Author's Note: After debating whether or not Zhang's reveal to Gene about his brother in chapter 27 was a lie or not, I decided to make it a half truth. Partly that's because I can't take the levels of darkness this fic was reaching, and partly that's because if Zhang had a back up plan he'd dispose of Gene immediately.

Also, I hope this chapter is okay. I was sick the past few days, so this is sort of a fever induced chapter. Hopefully it's not too awful. Sorry if it is. I'm still a little out of it.

"Falling from heaven is not as painful as surviving the impact." – Tormented Angel, from Magic: The Gathering

Maybe this world is another planet's Hell. – Aldrous Huxley, author

One of Gene's oldest memories was of his father teaching him about mean people.

They had gone to the market. Too many years had passed for Gene to remember why they had gone to the city (a small town by American standards) or what they had gotten there. What he remembered was his father driving their ox pulled wagon home. People in the city had sneered at him, people with darker eyes than his father who spoke a strange fluttering language. Temugin had watched with growing confusion as the voices grew louder and more distinct. Even a four year old could tell they were being mean. But his father smiled warmly at them before simply taking his son's hand and walking away. Temugin had wanted to say something to the men, though he didn't know what. He didn't like the way they pointed to the oxen and laughed.

He had sat on his father's lap on the way home. He always did. Temugin loved it. Other fathers, proper Mongolian ones, didn't let their children ride like that because of how their wagons were built. Temugin's father had made his Yi styled wagon deliberately so that, should anyone ever be hurt, he could move them to where they could get help if he had to. At the time it seemed so brilliant to Temugin. Not just the idea; that his father could get wood and bits of metal and make something that worked so well was astounding. His father seemed to know everything. His father could make soup out of roots that brought down the fever in sick people. His father could speak many languages that sounded like nonsense to his son. He could even catch bad guys.

"Why were those men mean to you?" Temugin had asked him bluntly, twisting to look up into his father's face. "Don't they know you know everything?"

Aung had laughed, his golden eyes lighting up. They were always glowing, it seemed to Gene now. All his memories of his father – and there were very few – involved his eyes, so warm and kind. They were the color of topaz, never quite orange, brown or gold, but rather a mixture of all three at once. His hair was long and tied back, a few strands always slipping out to frame his heart shaped face. Temugin thought he was the most perfect man ever. All men should look like his father; his father was amazing. He smiled down at his son so that he knew the man wasn't laughing at him and spoke softly, his Mongolian always smoother and more flowing than anyone else's. It was one of those magical things about him that made him Temugin's favorite person. These little things would later be cherished, held close to Temugin's heart as he lay broken and beaten on Zhang's floor.

He would close his eyes, put his arms around himself and will the memories back. The scent of the earth after it rained. That was how his father smelled. After the man's death, a bloody and shaking Gene would whisper the name Aung Htain Kyi to himself and something within him would always stir. He was not the son of a monster. He was the son of Aung, a man who knew things that could never be learned at any school.

"I don't know everything. I don't want to. That would be boring, my son. Think about it." After a pause in which Aung could see Temugin think about it, he beamed down at his son. Everything Temugin did was endearing to him, every action charming and wonderful. He loved him so much that he had even bought him a sugary treat in town, an action that would land Aung in hot water once his wife found out. "But they were talking about our wagon, my hair beads, and your jacket."

Temugin looked at his jacket as if just remembering it was on. It had beads sewn onto it by Aung himself, late at night whenever he was restless. The words were in Yi script, and while Gene didn't know all of them, he knew they were good ones like courage, love and his parents' names. He was proud of it. No one else's father made them things like this. His father was, Temugin thought sometimes, better than the other fathers. He could do anything. He frowned suddenly. He didn't know the words the men were saying, but it sounded like they were making fun of him. That meant they were making fun of his father. If they had been kids Temugin wouldn't have let them, he'd have told them to be quiet.

"So why didn't you talk to them? You could've called them monkey face. That always works," the four year old informed his father solemnly. His serious face made his father chuckle. Temugin was a very serious boy sometimes, usually about cookies, the monster the children were convinced was in the woods, and spiders, which were his friends. The three spiders in Temugin's room even had names. Squishing them was not an option. They were guests.

"You're your mother's son, serious and all grown up." Aung smirked when his son drew himself up taller, proudly. "But I don't call people names. I don't talk to mean people. I just feel sorry for them."

"Why?"

"Mean people have always had people be mean to them in the past. They aren't born this way, Temugin. People were mean to them so many times that they don't even think niceness exists anymore, so they're mean to people now. That way no one will ever get close enough to them to hurt them." Aung wondered if his explanation was going over his son's head. The child's face was scrunched in thought.

