Summary: "He has become a mockery of himself..." "Did I ever truly love him? Or do I remain with him because of something else?" Diao Chan considers her relationship with Lu Bu and makes a confession to herself.
Disclaimer: None of this be mines.
Queen's Quornor: You know how writers occasionally get that one idea that grabs them by the neck and demands to be written? I was in the middle of a battle with Diao Chan in DW7 when I got that. This was not quite what I originally had in mind, but I think it came out close enough.
Meant to Be
He knows the end is near.
My lord has run and fought for most of his life. He has truly earned his reputation as the greatest warrior in the land, and even now, after weeks of this castle suffering beneath the seige of our enemies, he still exhibits the desire to fight. At times he reminds me of a caged tiger, prowling the halls and sneering out the windows at the distant banners of our foes. I watch him from the shadows and the fierce fighter I enchanted is very much in evidence, chaffing to prove himself once more to all the world.
But more often than not, the warrior lies dormant. My lord spends most of his time drinking, or dallying with myself and his wives. He no longer cuts the same striking figure I remember, the bloodthirsty killer who sent men running in screaming droves before him. I close my eyes and I see again the black armor, gleaming dully beneath the golden sun, splashed with the blood of his victims. I see the long crimson tails of his headdress streaming in the wind. I see his halberd held ready at his side, the blade coated and slick, stained red. He was not the most handsome of men, but that wild yet steady gaze and tall, muscular figure drew as many admirers as it did challengers. He was destruction incarnate, a warrior to end all warriors, and just gazing upon him was enough to take my breath away.
To see him now is to witness the greatest of travesties. The muscles hide beneath layers of pale fat, the tanned face has acquired a permanent flush from the wine he guzzles every day. The armor and halberd sit on their stands, slowly drowning in a fine coating of grey dust. The scarlet feathers hang limp and ragged, never to stir again. Most tragic of all, those black eyes have lost their focus. They roll in their sockets and stare at us with all the untamed hunger of old, but there is a sort of frenzied despair I often detect in their depths. He knows he will not leave this castle alive, and though he longs to meet his enemies on the battlefield, he is terrified of what that will mean.
My unconquerable lord, the greatest warrior the world has ever known. The fearless, terrifying Lu Bu. He is petrified of his own mortality.
It is almost inconceivable. Here is a man who lives for battle, who revels in the carnage and destruction he causes wherever he goes. Here is a man who never seemed more alive than when he stalked along the fields of fallen, desperate men, searching for a worthy opponent to challenge his might. Yet he remains afraid of death just like any other. So he remains holed up in this castle, drawing out the seige, putting off the approaching reckoning he faces.
His wives seem content to let this mockery continue prowling the halls and coming to our beds reeking of wine. But I am unsure how much longer I can allow it. After all, this was hardly what I could have envisioned when my father informed me of his great plan. That night, when he said he would use me to drive a wedge between the tyrant Dong Zhuo and his foster son Lu Bu, I could not have imagined things would end this way. I sang and danced for their pleasure, painted my face and moved with all the grace my training has imparted unto me. I submitted to Dong Zhuo's pawing, knowing it would drive Lu Bu to madness. I did everything in my power to make him fall in love with me, knowing that a man so proud and possessive as he could not stand to see something about which he cared in the hands of another, even his foster father. The moment I remember most clearly, the instant I knew I had him, was the night he met me in the garden and I told him how I suffered with much shedding of tears. I doubt anyone, before or after, had ever seen Lu Bu look so tender, so earnest and scared, as when I told him that death was better than what I suffered as Dong Zhuo's most favorite consort. That was when I knew my father's plan had worked. I, a mere woman, had conquered the mightiest of warriors with a few tears and an embrace.
The poets and women who speak of our great romance seem to forget what came after my lord speared Dong Zhuo like the pig he was. They ignore the fact that I was no longer fit to become any man's wife, doomed to only fulfill the role of a concubine. Yes, I am Lu Bu's favorite woman, but that means little. He has two wives, and as they are properly married to him they rank above me. For everything I am and have done, I remain a ruined woman. Popular verse claims that I love my lord, that I have repeatedly expressed my desire to remain always at his side. To the average peasant, I would never dream of belonging to any other man.
What would they think, then, if I told them I would rather he had not taken me with him when he fled Chang'an?
I felt something for him, once. When I accompanied him onto the battlefield and trailed in his wake, cutting down any who got close to him, I was entranced by the fighter in his black armor, carving a swathe through the enemy ranks with no more thought than one would give to swatting a fly. I desired him then, and willingly lay with him when he called for me. Perhaps it was love. More likely it was lust. Gossips like to think that my act became a reality, that in pretending to love Lu Bu I created true emotion for him in my heart and soul. They manipulate our story so we become lovers meant for one another, separated only by the presence of Dong Zhuo. But I believe otherwise. I am a woman, not a silly girl to dream of true love with breathy sighs and starry eyes. Whatever I felt for my lord after I became his concubine, it was not love of the destiny-entwined variety.
It is also gone now. Whenever I see him in this castle, stalking through the halls and rubbing eyes gone red from drink, I cannot stop the shiver of revulsion which inevitably crawls down my spine. When he clambers above me, naked and panting, my gaze is drawn to the pendulous gut hanging above my quivering stomach and I must fight the urge to shove him aside and flee. This man besieged in Xiapi is not the same man I once manipulated into slaying Dong Zhuo. This is a creature enslaved by his fear, beholden only to drink and pleasures of the flesh.
How his wives can stand him, I cannot begin to imagine.
One thing remains constant. Whenever he catches sight of me, his eyes fill with the same tenderness and desire they harbored when he came to me with news of his foster father's demise and his steps quicken, reflecting his eagerness to be with me. But whereas before I could lift my arms to encircle his trim waist and press myself against him, now I can only hold myself stiffly in his embrace, unable to pretend an emotion I do not feel. I still dance for him, and he still comes to me to sate his lust. I remain the Diao Chan who stole his heart and set his destiny in motion.
But if he were to actually pull back and look into my eyes, I have no doubt what he would find instead of love, eagerness, or base desire. He would see the one emotion that rules my thoughts whenever I witness his sluggish patrols along the windows, his drunken form sprawled among his blankets, his armor and weapons waiting for a battle which will never come. He would see it, and he would turn away from me, for it is the one assessment which he could never tolerate from another person.
Pity.
