"When they discover the center of the universe, a lot of people will be disappointed that they are not it." –Bernard Bailey
[A's N: Yao grows a lot slower than, say, Alfred, because China's growth was slightly slower. So Alfred's a young adult by the time he's a few decades old, but China's still a little kid.]
Demon child. Unnatural hellspawn. Forsaken monster.
Even when they were silent, Yao could hear the whispers. The villagers tolerated him because he was useful to have around, but that didn't mean they liked it.
The years had blended together for Yao. He wasn't sure exactly how long he had been alive, but by now he knew it wasn't natural to look like a small child after living for almost twice a normal lifespan.
The path curved slightly as it wound through the endless bamboo forest. It was a peculiar feeling, being in there surrounded by tall bamboo stalks, but Yao enjoyed it. He was the only person who ever came here, and it relaxed him.
It was also where he woke up.
There it was—a little clearing just off the path, almost hidden by the dense bamboo, where he remembered waking up so many years ago. He carefully stepped in between the bamboo and sat in the middle of the clearing.
He hadn't grown much at all. The clearing was pretty small, and he still fit into it. He sat down, leaned against a sturdy bamboo plant, and closed his eyes.
Once upon a time, several decades ago, he woke up in this exact spot. He couldn't recall having had any parents or family. He couldn't recall anything at all but his name. It was as if he had just appeared in that spot as a child, as if his life had begun right here in this little clearing.
It both saddened and relaxed him to be here.
When he opened his eyes again, the sun was well into the sky. It was a lovely day today, cloudless and blue. Yao could imagine the village now—bustling with activity as people went about their everyday business. The farmers had already been at work since he had woken up, but now they would be eating breakfast and tending to animals.
He sighed a little to himself. How he longed to be like all those normal people back in the village, accepted and respected. He let himself imagine would it would be like to walk into town, to have people smile at him and greet him with "Zăo sháng hăo, Wang Yao," they would say. "Nĭ zín tiān za yàng à?"
"Haì hăo," he would say. "Jīn tiān hăo piaò liang à."
Yao snorted at himself. What was he doing, imagining conversations that would never happen? The villagers were either too afraid or too disdainful of him to talk to him so casually.
He had been here for a while. It was time for him to start heading back to his lonely little hut on the outskirts of the village. He sighed and stood up, clapping his hands and dusting the dry soil off his clothes.
He took the same path again, winding his way through the stalks of bamboo, surrounded by quiet green stoutness and his thoughts.
When Yao got into the village, life was in full swing. People walked down the streets, greeting each other, making their way to the shops, beginning their chores in their courtyards and tending to their kitchen gardens.
Nobody greeted him as he walked past them, just an acknowledging nod from a few. A pair of little old ladies immediately began whispering to each other at the sight of him.
"They say he rose from the Yellow River a hundred years ago as a demon…"
"Don't let him visit your fields, he might steal your crops and curse your land…"
"He killed a child just by looking at him once…"
"A young man I once knew angered him, and he disappeared one day and never came back…"
"My niece-in-law's sister said…"
"My fourth cousin said…"
"I once…"
He could hear their whispers. They were hardly whispers anyway. He could hear them perfectly well. For all their murmurings not to cross him, they sure didn't care if he heard them badmouthing him.
He had tried, before, to do the things they said he did. Curse someone's crops. Kill someone with a single stare. Fly. Set a fire with a wave of his hand. None of it ever happened.
A group of small children not much taller than Yao stared at him curiously.
"Ey, ní hâo," said one of the younger ones, eyes bright. He smiled at them, but didn't go near. The other, older ones around the child hushed him and formed an almost protective barrier around him, casting him askance looks.
"What are you guys doing?" the child asked, standing on tiptoe to get another peek at Yao. "I can't see him. Stop it, move away."
Another child bent down and whispered to him. The small child's eyes filled with fear as his eyes darted away from Yao's.
Yao sighed, his own eyes gravitating back to the hard, packed dirt of the road in front of him. Another child who would never look at him the same way again. Another person who would grow up while he remained the same small stature for the rest of their lifetime.
He turned down an alleyway between houses to avoid the village center and take the road leading down to where his hut was. It was a small, cozy place, containing all of his life's possessions. This was where he lived out most of his days.
It was lonely. He wouldn't deny that. It wasn't like his early years, before people started realizing he wasn't growing. When he was the village darling—nobody's child, but everybody's. When love poured out from every person he met.
It's nothing but a warm memory now, something to recall on cold nights when there is nothing to sustain him but the food he bargains for from the villagers and the tattered quilt that was given to him way back when. Something to play over and over in his mind as he stares at the dark corners of the roof he's maintained by himself over the years, the smiling faces and breathless joy dancing across his vision.