Author's Note: Sooooooo I deleted the other little drabble that I did for a Magic!AU of England and did this one instead. Sorry, I'm really just writing to relieve stress, but this one is different in that it actually has a set plotline; that other one was just a spur-of-the-moment thing. This, however, is meant to be a reflection. China is one of the most fascinating Hetalia characters to me because of his deep, rich, and often bloody history — just because of how very old he is. Five thousand years' worth of memories, both happy and sad... I want this to muse on that. I want to expand on the possible views he might have of mortality and immortality, humans and the inhuman, and so on. Oh yeah — also, a buuuuunch of Chinese lore is included as well. Hopefully, this will turn out to be an enjoyable and interesting read...! :3
This short story was heavily inspired by two books: Peony in Love by Lisa See, and Falling Leaves by Adeline Yen Mah. Both of them are great reads that I definitely recommend you guys check out!
Part I
蝴蝶
"Butterfly"
When Yao opens his eyes, he is at first still, unsure whether it is truly a dream or not. Bright sunlight grazes his skin with warm kisses; flowers in every shade nature knows of unfurl around him. Their sweet perfumes brush against his face, like willow-fingered hands. Yao curls his fingers into fists, whereupon they stroke the cool stone surface of the bench he sits on. Wind rustles the green-leafed bushes. Grass sways against his ankles and bring with it the budding aroma of spring. Everywhere he glances it is soft and peaceful and vivid.
Well. This is quite odd, considering how he very much remembers laying down to bed, and listening to the sound of cars rumbling by outside the open window before he fell asleep. The memory of watching the curtains billow in a cool night breeze is still fresh on his mind, as well. Yao peers around; it seems to be early noon here, or otherwise just particularly sunny. The air smells strange to him: a mingling of flowers and dust and age.
He glances down. Ah. His eyes widen when he sees that his sleeping robes have vanished, replaced by clothes from an era long past. Scarlet and violet brocades clothe his body, heavy with familiarity and decor. A gold amulet strung with green threads dangles from his waist.
Memories: the white dust of poison rimming wine cups. Embroidered fabrics hanging off teakwood walls. Cinnabar pillars, inlaid with jade. The yellow dragon-robes of an incompetent Emperor. Ink spilling, staining paper scrolls like black blood. Flowers, too — in spring, summer, autumn, winter; endless cycles of moons and suns and blossoms and leaves.
"So...this is what they call 一場春夢 yī chǎng chūn mèng (an episode of a spring dream), is it?" Yao murmurs to himself, then rises to his feet. His eyebrows lift when he finds that the dream remains solid around him, rather than wavering or dissolving as he had expected. "Or perhaps, my spirit merely wanders at this moment..."
Although in all honesty, this does not seem to be any place he'd imagine his soul would roam to. An ancient garden, blooming full and bright, a blue-tile-roof arched gate to the north. Magnolias open creamy petals towards him, camellias uncurl like daubs of blood on the deep green brush. Yao takes a step forward to find a white-stone path underfoot; he exhales, and it emerges as a sigh.
"Aiyaa... Whatever this place is, it is certainly beautiful... So beautiful it's surreal," he remarks. There is a tangibility to his surroundings, too, which is only reinforced as he brushes his hand over the paper-soft blossoms. But then again, Yao's dreams tend to be so. And it is for that reason as well that Yao hates to dream.
They are always too real for him, his subconscious unearthing the sensations and memories of five thousand years. He relives them all: tasting the overpowering flavor of distilled wine, the stench and slosh of blood pouring over his hands, finding sheathes for blades in the chests of emperors, tender agony as crippling poison draws through his veins.
Rarely are Yao's dreams at all pleasant — so here is a fine change.
"I suppose I ought to enjoy it while I can," he says to the spring air. "Quiet moments such as these do not usually last very long." And even as he speaks, a camellia crumples under his touch, delicate petals scattering to the breeze. An unreadable smile falls over Yao's face.
