Red Strings (Xiao x Reader)

Chapter 4 - Mind Is A Prison

"The act of killing someone not only destroys their future but also tarnishes our own conscience." —Unknown

It hurt.

Not physically, but mentally. Like a gaping jaw closing in on his mind. Swallowing his thoughts. Tainting them with darkness.

And to think it was only his first kill out of 9999.

Despite several hours having passed since that moment, the scene kept replaying itself in Alatus' mind. In pieces, like a broken tape recorder.

The confusion and almost wonder in the mortal woman's eyes as she regained consciousness to find herself surrounded by three adeptal beings. The terror as Alatus grabbed her by the neck, her mouth open in a silent scream as he devoured her dreams and desires. As he plunged his hand into her chest, wrenching out the beating organ beneath her rib cage.

The way her body continued to twitch even as she lay broken in a pool of her own blood, while the Huyao mercilessly took her heart and swallowed it whole.

Here he was now, shaking in his cell, staring down at his bloodied hands as he tried to deny his own actions. The shackles that bound him to the wall seemed to be tighter today, digging into his flesh so that raw marks were left on his wrists. But he welcomed this pain, for it was a reminder that he still had an attachment to his world. The soreness pulled him from the dark mess staining his mind, securing him to the face of Teyvat even as dark thoughts tried to drag him away. He flexed his wrists, allowing the cuffs to cut tighter against his skin.
"Hey, don't do that."

A familiar voice. Another thing keeping him conscious of his surroundings.
"You're back," Alatus whispered, his voice strained and ragged, as if his silence had lasted days instead of a mere half hour.
"Indeed. I returned immediately once the body had been disposed of." The way she talked made him sick to the stomach. How could she speak of the mortal in a way that suggested the poor woman did not matter in the slightest?
"(Y/N). Do you even have any humanity left in you?" His own question shocked himself, as if he had spoken unconsciously. She turned to look at him, her eyes piercing his soul. Even in her fox form, he could picture the emotions she might've shown.
"I was never human to begin with, Alatus."
"I know, but neither was I. Most adepti are born into the role, or as an animal such as yourself. Humanity is not measured literally." He watched the relatively smaller fox blink several times before tilting her head slightly.
"I'd like to think that I do." Her voice was quiet as she paced in a small circle and sat down, her eyes still glued to him. Alatus eyed her, somehow she seemed so genuine despite her words earlier being so dismissive.
"I'd like to think that you do too. Or at least, you would have..." he looked away as he mumbled the last part, as if afraid of her hearing him. He noticed her ear twitching, but she said nothing in response.

As time went on, Alatus felt himself grow numb from the pain with which his own mind struck at him. The shackles on his wrists grew tighter by day, but he welcomed the raw cuts that they inflicted on his wrists. Still alive. Still attached. Today had been his 103rd kill. He glanced at (Y/N), who was sitting beside him in her human form tending to a bleeding wound across his face caused by the Huyao. Her fingers brushed across his skin, soft, as if they were the hands that danced across a guzheng instead of kidnapping mortals and disposing of their bodies. Her touch was cold, like the snow that fell upon the remnants of Sal Vindagnyr.

As she pulled her hand away, he suddenly reached up and held it in place, the clinking of his chains breaking the silence between them for a brief moment. She looked at him, wide eyed, but he simply closed his eyes. Her touch was the only other thing in this damned place that kept him aware of himself. And her touch...did not inflict pain upon his body.

After all, his mind was no longer the one it had been three months ago. Over a hundred merciless killings and devouring countless dreams had rid Alatus of his innocence. Dark wisps of karmic debt twisted and slithered through his mind, like hungry serpents searching for prey. The images of the mortals, mouths hanging open in silent screams, haunted Alatus every night as he tried to find sleep, yet when he opened his eyes, all he was met with would be the small white fox curled in his lap. He felt cold, despite the warmth she provided.

Yet somehow, knowing all this, he would still have made the same decision no matter how many second chances he was given, because he knew that if he refused, then she would have been the one to bear this pain.

Alatus no longer spoke as he used to. He no longer snapped back at the Huyao accusingly, no longer replied to his mocking words. Instead, he shut himself in his own mind, a prison more suffocating than the cell he lived in. The chains of karma weighed him down, inflicting upon him pain that no metal shackles were capable of. He began whispering to himself on sleepless nights, his amber eyes wide and devoid of emotions. No matter how many times he cleaned them, Alatus could always see the remnants of crimson mortal blood staining his fingers regardless of (Y/N) denying their presence. He began to despise sleep, for the ghosts of his victims would swoop down to possess his dreams, pointing at him with incriminating fingers, bloodied holes in their chests.

And yet their dreams tasted so good. The smooth, cold texture, the faint sweetness. Alatus had only ever devoured nightmares before his enslavement, and even then it was only on rare occasions when he heard the pleas of mortals asking for their pain to be taken away.

Foolish, foolish mortals. They never understood just how bitter such dreams were, often either scalding his tongue or causing it to numb while biting into the side of his mouth as he forced it down his throat.

What did he even receive in return? Mere praises and thanks, carried through the wind, pleased voices whispering their gratitude. Yet for the young naive bird back then, such rewards were enough, enough for him to ignore the stinging that remained in his mouth, the acrid flavour that left a lasting impression on his tongue, embedded within his taste buds no matter how many times he rinsed his mouth.

How selfless he was back then, and look where that had landed him. Every night, as he slew the victims, Alatus couldn't help but savour each sweet dream as it slid down his throat, the sole part of the procedure that offered him any relief.

Cruel? Oh yes, he certainly was, his mind so corrupted that he hardly felt any remorse over his actions now. The heavens can punish him when his inevitable end comes, burn him up from inside and cast his broken body into the bottomless abyss while his consciousness remains chained to the surface of Teyvat, forever wallowing in his sins. For mangled as he was, the simple actions of devouring and killing reminded him that there was at least one other race in this world that he had power over, who were at his mercy.

It was in the nature of a Golden Winged Peng such as him to feel dignified even while committing such reprehensive acts.

Alatus unconsciously kept a mental tally of how many days he had been enslaved for, how many mortals he had slain.

Ten months in. 300 kills. Everyday was the same, torturous routine.

Two years, and he was at 730. Alatus was beginning to see a blurry figure in his mind, calf deep in a pool of blood and facing away from him.

A decade, 3650. The figure finally turned, but his face remained indistinguishable.

Just over 5500, Alatus finally saw the figure's face clearly. A pair of golden eyes, filled with so much yet so little all at once. Blood smeared across his features and dripped from his fingertips. What seemed to be a reflection of himself, yet Alatus knew that the one imprisoned in his mind was merely a ghost of his long lost innocence. If he looked closely enough, he could see a singular tear fall from the figure's eyes, rolling down his crimson stained face, cleaning away the blood in its path, as if to remind him that beneath this twisted appearance, he was but skin and flesh.

And every time Alatus saw him, the reflection was being dragged deeper into the sea of scarlet, wisps of karma wrapping around his wrists, mirroring his own chains.

8000. The War began.