Chapter Text
*Posting both here and on Wattpad
The Emperor’s Anathema
Author's note: Hello all. I have been inspired to write this story after years of reading Chinese BL and cultivation type stories. However, I am not Chinese and this will become obvious. The character and place names are mostly nonsense with some Chinese words thrown in. The setting is a fictional world with an ancient Chinese aesthetic and a dash of steampunk. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Chapter 1: A Fateful Reunion
.o.o.o.o.o.
The northern sea was calm and quiet. Black waters covered the world without a single break, spreading all the way to the horizon. Black sky joined with almost equally black ocean. The waxing moon reflected upon the glassy surface. Countless stars lit the clear night, little pinpricks hovering in the vast emptiness of the beyond.
A man stood upon the rocky shore, looking to the south, looking towards where his home would be, thousands of leagues away and forever out of his sight. This was his sentence, and he would spend the rest of his miserable days in this foreign, frozen wasteland.
“A beautiful night,” the old woman said from behind him, folding her wrinkled hands into her sleeves. She spoke with a thick, northern accent and her skin was dark and weathered from the dry air and the midnight sun. She wore the fur-lined, ceremonial robes that designated her as a member of her convent. This far up north it was the Winter God that was worshiped. “Cold, but clear. These are good conditions for prayers to be heard. Would you be so kind as to prepare the offering, child?”
She called him a child, but this was far from the truth. He'd already found his first grey hair, though he was not yet thirty. His cheeks were sunken, his skin dry from the frozen wind, and the corners of his eyes creased when he smiled. A decade ago he had been famous for his beauty and swordsmanship and family name, but he felt older than ever these days, with the weight of his failures and disgraces resting upon his shoulders.
And yet compared to the old women inhabiting the Ice Temple, he was indeed a child. They certainly treated him as such. They fussed over him constantly, pushing warmer furs into his hands, stoking the fire in his modest room, and serving him extra helpings of the simple mush during the evening meals.
He turned back to the shore, gaze wandering over the four old priestesses who were his slavemasters, all who were busy grinding herbs or fileting fish. With an inward sigh, Sahire moved to join them, seating himself in their circle and pulling a half-woven basket into the light of the small fire.
“It has been seven years,” the fat one, Priestess Tiep said in her gruff voice without looking up from her work. “Seven years since you took residence here at the temple, and thrice that since your people brought war upon us.”
He was certainly not here by choice, Sahire reflected. After his army had been defeated and he'd been dragged into the ocean, his unconscious body had been found washed ashore just outside Beimen city. They'd bound his hands and feet and dragged him by dog sled back to the scene of his defeat. There, he was put on his knees along with the other survivors from the Yinying Empire and readied for swift execution. The savages of Beimen, with their harsh winters and limited food, could not afford to keep prisoners.
It was a witch healer who signaled him out as being 'spirit touched' and begged for a stay of execution. Perhaps the most superstitious of all the regions, the people of northern Dongtian, and their merchant city, Beimen, held staunchly to the wills and whims of their god. The witch healer's impassioned plea was heeded and Sahire was soon after released into the care of a group of ancient priestesses who lived far out on the ice flows, at the very edge of tundra civilization where the surrounding seas and weather were far more evil and vengeful than any man or god.
Priestess Uki rose stiffly to her feet after perhaps an hour of silent work. She grabbed Sahire's basket with her gnarled hands and placed within it a soft, waxen candle that she'd molded over the fire.
“This is not a proper offering,” Sahire commented, looking down at the bare basket with nothing but a candle. He had done this enough times to know the ritual. Generally, it was food put in the basket, or perhaps something of great value to the old savages.
“It is your offering, not ours, Sahire, Slayer of Winter.” Priestess Uki explained in a gruff voice, lisping from her lack of teeth. She gave him a rough shove as a way to encourage him to get on with it. She was cold and nasty as the tundra that bred her.
“Sahire the Mighty,” corrected Priestess Tiep, choking on laughter while wagging a fat finger in mock admonishment.
“Sahire the Indomitable,” giggled Priestess Yuka, turning to elbow the ever silent and sullen Priestess Anuk. Yes, they knew the old story well, and never missed an opportunity to rib him about it.
Sahire turned away from the hooting banshees, annoyed and resigned to his humiliating fate. He staggered back to the icy shore on legs that were cold and numb from sitting so long. He looked to the black waters once again, this time suppressing a shiver of trepidation. With shaking hands he fumbled with some flint and lit the candle- the smallest flare of warm light under the cool stars and the cool air. He waded into the calm waters, feeling the push and pull of the lapping waves against his rapidly numbing skin. They did not drag him under as he always feared they would, instead their touch was light and gentle, beckoning almost.
Something nipped at his ankle, something that Sahire hadn't a hope of seeing beneath the waves and in this dark hour of the night.
“Your fear pleases me, human,” said a harsh voice that reverberated somewhere deep in his mind. “This new humility suits you.”
