Work Text:
Deep inside Mount Tonglu, Hua Cheng dreams. She doesn't need to sleep much these days but the dreams find her anyway. Strange dreams. Dreams of the dark, of a terrible stillness, of a sour, otherwise indescribable smell. Of the weight of the earth pressing down on her and a dull, throbbing ache in her chest that holds her in place.
She welcomes the dreams at first, before she knows what they mean. They're different from her usual nightmares, the familiar memories that torment her, scenes that she watches play out without the strength to intervene. Thirty-three gleeful faces witnessing humiliation bring the best of them to the ground. A mess of gore and bone on an altar that is barely recognisable as a body.
The dark dreams are peaceful, in a way. They are always the same. There’s a comforting sense of hopelessness, cosy almost, the thought of being tucked away, safe from the outside world, of curling up and letting time pass by. In the worst of the chaos of Mount Tonglu it’s a too-tempting thought. Hua Cheng nearly lets it distract her, almost lets her single-minded focus drop, before E-Ming quivers at her side and she draws her weapon once again. She cannot fail: she has a purpose, she is here for a reason.
The fighting gets easier as it goes on, every kill adding to her strength. It feels good, to win, to get stronger and stronger, to push at the edges of her limitations and know she will succeed. It’s not enough. She’s not enough. The dark dream comes again, the same as before, and Hua Cheng emerges with a creeping horror of realisation tinged with disbelief.
When Mount Tonglu opens again, Hua Cheng is ready. She has a list of thirty-three names, she comes out swinging and later smirks victorious in the dreams of all those who believed in those foolish gods. That helps. Whether her power comes from belief or fear has never made much difference to her. She is still not enough. But she might be, one day. Without that hope she is lost.
Every fibre of her being she channels into worship. Her heart may no longer beat, but she doesn’t need it to. She has her purpose, running through every action, the end of every thought, an unwavering compass needle. Where is she? Where is she? She is out there, Hua Cheng is sure of that, but why can Hua Cheng not find her? Hua Cheng is so strong now, she is almost ready, but where is she? Where is her purpose?
Hua Cheng begins to hate the dark dream. Why is it so still? Why so unchanged even after all this time? It cannot be— It cannot be what she fears. Or can it? How long has it been? How can such a thing be endured?
In the dreams that are not of the dark, Hua Cheng falls. She is torn apart. The muscles of her arm scream as she swings a heavy, straight sword.
Hua Cheng never thought of herself as an artist, but she has a lot of time on her hands these days, and plenty of divine inspiration. It started with simple drawings, charcoal on paper for her own private shrine. But however hard she tried, she never got it perfect. No matter how many times she tried to depict the image, the flowers in one hand, sword in the other, masked face, it was wrong. It needed more, she decided, and mixed the colours obsessively to get the exact right shades. But even then, how can a picture on a piece of paper ever do her justice?
In one of the dark dreams she tries to move. She tries to scream. She tries to reach for the awful, splintered thing that pierces the core of her. She fails.
When she becomes aware of reality again, Hua Cheng is in her workshop, still holding her tools in her hand. In a fit of helplessness she hurls a hammer at the wall opposite. It shatters into pieces. Hua Cheng regrets it instantly. She looks bitterly down at the chisel in her other hand. Not only did she indulge a pointless, childish instinct, but the loss of the hammer means that the figure slowly emerging from the block of stone in front of her will now have to endure a longer wait, at least until Hua Cheng can source a new one.
Sculpture feels like more of a tribute. Hua Cheng likes to work from the top downwards, chipping away stone to reveal the figure she can see within. She fills rooms and rooms with her work, carving obsessively, closing her eyes and conjuring an image of her. The young soldier, hair drawn up in a top knot, jaw set in determination... the golden princess, mask flashing, seen from below, arms strong and steady... A figure of desperation, poison thick in her veins, her voice echoing in Hua Cheng’s ears, begging her not to come near.
The half-finished one in front of her is more of an imagined scene, her in loose robes, strong as always, a sort of sad, half-smile on her face, hair flowing loose behind her. Her body is captured on a larger scale than real life, meaning that Hua Cheng has to look up to see her eyes. The work is still rough, no fine details added.
Hua Cheng gazes at her. An imperfect tribute, as all of them are, but nonetheless still beautiful. The statue's arm is outstretched, and in a moment of daring indulgence, Hua Cheng squeezes her eyes shut and steps close to cup the her rough cheek. She goes to her tiptoes to press a kiss to the cold, stone lips. She puts everything into that kiss, everything she can, all her feeling, all her devotion, everything inside her that she can’t name. When she pulls away the statue’s cheek is wet with her own tears. She wipes them away with a thumb and takes a shaky breath.
The dark dream does not return. She gets a brief flash of something — grainy dirt filling her mouth and then the ecstasy of rain falling on her face.
Nothing more, but it’s enough.
Hua Cheng fashions another hammer and begins to work again.