A flash of movement catches his eye then, and Yao turns his head to see a splash of color resting on a peony bloom. He chuckles softly, and his smile gentles a bit.
"Hm, enjoying the scenery with me, are you...? So then. Is this myself I dream of but as a butterfly, or you dreaming yourself as a man?" he muses aloud and then approaches. One pale hand reaches out, and when the white-and-green insect crawls onto the first digit of his finger, Yao grins. (1)
"My, but you're a bold little one," he says, amused. He lifts his hand to marvel at the gossamer butterfly. Thin bands of black-brown and green streak her twin-tail wings. They flutter, still glistening and damp; it's clear that the butterfly has yet to fly.
"What a strange butterfly... You've just emerged from your cocoon, haven't you? Such lovely colors might have gotten you caught by a bird or bat, but now here you sit fearlessly. Are you too young to realize that a being like me is most frightening of all?"
The only response he gets is a shy tilt of her head. Yao just gives a breathy laugh, unsurprised, curling his long fingers around the slender hand in his palm. The young woman who stands before him shimmers, luminous and resplendent with new life and 秀色可餐 xiù sè kě cān (surpassing loveliness good enough to feast upon). Soft, fragrant silks in creamy white and pale green swathe her willowy form. Her hands are covered by long water sleeves of the old style. Black, black hair cascades to dainty feet, adorned with flowers that drip precious gems. Jade skin — still damp and so, so warm — forms a face as perfect as can be; her cheeks and lips are painted poppy-red, and Yao releases her hand to brush her hair back.
"But look at you," he says softly. "Young as a freshly opened bud on the bough, though innocent as well, like a baby. I almost wish I could envy you."
Her eyes are a radiantly rich black, shaded by long lashes, but wide and impudent with wonder at the world and at him. Flower-bud lips part, and her first words are lilting: "Even when I was young, no more than a simple caterpillar, I'd watched humans passing through the flowers like angels or giants. Yet none have ever stopped to speak to me — and you are a stranger as well!"
"I am, indeed," says Yao to the butterfly. A note of amusement weaves into his voice. "Though perhaps I may turn out to be the mere dream of a young butterfly. What think you of that?"
The butterfly's forehead furrows, wrinkling the plum-mark between her eyebrows. "If you are only a dream..." she speaks slowly. "Then I do not wish to awake. I would rather stay and speak with you."
Yao's eyebrows shoot up in surprise before he lets out an abrupt laugh. "Youth makes you bold, little one!" he snickers. "And suppose I suddenly become a nightmare. How then would you feel towards this one? I have, you know. I've become the nightmare of many in the past." Something sinister creeps into his tone, and the edges of his black irises harden into glittering stones as he looks down his nose at her.
"I am not afraid," is her reply, however. The obstinate expression she looks at him with merely steels the conviction in her words. Yao smiles at that, the cruelty in his eyes dissipating into a cool mildness. When he touches his fingertips to her neck, her pulse taps fast against his skin: hot and so very alive.
"I shall be going now," he tells her. "I will not intrude on your dreams any further, little butterfly. Go and enjoy your brief life with the flowers, in my stead." Yao does not say farewell, just pulls his hand back and turns.
At that moment a loud noise shatters the peace of the garden: sounds like shrieking and the clatter of plates erupts from the other side of the gate, accompanied by a guttural wail. Yao stops and raises an eyebrow.
"Hmph...a riot, is that what it is...? What trouble I find even in my dreams," he says and sighs. There is a rustle by his ear, and with a surprised start he turns his head to spot the butterfly alight on his shoulder. Her splotched wings quaver when she perches there. After a second, Yao grins.
"Haha, such foolish fearlessness. So you wish to come with me, little one?"
The butterfly (in human shape again) looks up at him and nods once, stubborn. She stands close behind him, close enough to reach out and grab hold of his robes. The sweet perfume that infuses her body whispers around him, too. Half-aware of the action, he leans down to inhale it as she begins to whisper,
"Since the day I was born, I have always watched the humans who came to and left the garden. I hear strange sounds from outside all the time, and the birds always chat to one another about faraway places... The sprawling city of Chang'an, and the northern deserts that look like seas of gold; the eastern oceans that go on forever; the Kunlun Mountains in the south, where the immortals live... I hear them say even the flowers in this garden have different scent elsewhere!"