Spirit-touched. It hadn't taken long for that witch healer's observation to manifest. Sahire could hear a phantom voice sometimes. He’d always been a hesitant believer of the gods and the realm of the spirits, but only recently had he developed a healthy... respect.
“It's not often that one such as you comes along, you know. Not many have the sheer audacity... the arrogance necessary to challenge a god, and yet it is only ever humans like you who change the world. Never the pious, never the humble,” the spirit continued. These hallucinations were frequent now, hallucinations where Sahire conversed with a foreign god.
Sahire lowered the basket onto the water, feeling bitter and defeated. Resentfulness curled in his belly.
It was this entity that had marked him. As a young and bloodthirsty general, he'd not heeded the warnings of the mages that the city of Beimen was under divine protection, and he'd paid the price after leading his forces there.
“Is this to be my fate?” Sahire whispered to the frozen ocean breeze, “Have you kept me alive so that you might watch me suffer? Why not simply take your revenge, if that's indeed what you're after?”
“Revenge is a human concept. I do not require your suffering, only your penance. Your suffering is a product of your own pride,” the ghost in the water replied, “You are whole, you are fed, you are clothed, you speak with beings that have shaped your world, yet you think you are deserving of more?”
No, not more. Not in that sense, at least. Sahire knew he was merely nostalgic for his old life. He'd once had it all, and now he was defeated. He was a prisoner. He was nothing. This god demanded that he relinquish his old ways, and abandon his quest for earthly desires. Power. Influence. Riches. Pleasure. These were sinful wants that did not lead to real meaning or happiness, even Sahire could concede this now.
But he thirsted for them all the same. He'd been born in luxury, swathed in the finest of fabrics and tasting the richest of foods. He'd trained with the strongest swordsmen, learned from the wisest scholars, been blessed by the highest temples in his home country. He wanted to believe that these things were his birthright.
“Most men wish to ascend to higher planes of existence. You continue to resist, despite all the clarity and divine wisdom that you have been bestowed with.”
Sahire felt a flash of anger. Was being a mortal supposed to be a source of shame? In all that he had done wrong, in all of his failure, he had still been willed into existence somehow with these supposed faults.
“Enough of this mockery. Kill me and be done with it. I am a son of the desert and I will never bow to the ocean,” Sahire said into the night. He felt the current change, and the water swirled around him, a threatening and possessive vortex.
“I have claimed you, Sahire, little desert flower. You belong to me, now, whether you bow or not.”
.o.o.o.o.o.
Sahire's days were lonely and monotonous. The Ice Temple stood at the edge of a rocky cliff. Down the slope there existed a small camp where natives from the surrounding villages would base for their seal hunts. In the summer, the seals themselves would gather upon the shores to find mates and grow fat laying in the perpetual midnight sun.
For most of the remaining months, however. The temple was isolated and desolate. In the winter, the small ice-carved paths and tunnels would close up with snow, limiting all contact with the life that existed inland. The old priestesses reveled in these times, devoting themselves wholly to their prayer.
Sahire had only ever been a temple slave during his stay. He chopped wood. He skinned seals. He hauled in the fishing nets. He washed floors and clothing. He kept the signal fire atop the temple burning bright and strong in order to warn approaching boats away from the jagged cliffs, as well as to alert the nearby towns in the event of an emergency.
The priestesses of the Ice Temple served the God of Winter. Sahire now knew more about the Winter God than he'd ever care to admit, certainly more than any foreigner ought to know. The temple he was now residing in had been built upon the ruins of a town where a famous Winter prophet was born several hundred years ago. Chambers within the Ice Temple contained a number of old artifacts that had belonged to this prophet. Clothing, tobacco pipes, a ceremonial headdress, and a number of scrolls penned in her messy script and barely legible. Sahire had read them all in an attempt to ease his boredom and perhaps find a way to escape this frozen hellhole.
Some days he preferred to have hope. Perhaps there was yet a way he might return home. No one from Yinying had bothered to search for him after the battle for Biemen, perhaps believing he had perished with all the rest, though Sahire was certain that no one would ever send for him, even if they did discover that he was alive. His failures were just too great. None of this could dampen his yearning to see him home again, however.
Sahire was surprised when a message was delivered via courier in the early spring that year. He greeted the young native at the bottom of the slope. The snow was fresh and clean, and the sled had an easy trip up to the moon door where Sahire stood waiting. Sahire took the message in hand before offering the young lad permission to stay and resupply within the temple for the night. It wasn't until he had made it into the sacrament chamber and was handing over the scroll over to Priestess Anuk that Sahire realized it was stamped with the royal Yinying seal.
He dared not to hope, and he did not ask after the contents of the message. Things proceeded as normal for several weeks and Sahire had nearly forgotten about the scroll.
However, with the arrival of the great metal monstrosity of a ship in the meager harbor, the recollection came back in full-force. Sahire was suddenly reminded of days past, when he'd been a general traveling with an entire fleet of these warships. Those days seemed another lifetime ago, with the memories so golden and precious. He saw himself once again, young and triumphant, brimming with desire and destiny and passion.
