Good. Trying is enough.”