Beast

On a bitter winter day, the young master from the grand manor gave me half a box of pastries.

He was pale and refined, dressed in brocade and raised in luxury. In that absurdly heavy snowfall, he was wrapped in a fox-fur cloak worth a fortune, with a hand warmer in his arms.

As he stepped down from his carriage, he caught sight of me curled up in a corner by the wall, barely clinging to life.

So he had a servant tip the half-finished box of pastries onto the ground by my feet.

From far away, he looked at me with pity, the way one might pity a stray dog.

From then on, I remembered him.

*

My master picked me up, then threw me into the Valley of the Dead.

He said, "A worthless beast like you is easy enough to keep alive. But Heaven is Heaven, and your life is in your own hands."

He handed me a hidden sleeve blade and ordered me to kill the companion walking beside me.

I gripped it in my palm.

As warm blood splashed across my face, I thought of that box of pastries, still warm on that winter day.

I used that blade to kill countless people: enemies, targets, senior brothers and sisters, and finally my master. When I drew it across his throat, he looked at me and smiled gently.

After tending to his grave, I left the valley.

*

It was difficult, but not difficult at all.

I found the young master from all those years ago.

The once-refined young master still held a position of power. Handsome and sickly, he reclined on a long couch, his frail body propped up. His pale lips coughed up blood, blooming across his handkerchief like gorgeous flowers.

When he saw me appear in his study in the middle of the night, he wasn't particularly surprised.

"What do you want?" he asked.

I said, "I'll risk my life for you for three years. After that, your life is mine."

He said, "There are many people who want to kill me."

I said, "But I can kill them for you first."

He said, "You can?"

I said, "I can."

The young master smiled. His smile was like thin lantern paper: tilt it slightly, and the flame would consume the wood and painted patterns, leaving only scraps of ash.

After he finished smiling, he began to cough again, one crimson flower after another blooming.

I watched in silence.

He agreed.

*

I kept my promise.

Three years was not a long time.

When I had nothing to do, I sat on the roof and sharpened my blade. The moonlight was as bright as silver, sharp as an edge, but my blade was sharper still.

The young master sat beneath the pavilion, reading by lamplight. Half a lamp's glow fell across his pale, slender knuckles like fireflies in the night.

He seemed to know that I stole his pastries.

Every time, he had a second plate brought out.

But when he realized that the second plate would be empty too, a rare, helpless smile appeared on his pale face.

That night, he glanced up at me and raised his sleeve to feed me a pastry.

After that, there was no stopping us. From then on, I only ate pastries that had passed through his hands.

I ended up in his bed.

His body was frail too, but delicate and luminous, beautiful as jade. A flush upon that jade was especially captivating, reminding me of a pastry called Consort's Brew, a delicate little morsel made by crushing countless flower petals.

Between the sheets, he touched my face.

His hand was cold, yet burning hot. I caught it and took a bite. He slapped me.

But the next day, the day after, and countless nights thereafter, everything began again and again.

His eyes were like costly black obsidian, or like the moon fallen into a pond.

He called my name in a hoarse voice.

Then he smiled.

*

The three-year term came to an end.

My time was up, and the young master's long-cherished wish had come true.

The day he avenged himself, he laughed until he coughed blood.

After he had dealt with all his enemies, he looked at the row of heads hung high on the city wall, then turned and smiled at me as I wiped my blade.

"At last," he said.

"At last," I replied.

The days that followed passed one after another.

In spring, he and I rode out in a carriage. In summer, I carried him to the mountains to escape the heat. In autumn, he reclined on a lounge chair while I rested my head on his lap, and he stroked my hair, once, then again.

He was still sickly, stunningly beautiful, and would lower his eyes to smile gently at me.

He called my name.

His kiss fell upon the crown of my head.

I spent a long time preparing, and at last, on a beautiful winter day blanketed in snow, I killed him with my own hands.

The priceless fox-fur cloak was stained with blood.

The hand warmer toppled over and rolled toward the wall.

I sheathed the hidden sleeve blade.

His obsidian eyes grew unfocused as he looked at me. Tears clung to his lashes, mingling with the snow until everything was white.

His blood slowly splattered beside my boots.

I crouched down and watched for a while.

With the snow beneath me, I dug a chunk out with my fingers and tasted the vivid red on my tongue.

It turned out it didn't taste the same.

Theme: The Farmer and the Snake