It was a rare opportunity that Sahire witnessed the four priestesses in their ceremonial robes. They'd each taken the time to plait their wild, white hair and paint the Marks of the Ice on their withered faces.
“Stay out of sight,” warned Priestess Tiep when she noticed Sahire, “They are not here for you.”
“Then what are they here for?” Sahire challenged bitterly, unwilling to smother that small flame of hope, “What possible reason could the Yinying Empire have to call upon four witches living out in the frozen wastes?”
“Insolent boy,” sniffed Tiep as she let the others glide past her, “The Yinying Emperor is gravely ill. Your Shadow Mages have exhausted their resources and have reached out to our temple with a last, desperate plea. The Ice Sisters are the greatest healers in all the lands. If we cannot heal your emperor, then he cannot be saved,” she said this huffily, as if Sahire ought to have known this. He knew they were good. They'd done an excellent job patching Sahire up after his various escape attempts, after all. They could use their healing magic to breathe life back into frozen tissue. They could reattach a severed limb. They could make snow-blind eyes see once again. He hadn't realized they were world-renowned as well.
He did not make himself as scarce as the priestesses would have liked. He joined a gaggle of female acolytes that the temple employed in order to watch the procession from the ship. A line of soldiers was making its way up the long, ice docks and onto the footpath leading up to the temple.
Most of the acolyte girls were young and silly, come to the temple as orphans or because of a family scandal. They wrinkled their noses at Sahire, a slave who was scrawny and known to be spirit-touched, but the sight of the sharply uniformed Yinying men caused them to giggle excitedly behind mittened hands. Such base creatures, Sahire thought scathingly. Still, he was aware that his eyes were following the procession just as covetously, lusting not for the soldiers but for their pride, their purpose, and the flawless uniforms they wore. The Yinying faces, with their high cheeks and fair skin, were barely visible from beneath the helms. Their mood was somber as they carried a palanquin, which Sahire could only assume held their ailing emperor. The thin curtains of the palanquin were no match for the wind, and they soon blew open to expose the occupant. The pathetic figure was wrapped in a multitude of furs. He writhed and shivered, his sweat-stained and pale face was tucked against his shoulder as he attempted to shield himself from the harsh, winter world.
It was strange, seeing his face again. The rebellious prince had become the new emperor. Sahire had known this since the war had ended and the announcement had been made. He'd always known that Prince Renaq had a traitor's heart. Though Sahire could never have imagined that the traitor's path would eventually lead the other man to the throne rather than to his own demise. He was nothing but a puppet. His rule was false. He was installed by the enemies of their nation in order to do their bidding after the defeat of his father.
The helmeted guards were stiff and on edge as they followed behind their liege. This remained a hostile land, even after the various treaties that had been signed. They were still here. They were gambling everything, it seemed, on the idea that these old crones could do what the Yinying Shadow Mages could not.
Was Renaq's life really that precious? There must be others already waiting in the wings to take his place. The prince had been backed by a few of the powerful Yinying families in the end, hadn't he? Were they too cowardly to sit upon the throne themselves? They needed this rogue of a prince to act as a stand-in?
The temple became host to the small group of Yinying soldiers for the foreseeable future. Most of the crew remained on the ship, thankfully. Sahire knew he was nearly unrecognizable these days. The Yinying men spared him no glances whatsoever as he went about his temple duties. His ice-weathered skin, his hair dull and unevenly cut, and his lack of Yinying clothing alone were enough to keep him inconspicuous. Only his dark eyes could have given his nationality away, but no one seemed to care to look that closely.
“The boy burns with fever even with the wound closed,” Priestess Tiep told Priestess Uki over a subdued lunch one afternoon. Sahire was not trying to listen in on the conversation as he served them their meal, but the priestesses did not seem to mind being overheard. “No amount of herbs or healing water has been able to break it,” the fat, old woman continued. Uki pinched her paper-thin lips in thought. Her cerulean eyes locked onto Sahire.
“Perhaps he might have better luck sweating it out.”
This was how Sahire found himself once again in the sweat lodge. It was a horrid, stuffy place outside the temple's ice walls and built in stone atop the windy cliff. Sahire had often been tasked with leading the purification ritual, as heating the rocks and maintaining the high temperature within the lodge was an arduous task for the elderly priestesses. And so the duty now fell to Sahire, simply because he was younger and more capable of hauling the wood up the icy steps.
It was a marvelous stroke of serendipity that no one- not the Yinying soldiers and neither the old, dense priestesses -seemed to realize that Sahire would have something of a history with Renaq. They thought nothing of leaving the sick, vulnerable man alone in Sahire's care, blissfully unaware of the vicious duel that had taken place seven years ago, one that had pitted a rising star of a general against a rebellious prince. Renaq would have claimed victory after the battle for Beimen, when his mercenary army emerged victorious against Sahire's Yinying forces. He would have forgotten about Sahire afterwards, gone on to win his war and left Sahire adrift in the currents- just like everyone else.
He would have never imagined to meet again like this.