The Library of Babel (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
libraryofbabel) wrote2021-08-26 10:47 pm
libraryofbabel) wrote2021-08-26 10:47 pm
?????
You gather up what little you can carry—your mother stares listlessly at the floor as your younger sister follows you around, and for once in your life… well, you're not sure what to do. It's not like you don't understand your mother's despair.1 Even if you pack up and go—where? Who will take you in? Where will your family be safe? Your father and uncle—you ran by the mens' quarters to look for them, and they were heading to help fortify the defenses. To buy you more time, but women traveling without men—it's going to be difficult.
"Are we going to die, jiějiě?" your sister asks, and you're not sure what to tell her. She's—well, she's not unlike you. She's perceptive. So you squeeze her hand, ruffle her hair, and tell her:
"We are going to do our very, very best not to. Have you ever seen me let anyone get in my way?"
And your mèimèi at least has enough hope left to laugh quietly, so there's that. So you throw what food will keep and a couple changes of clothes and a handful of other necessities in a satchel, grab your mother by the arm, and pull her toward the door. It's never been your way to just lay down and die.
You're not alone. The streets are full of people trying to find some way out, but even as you try and push your way through the crowd, the screaming starts—
It takes very little time for the streets of your city to fall to bloody chaos, the Imperial Army having broken through the defensive line at one of the gates. Smoke and the smell of gunpowder rises through the air as buildings burn, and you realize that… you're running really low on plans.
"We've got to hide!" you yell, holding tight to your little sister's hand, before glancing back to your mother—except your mother isn't there anymore. You can see her head in the crowd, getting buffeted right and left in the panic.
"Mother!" you yell, but it gets lost in the din, and then suddenly you're shoved from the side, shoulder jamming hard against the wall of the building nearest you, and you register one of the Qing soldiers bearing down on your sister, bayonet raised, and you react on instinct—which is to say, you slam yourself bodily into him, uninjured shoulder first.
The soldier curses—you took him off his feet, but he's bigger and heavier and stronger than you, and topples you over sideways to try and scramble up. You swing your knee up between his legs, and get clocked upside the head for your trouble while your sister wails. He reaches for his sidearm—
Someone speaks. It takes you a moment to resolve the words because they're accented, like someone not quite used to making the right sounds, but: "—that a bit much, friend? She's just a young girl. This isn't what you're here for."
The newcomer is golden-haired—European, you think, although not like the missionaries; dressed in black, with strong but open features and pale skin that ends up looking a little sickly in the grey sky. Suddenly you… can't stop looking at him.2
You dimly recall him getting into a brief argument with the soldier, who stalks off to wade back into the fray—which has receded from your mind, mostly. The only thing in the world is his voice, when he says to you: "You're a brave girl. Come with me; you shouldn't die in a place like this."3
You follow, hanging on his words—this stranger, he saved your life, he's saving your life again, and there's something fascinating about him, and you want to get to the bottom of this mystery—
—and it's not until much, much later, when you come to your senses, that you realize you left your sister behind.
[1] Despair was not something that came easily to Miaoshan; even in her worst and unhappiest moments, it was often more an extreme kind of frustration and anger that came to her. As much as she often professed that once she felt her work was complete on earth she would happily meet her end, it was not in her nature to give up.
[2] She would later understand that this was the vampiric power known as "Majesty"—the power to arrest one's attention, to draw the eye, to generate obsession. Even as a vampire, she refused to use it herself.
[3] In later days, on rare occasions when she was feeling particularly charitable, she could consider this well-intended, on his part—an attempt to be merciful, to save something he thought deserved a chance, to spare her from the carnage that would follow. He had seen something in her that sparked interest—made him sympathize, for a moment. Even thinking optimistically, she would conclude that she likely would have died without his intervention. Yet, she could never be glad of it.
"Are we going to die, jiějiě?" your sister asks, and you're not sure what to tell her. She's—well, she's not unlike you. She's perceptive. So you squeeze her hand, ruffle her hair, and tell her:
"We are going to do our very, very best not to. Have you ever seen me let anyone get in my way?"
And your mèimèi at least has enough hope left to laugh quietly, so there's that. So you throw what food will keep and a couple changes of clothes and a handful of other necessities in a satchel, grab your mother by the arm, and pull her toward the door. It's never been your way to just lay down and die.
You're not alone. The streets are full of people trying to find some way out, but even as you try and push your way through the crowd, the screaming starts—
It takes very little time for the streets of your city to fall to bloody chaos, the Imperial Army having broken through the defensive line at one of the gates. Smoke and the smell of gunpowder rises through the air as buildings burn, and you realize that… you're running really low on plans.
"We've got to hide!" you yell, holding tight to your little sister's hand, before glancing back to your mother—except your mother isn't there anymore. You can see her head in the crowd, getting buffeted right and left in the panic.
"Mother!" you yell, but it gets lost in the din, and then suddenly you're shoved from the side, shoulder jamming hard against the wall of the building nearest you, and you register one of the Qing soldiers bearing down on your sister, bayonet raised, and you react on instinct—which is to say, you slam yourself bodily into him, uninjured shoulder first.
The soldier curses—you took him off his feet, but he's bigger and heavier and stronger than you, and topples you over sideways to try and scramble up. You swing your knee up between his legs, and get clocked upside the head for your trouble while your sister wails. He reaches for his sidearm—
Someone speaks. It takes you a moment to resolve the words because they're accented, like someone not quite used to making the right sounds, but: "—that a bit much, friend? She's just a young girl. This isn't what you're here for."
The newcomer is golden-haired—European, you think, although not like the missionaries; dressed in black, with strong but open features and pale skin that ends up looking a little sickly in the grey sky. Suddenly you… can't stop looking at him.2
You dimly recall him getting into a brief argument with the soldier, who stalks off to wade back into the fray—which has receded from your mind, mostly. The only thing in the world is his voice, when he says to you: "You're a brave girl. Come with me; you shouldn't die in a place like this."3
You follow, hanging on his words—this stranger, he saved your life, he's saving your life again, and there's something fascinating about him, and you want to get to the bottom of this mystery—
—and it's not until much, much later, when you come to your senses, that you realize you left your sister behind.
[1] Despair was not something that came easily to Miaoshan; even in her worst and unhappiest moments, it was often more an extreme kind of frustration and anger that came to her. As much as she often professed that once she felt her work was complete on earth she would happily meet her end, it was not in her nature to give up.
[2] She would later understand that this was the vampiric power known as "Majesty"—the power to arrest one's attention, to draw the eye, to generate obsession. Even as a vampire, she refused to use it herself.
[3] In later days, on rare occasions when she was feeling particularly charitable, she could consider this well-intended, on his part—an attempt to be merciful, to save something he thought deserved a chance, to spare her from the carnage that would follow. He had seen something in her that sparked interest—made him sympathize, for a moment. Even thinking optimistically, she would conclude that she likely would have died without his intervention. Yet, she could never be glad of it.