"But you're not mean. You'd never hurt them. You like people. Mother says that's why you talk so much." Temugin added as an afterthought, "And that's why you save people. You're a good guy."

"They don't know that, Temugin. They only know that everyone else has been cruel and hurtful to them. They're scared everyone else they meet will be. So they try to strike first. They're like beaten dogs, trying to bite before they get hit. Just like puppies, they don't know that no hit is coming." Aung's expression hardened and his eyes went distant. "Someone hurt them before. That's why they're vicious now."

Temugin was now thoroughly confused. "Can't you make a soup and fix them?"

The Yi man laughed, but it was a sad, low sound. "If only it was that easy. No, Temugin, no one soup is strong enough for that."

"You'd need two bowls?" his son asked, and Aung laughed outright, a more genuine laugh that lit up his eyes. "Three, maybe?"

"You'd need an endless supply of soup," replied his wise and all knowing father. "You'd need lots of laughter, and many late nights spent staring at a fire talking, and summer evenings playing ball, and lots of smiles. No one can be fixed with just one soup, just one laugh, and just one talk. It takes a long time, longer the more people were mean to them in the past."

"Grown ups play ball?" Temugin asked. He'd never seen the other adults do it, but then again, the balls were kept on shelves that only adults could reach. Maybe they played when he wasn't looking, just like his father said the grass and trees grew only at night so no one would watch.

"Grown ups, Temugin, play ball, tell silly stories, and eat sugar straight from the bag. We just don't admit to it. We don't want our kids to think we're silly or stupid."

The four year old leaned into his father's chest, wrapping his small arms around his father's waist under jacket, which was stuffed with goose feathers and warm to the touch. He closed his eyes and smiled happily. "You're not stupid. You're smarter than anyone else in the whole world! I want to be just like you when I'm grown up." He cracked open one eye and looked up at his father to add, "But not with the hair. You look like a woman."

"I love you too, Temugin," Aung said, even thought Temugin didn't remember saying I love you to his father. But his dad was just weird like that. He said that whenever his wife told him he snored like a monster or when one of the oxen tried to kick him. Temugin's father was really odd. The good kind of odd, though, Temugin thought to himself as he nuzzled against his dad.

Soon he was half asleep on his father's lap. The man stopped the oxen briefly to button up his thick coat with Temugin snuggled between it and his father's chest. His son was asleep in a few minutes, or so his father thought. Really Temugin had his eyes open, thinking all kinds of disjointed thoughts about fathers, mean people and soup. His father's coat smelled like their house, like the smoke from the bonfire the village men had periodically when they got together to talk. The thud sounds of the oxen walking and the gentle bobbing up and down of the road soothed something deep inside the little boy. This was home. Not the house, itself, but this was what it meant to be happy. This was how it was supposed to be, and when Aung lapsed into an ancient Yi lullaby, Temugin went to sleep knowing he was loved and safe.

So long as his father was with him, he was always safe.

The bullet had hit Aung's left lung.

He didn't have any breath for last words. His world exploded in pain, so white hot it was almost cold, as his vision swirled with sparks and flecks of sudden snow. His body hit the dirt of the road and he didn't even feel it. His arms wanted to convulse, but his grit his teeth and tried to focus on Sarantuyaa and Temugin. His mouth, his breath, was filling up with blood. He was drowning where he lay. His child stared at him with wide, terrified eyes, golden as the wheat in sunlight. His precious Temugin, his son, was shaking in shock as Sarantuyaa took him in her arms.

"Bi chamd khairtai," Aung managed. "Bayartai…"

I love you. Goodbye.

His body convulsed uncontrollably, blood spewing out of his mouth and soaking through his chest as he gasped for air. He sounded like he'd just run across the continent. His vision was unstable, switching between blurry and sharp. He did not see Temugin. His wife had run with him. He was safe. He was going to be okay. Aung would have smirked had pain like lightning not arched through his chest. He bit back a scream, drawing blood from the inside of his cheek. If his son heard him scream it would haunt him for the rest of his life. He had to be strong. He shook as if chilled though he felt hot as the son. Rolling onto his hands and knees, all four limbs shook with the effort to hold him up. But it helped; the blood was no longer drowning him so harshly. If he could get to a hospital he might make it. If he couldn't, he still had a duty to call this in.

"Criminal!" he barked into his walkie talkie. "Shooter!" he coughed and convulsed for a good thirty seconds before managing to add, "Riso Street…"

"My my, aren't you a brave little peasant?" sneered a voice above him. Feet came into view, as another bloody, excruciatingly painful coughing fit overtook the Yi man. "That shot should've killed you, Yi trash. My aim must have been off."