She looks up at him, dark eyes shining. "I want to go out and see for myself. This world... It is so much bigger than a garden."
"That is true," Yao concedes, tone thoughtful. "But it is far more horrible as well. There is darkness and cold..." His voice begins to trail off. Remembering. "Death and sickness..." So much to remember. "Everything that is ugly and abhorred... The outside world is full of them. Did you know, little one? That the humans have a saying: 花有重开日，人无再少年 Huā yǒu chóng kāi rì, rén wú zài shàonián (Flowers may bloom again, but people will never return to being young)."
He smiles. It seems nearly a rueful expression.
"Aiyaa, little butterfly... If the humans who pine away their days in this world speak these sorrowful things...why, too, venture out into death and decay? Better to stay here, with the short time you have, in your perfect world of flowers and fragrance. Better to die here, where your new wings will grow old, crumble to dust and mingle with the earth, give life to new flowers, new caterpillars, new butterflies. Why give up your chance at contentment to go out into a harsh world like this?"
The butterfly gazes up at him. It's almost strange how bright her eyes are; they spark with inner light, a determination that Yao already understands he will not sway.
"I won't be afraid," she says, and passes a sleeve by her cheek to glide her hair back. The gaze that peers up at him is firm and unblinking. Yao bites back another humorless grin. "Besides, my death is days from now. I have time to see more than I could ever dream of. I wish to go with you."
Yao sighs through his nose but doesn't say anything more for a long minute, just looking down at her. When she merely stares back at him, he exhales and extends a hand to touch her cheek. Long eyelashes brush his fingers as her eyes flutter closed.
"Your hand is very cold..." she murmurs after a moment, and Yao can't help but crack a wry smile.
"Ha, I can't really help that; I'm a lot older than you think," he replies. "You're also very warm... Ahh, but the young are just naturally like that, I suppose...so full of energy..." Yao draws his hand back and gives her a ghost of a smile.
"Hm. Very well. If that is what you wish, then you may come with me. But understand this: I will not be responsible for whatever we may end up encountering. If it is sorrow we find, and if your paper heart breaks from what we see, then so be it."
The butterfly nods, her expression set and grave. "I understand," she breathes, but Yao huffs a quiet laugh.
"No, you do not. You have not lived long enough to know sorrow. But...never mind that now. I suppose every moment counts from now on, doesn't it? Come." He gestures with one long hand for her to follow. "We shall go."
"Yes," she says and steps forward with a swishing gait. She flutters onto Yao's shoulder (once again in butterfly shape), where she spreads her wings to the sunlight. Yao can't help reaching up to cup his fingers around her, a pensive look on his face.
The man has grown up, surrounded by mortality, yet here may be the most ephemeral of all. It's honestly quite strange when he muses on how he, the oldest of those near-immortal, holds one of the most fleeting of lives in hand. An extraordinary concept, even for a spring dream... He says nothing on it, though; he simply turns and heads towards the outer gate. The round stones of the path press into the soles of his feet, a massaging sensation that seems vaguely familiar.
It is only a dream. Composed of all the senses of the past. No matter how remarkable...
From the other side of the gate comes a stench that Yao recognizes as something burning. In fact, many things are burning, a column of dark smoke curling into the pallid sky.
There is a hand that holds the back of his robes as he reaches out and pushes open the heavy gate doors.
Footnotes:
(1) Refers to the famous quotation by Zhuangzi: "Once upon a time, I dreamt I was a butterfly, fluttering hither and thither, to all intents and purposes a butterfly. I was conscious only of my happiness as a butterfly, unaware that I was myself. Soon I awaked, and there I was, veritably myself again. Now I do not know whether I was then a man dreaming I was a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly, dreaming I am a man."