Chapter Text
Nezha stands at the Red Cliffs, overlooking the city he grew up in—Arlong’s cool, clear rivers and winding canals as familiar to him as the back of his hand. Wind whips up his robes and blows his hair into his face, although it’s nothing like when Feylen called on the winds during that fateful battle so long ago. He recalls watching Rin plummet from the sky into the dark, crashing waves below, remembers the cold panic that set in as he dived in after her—one of the only times he was ever grateful for the Dragon granting him dominion over water.
He remembers what Rin said to him before the battle, in a rare, precious moment of solidarity, of something that was almost affection.
Between us, we have the fire and the water. I'm quite sure that together, we can take on the wind.
He’s beginning to forget the sound of her voice.
It hasn’t even been that long since that day on Speer—a year or two, perhaps—but the details are already fading. Were her eyebrows straight or slightly curved? Did he imagine that mole on the back of her neck? What colour were her eyes at the end, before the light went out of them forever?
He’s terrified of forgetting. He’s terrified of waking up one day and being unable to recall the sound of her laugh.
He came to the Red Cliffs to make sure that day never comes.
It’s not like he hasn’t thought of throwing himself off these cliffs before. To be frank, he had tried far more drastic ways of ending his life before; stabbing himself in the chest, for example, had evidently not been enough. He thinks it particularly unfair that Rin had died so easily in his arms after just one stab wound through the heart, and he can’t even seem to give himself a scar no matter how many times the blade sinks into his skin. He’d stopped trying to kill himself years ago after he realised nothing he did worked.
But he has a plan this time. If the golden cuffs the Hesperians made him wear all the time could stop him from calling the Dragon, maybe they would stop him from healing completely, too.
He takes a step towards the cliff’s edge, and leans over, peering down at the sharp, jagged rocks below. He would try to aim for them, he thinks. There’s more chance he’d die immediately on impact rather than slowly drowning to death. He’s not a masochist, after all.
He knows what Rin would say if she saw him here like this.
Coward.
He’d been so upset with her after she’d called him that after he told her about Mingzha, but he supposes this time she’d be right. He’s running away—from his responsibilities, his country, his nightmares where he plunges the knife into her chest again and again. It is cowardly, but he can't bear the thought of doing it all alone anymore.
“You bitch,” he says out loud, his voice barely a whisper in the strong winds. “It’s all your fault. You took everyone away.”
He looks down again at the rocks below, and a strange calm washes over him. With a final deep breath, Nezha steps off the cliff and into thin air.
As he falls, he hears her voice in his mind for the first time in months, and it’s just as clear and vivid as the last time he heard her speak.
Fix this.
He has just enough time to almost regret his decision before oblivion welcomes him into its embrace like an old friend.
~~~
When he opens his eyes, Nezha is disappointed. Mostly because he still could open his eyes, which means his plan didn't work and he would likely have to deal with the consequences of throwing himself off a cliff with the Hesperians. It might even mean more “re-education” sessions with Sister Petra, the mere thought of which makes Nezha want to revisit the whole jumping-off-a-cliff plan again.
He seems to be in his bed, which is expected. What isn't expected is the complete lack of pain he feels in his body. He should be covered in cuts and bruises, yet he doesn't even feel sore.
Nezha sits up carefully, giving his arms an experimental stretch. As he does, a body shifts under the covers next to him, and he bolts out of the bed in alarm.
“What the fuck?” He demands, reaching for the knife he kept on his bedside table, only to find it isn't there.
The figure in the bed rolls over to face him then, and Nezha feels the blood drain from his face.
“What are you yelling about?” Rin mumbles, rubbing her eyes groggily.
Nezha is frozen to the spot. He stares at her in bewilderment, wondering if he really is dying. Maybe his brain is making him hallucinate before death finally takes him.
Rin sees the look on his face and frowns. “Why are you staring at me like that?”
Nezha can’t take his eyes off her. He’s breathing hard, his heartbeat loud in his ears.
“Rin,” he breathes. It’s been a long time since he’s said her name out loud, but it still forms on his tongue like a familiar, forbidden word.
She blinks at him, confused. “Yes…?”
She looks exactly the same, although her hair is messier than usual, and her red eyes are still cloudy with sleep. She props herself up on one elbow on the bed—his bed—as she waits for his answer, one eyebrow raised slightly in expectation.
It’s the very image of perfection, and that’s how Nezha knows this cannot be real. She cannot be real, because if she is, then he must be well and truly insane.
“You’re not real,” he says out loud, to convince himself.
She shoots him a sceptical look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re not really here,” Nezha replies. “I’m dreaming, hallucinating.”
Rin looks around. “No, I’m pretty sure you’re awake,” she says slowly, the crease in her brow deepening.
“That’s exactly what an imaginary dream person would say,” he says, then rubs at his temples. He doesn’t know why he’s even engaging with her when she’s clearly just a figment of his imagination.
Rin sits up properly then, her expression shifting into one of concern. “Nezha, are you okay?” she asks. “You’re starting to scare me.”
His name falls so easily, so naturally from her lips, and the familiarity of it all almost makes Nezha choke. He didn’t think he would ever get to hear her say his name again. He doesn’t think he’s strong enough to resist if she does it again.
“Don’t talk to me like that,” he says, turning away. She’s not here, he reminds himself. He starts pacing back and forth across the room, willing his mind to return him to oblivion. He hates how much he wants to keep looking at her, and so he doesn’t, keeping his gaze fixed on the floor.
He can practically hear Rin bristling behind him. “Talk to you like what?” she demands, sounding angry now.
“Just—go, please,” Nezha says, almost begging. “I don’t want to see you like this, waking up in my bed. It’s too much.”
Rin scoffs, a startled, wounded noise, and Nezha regrets his words immediately. “Oh, I’m sorry it bothers you so much seeing me in your fancy bed,” Rin snaps, clearly wounded. “Don’t worry—it won’t happen again.”
Nezha hears shuffling behind him, then the telltale, angry noise of a door being slammed shut. The sound echoes loudly in the empty room, leaving Nezha feeling more cold and lonely than ever.