Aung glanced at him and then at the walkie talkie. "Chinese shooter!" he snapped, and the man above him angrily kicked the small device away, but the damage was done. Now the police knew the race and ethnicity of their shooter. The man would have to flee town to avoid being arrested, which would mark him as a suspect rather pointedly.

A swift kick to Aung's chest made him roll over, fists clenched so tightly that his fingernails drew blood. He would not scream. Temugin would hear him if he did. He had to keep calm. His whole body was shuddering now; blood pooling again inside him, and breathing became a fight that took all his energy and strength. He needed to shoot the man. His gun was still on him. Why couldn't he manage to do it? His arms were like dead weights at his sides as the Chinese man began patting him down, looking for something. His pockets contained a little money, an ID, a feather Temugin had given him, but whatever his attacker was looking for was not there.

It hit him then, as his vision began fading to black: the Rings. Through the thick, warm haze engulfing his thoughts, he managed to realize what that meant. Temugin, he thought, Sarantuyaa. No, no, he couldn't let this man kill them for the Rings. He couldn't let that happen to his family, his treasures. They were everything to him. They were the reason the sun set at night and rose in the morning. Tears began to leak out of Aung's eyes, not out of pain but anger. No, his family would not be taken from him. His shaking, pale hand clutched the gun, his fingers barely able to get around the trigger due to their convulsions. His vision was completely gone. All he had was sound and smell, and the feeling of hands on him, searching for the Ring. Aung shut his eyes and prayed with all his might that his family would be safe and might never know what he was about to do.

Then he pulled the trigger.

The bullet hit the Chinese man dead on. Blood spattered onto Aung's face from his murderer as the man withdrew quickly. There was a snarl, and foot steps sounded. More voices in Chinese, a chorus of them. Aung's Chinese was shaky at best. Now it was almost near unintelligible to him. He heard words like 'go', 'Tong', and 'doctor'. They were leaving. Aung would never be able to tell if he'd managed a lethal shot. He'd tried. He didn't want to hurt the man, he didn't want to cross the line from keeper of the peace to righteous murderer, but there had been no choice. He wanted to stop the man from hurting people. Not just Sarantuyaa or Temugin. Everyone. There was no telling how many lives the man would ruin with his cruel heart and affinity for violence, so it had to be done. Still, Aung knew that, had he lived, it would've been his greatest failure. Everything was going still and quiet. He didn't feel the ground underneath him, that rich hard brown earth that was its own pavement, or the sun's gentle beams on his cheek. All he knew was silence and pain.

Bi chamd khairtai, Aung thought sadly, picturing his family. Bayartai.

Then, there was no pain, only silence, and he was gone.

Sarantuyaa was sobbing.

Her child was crying out for her, his tiny hands reaching out blindly in the pale moonlight. His skin was the color of clouds in a blue sky. His legs were strong and already kicking at the new world he had suddenly been thrust into. His voice was surprisingly loud and steady. Despite the unbearable white hot inside her, she managed a smile when his eyes opened. He was beautiful. She had never seen such a perfect creature, not since the day her first son had been born. Tears were making their way down her face from the sheer amount of pain. Zhang had used a knife and a few people to hold her down. There was nothing to dull the pain and she was going to bleed out to death on the spot. She should be furious with him.

But she found she didn't give a damn about the Chinese monster. Her arms reached out as one Tong let go of her, and she picked up her baby boy. His hands latched onto her shirt collar. His eyes were not gray, they were silver and pure, shining with a light from within. He looked at her with pleading eyes. He didn't want anyone else to touch him, didn't want her to let him go. He nuzzled closer, sobs slowly dying down while his mother was nearly blinded with tears. She had never seen such a wonderful thing as her child's peaceful face. He was still breathing hard, as he had been ever since the umbilical cord was cut. It was normal for children born this high up in the mountains. Zhang had made sure that they were far from civilization. That way no one could challenge his story when he reported she and the child had died in childbirth – he was a monster, but a clever monster. Unfortunately, that meant that he saw the true meaning of the baby's appearance. The eyes were round like a Mongolian's. His eyes were like clouds in the full moon.

His hair was white.

