[ This time, Xue Yang thought himself dead. He's not even sure by whose hand or why, his assailants overtaking him in the night, swords plain and faces shrouded. Maybe he finally messed with the wrong mark, or someone wants the last of Xue line snuffed out, or someone just didn't like the look of him. He'll never know because makes corpses of them all, four bodies alongside his in that field, but by the time the last one falls he's so dizzy with blood loss that he too crumples, finds himself staring up at the stars wondering if the heavens are laughing at him, if they've ever stopped.
If the entirety of his existence hasn't just been one long joke to those who look down on them from above.
Cold and darkness sets in, carries him from a world that's never spared him an ounce of love.
...and then warmth returns.
There's still a clammy chill settled in his bones, but the heat from the fire is the first thing he notices as consciousness returns. There's pain, but it's a dull, all-over ache that barely registers to someone who lives as recklessly as Xue Yang does. When he opens his eyes, it takes a few seconds for his vision to come into focus, and at first all he sees is something otherworldly and ethereal. He has to wonder if this is the other side after all, for something so soft, so light to exist, half dressed and tending the campfire.
Frowning, he tries to sit up only to let out a low hiss of pain as he puts pressure on his stitches, laying back again with a noise of frustration. Having fully given himself away, he trains his gaze back on the stranger, feeling exposed without his sword. Trust is not a thing Xue Yang knows. To him, it doesn't matter if this stranger brought him back from death's door, or if he's the singular most beautiful thing Xue Yang has ever witnessed. Danger is the only constant of his world. ]
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If the entirety of his existence hasn't just been one long joke to those who look down on them from above.
Cold and darkness sets in, carries him from a world that's never spared him an ounce of love.
...and then warmth returns.
There's still a clammy chill settled in his bones, but the heat from the fire is the first thing he notices as consciousness returns. There's pain, but it's a dull, all-over ache that barely registers to someone who lives as recklessly as Xue Yang does. When he opens his eyes, it takes a few seconds for his vision to come into focus, and at first all he sees is something otherworldly and ethereal. He has to wonder if this is the other side after all, for something so soft, so light to exist, half dressed and tending the campfire.
Frowning, he tries to sit up only to let out a low hiss of pain as he puts pressure on his stitches, laying back again with a noise of frustration. Having fully given himself away, he trains his gaze back on the stranger, feeling exposed without his sword. Trust is not a thing Xue Yang knows. To him, it doesn't matter if this stranger brought him back from death's door, or if he's the singular most beautiful thing Xue Yang has ever witnessed. Danger is the only constant of his world. ]
...pretty strange hobby you have here.