SILKWORM

Lina Zhang | ph. Leslie Zhang

valentine enters all places in hokuei as if there is no question or conceivable objection to the possibility of him begin there. not as if they belong to him — no, for there is a vast divergence between being seen as emperor and master of all under the sun and moon, and being the shadow that walks the liminality of both realms. not a figurehead on gilded puppet strings playing at dominion and mythos-making. where he has won the right by supremacy and notoriety, others make do with the weapons and craftsmanship available to them. 

as leader and string-weaver, he harbours a healthy admiration for those that recognise the relationship between performance and power.

hokuei’s flower lies crumpled at the edge of the room reserved for the champions of firefly. a throng of admirers and sycophants pressing upon her like a relentless tide swallowing a single floating water lily. valentine pauses at the threshold and his very presence — the scent of something ancient and abyssal, incapable of being translated into language that fits within the sovereignty of mind and speech — directs every head to turn his way. power, in the end, has a way of overriding even the most fervent flames of devotion. valentine inclines his brows.

the room empties at once, infatuation-addled suitors sent scattering in flurries of bouquets and declaratory wreaths. yena floats amidst a sea of blooming flowers, a small, wilted thing designed to pluck at the heart strings.

framed among her tableau, there is no small resemblance to the way she recalls the paper dolls one offers to the pyre, beautifully dressed, surrounded by those gatherings of flowers and meticulously painted cardboard-homes burned down so that the dead might find their riches in the afterlife. she looks, suitably, purposefully, like a thing that never stood a chance against the flame because it was designed to smoulder. the pain still burns within her, the sob of something turned half-distant by medicinal cure, but not faraway. its cry continues; demands that she pull away from her audience, return to sleep, to rest. but this is the cost and the demand of love: it persists through cold, rain, death. so must she.

when he arrives, she watches as power reminds love who holds the keys. valentine disperses her crowd with the same ease she has brought them in: with the mere effect of the way they stand, move, exist. it is not the first time he has envied the king of beetles. it is not the last time she will wonder what might happen if they joined hands.

“and yet you have come to me still,” like rainwater down a slanted aperture. “such is a gift.” yena leans her head against the column and watches him. she resists the urge to hold out her cupped palms to valentine, to close her eyes and open her mouth for what’s prepared, child-like, disciple-leaning, starving. she wants in the creased-joint way, an urge to straighten all at once, to fling oneself forward with the sureness of the places bone and muscle meet and know what valentine has brought for her. light hits the bead of jade suspended between her ribs, its pigment casting all across her innards. want want want. her hands fold demurely in her lap so they do not reach out for him.

“a greater sting to know my own head of house will be subject to the arena in short hours.”

it’s such perfectly affected devotion, the kind hollowed-out and hammered thin enough to slip between closed lips, dissolving before its found saccharine. you needn’t even open for me to feed you, valentine. i will find my place on your tongue. the gentle dawn of her gaze, an uprising in the lift of her eyes, cloud-sphere among those long lashes, dyed deep and dried dark with her own blood. let’s play the games with the three shells and the hidden bead. if i did this for him, what would i do for you?

“how glad i am that you do not face the same, valentine.” her voice soft and thin, scraped  along all sides until what he has is the pale marrow, like a minnow between his hands. “though with such an ability,” awareness, the light of that green jade inside her, glows from behind her eyes. she does not hide it. “a contest such as this must be rendered... redundant.”