Zhang didn't even have time to insult her before a swift fist to the back of his head forced him to crumple to the ground. In too much pain to stand or even sit up, she clutched her baby close. The startled Tong members fell in the span of but a few minutes. They had not been expecting an attack from within. Even she had, on her way up the mountain, had her doubts that everything would go according to plan. Only when the groans of fallen warriors around her were the only sounds in the still night did she dare to look up. The hood of a Tong henchman fell to the ground beside her as two strong arms reached for her; she saw the moon on his white hair and felt herself grow at peace. The deed had been done. Her second son's father had not abandoned his child.

"Xueqin!" she cried out, and he wrapped an arm around her, his albino eyes glowing in the night's light. "You have to leave." Her shaking, quickly paling body could do nothing more than hold their child, but her eyes conveyed the urgency silently. Please, she begged him with all her heart, save our baby.

"I am here," he replied softly, voice warm as his son reached out his hands for this stranger who seemed so familiar. The Tong man took in a shaky breath as he watched the child move, tears rolling down his face as he hung his head in shame. "I should never have let it get this far, I should have killed them all, taken you two and ran. I should never have let Zhang cut you. I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, my lady…"

"It's the only way, she said softly, and since Chinese had no past or present tense she was saying both that this was the only path now and before. Her pain had not dulled her senses so much that she could not think. She leaned up and brushed her lips to his. "This betrayal was risky enough. Now take him and run. And no matter what you do, do not kill anyone. No more bloodshed. It-"

"Only creates chaos," Xueqin murmured back. "I know. I didn't understand before I met you how precious life is. I swear to you that I will not kill anyone, never again. You have changed me." His tears fell onto her face as he held her close for the last time. "You saved me. From myself, from Zhang, from the Tong. My lady," he gazed into her dark gray eyes the color of metal dipped in ink, passion blazing in his cold, ice covered silver ones. "It is done as you have said. I am loyal only to you," he glanced at the child, "And to him."

She was freezing cold against him, and he stood, gathering the baby into his arms. He used the hood of his Tong uniform for a makeshift blanket. Then he took a deep breath, and began to walk away. Every step seemed a lifetime as he fought down the knowledge that the love of his life was dying slowly behind him. His steps became a run, and from there a full on sprint. He vanished into the night, only his white hair occasionally catching the light. In the depths of the forest he was untouchable and ghostly, a silent apparition who even the best of trackers would not have been able to follow. His son clutched his father's unruly hair like it would somehow protect him from the world. The infant didn't like the jostling, but he didn't cry out, squirming and wriggling in confusion. He did not understand why they had left his mother behind. He would not understand that for years to come. For now it was enough that he was alive.

His soul mate, his precious lady, was dead. He had held her down as it was done simply because she had asked him to. He never could deny her anything, Xueqin thought ruefully. From the first day he had seen the beautiful Khan he had been her slave. She was like a breath of fresh air after being drowned, the sun breaking through the clouds in the middle of a storm. She was compassion, and she was grace. Somehow she had looked through him and seen the good man inside the Tong uniform that even he had forgotten dwelled there. Her love had changed him, changed his life and his very mind. Xueqin had never felt anything that even came close to rivaling what he felt for Lady Sarantuyaa. She made the day begin. She made the sun rise. Her presence was enough to change the lives of all who knew her. Sarantuyaa had loved the world and everyone in it. Xueqin had thought the world to be a disgusting place and everyone in it a selfish monster.

She was all that he lived for. Let the Tong chase him, let his riches vanish, he didn't care. In his arms there was a treasure more precious than all the gold in China. Zhang would demand his head on a platter and Xueqin would gladly offer it so long as his child was safe first. No more senseless murder, no more violence and madness. He would go without a fight once his son was safe in Mongolia. The motherland had vast plains and a sea of tightly knit communities that the Tong had never been able to control. No one could conquer the people of their home, he thought when he pictured Sarantuyaa's defiant smile at the sight of her son. They could be beaten, raped, and killed, but there was no way to conquer that rebellious spirit that blazed inside of them. He looked down at the bundle in his arms and felt the absurd urge to laugh. No matter what Zhang would tell the Tong and poor, still captive Temugin, the truth of the matter was that the Chinese man had been defeated.

He caught his breath at the top of a mountain, and looking down at the train station below, he laughed, sounding and feeling both triumphant and utterly defeated. Though he knew he had not a second to spare, he managed to find time to look up at the moon, Sarantuyaa's namesake, and address the celestial being as if his lover's spirit could somehow hear him.

"One out of two isn't a passing score," he told the now crying baby, "But it's all that I could do." Thinking of Temugin, he winced. "I just hope your first son will not become the monster Zhang so wants him to be. Perhaps one day someone will come to save him, too."

And though it could've just been his imagination, the albino could've sworn the moon shone a little brighter at his words.