#the-marron

The duty of the Luo family had bound him so completely, the contract with his Divine Beast settling into his blood didn’t feel like anything about him changed at all. It was inevitable. His legacy. His purpose. When the Fox accepted his call and acknowledged him as an Ally, there were no sudden revelations, no gained wisdom, no surge in maturity, even if Father was proud and everybody cheered: the servants, the Hongs, even the representatives of the Wu and Bo families sent over just for the occasion.

Mother was no longer with them at that point.

Father passed two years later, way before the end of his prime. It brought no new meanings. Qingeng buried him, paid his respects at all the right dates, and, together with his Beast, he continued on.

His doom came the first time he held Fusheng.

Luo Qingeng wouldn’t call himself an absent father, per sé. He was a busy man chained by age-old shackles of relentless servitude passed on through generations of worthy achievements and great deeds. The duty he carried, as long as he had it, belonged to him and him only. Until the time came for Fusheng to enter into a contract with a Divine Beast of his own, the child needn’t… see.

His own life was forfeit by now, but his son’s had barely just begun.

Luo Qingeng watched Fusheng’s tiny fingers wrapped around his thumb, the big eyes staring into his own as he bottle-fed him in his arms, the delight of his smile first thing in the morning—

—he thought about the gored sorcerers, and Mother’s bleeding arms, and the murdered yao—

—and started to scheme.

Things didn’t go quite the way he’d planned.

Still, the result was the same.

Tonight, the Luo mansion is not empty.

He should have expected it, really. Fusheng’s ceremony of entering a Divine Contract took place just this morning — the mansion is still the place holding ceremonial garb. Everybody should have left by noon.

The ritual is broken. The Luo bloodline is free. There is no point in staying.

But one of the Hongs’ men is sleeping on the couch and a dim light is on in Fusheng’s old room. Luo Qingeng puts the pieces together.

Ever since the day he left, he’s visited the mansion several times. Never has he set a foot in his son’s old room — there was never any reason for it; it stood empty, cold, and covered in white sheets everywhere to preserve the seep of magic and prevent the gathering of dust. Now that he hovers inside, itching to retreat into the shadows, not many things have changed in here. While Fusheng’s books—both fairytale collections and compendiums on the yao and magic—still fill the bookshelves, the half-opened wardrobe and drawers are empty of his clothes. His toys are missing. Whether he plays with the same ones as he did several years ago is unknown.

…does he still play with toys? The year Qingeng had to run, he didn’t have much time to check.

Hong Zhengbao has kept his promise of taking the boy in and is still bringing him up, then.

Good.

Fusheng is sleeping in his bed. The pillow and the duvet aren’t dressed in linens, and he’s lying on the same white bedsheet that covers the rest of the unused furniture in the house. His breathing is rhythmic, if heavy and wet — in and out through his mouth. Qingeng doesn’t need magic to know that he’s not sick. His nose is stuffy, his cheeks wet, eyelashes stuck in salty clumps, trembling. His forehead is marred with small lines right between his eyebrows.

“What is there to cry about?” Luo Qingeng wants to ask, softer than he’s had a chance in years, but doesn’t dare disturb the night. Instead, he sighs and, as carefully as he can, sits down at the edge of the bed.

The last time he saw his son was a little under two years ago, in this very same room, also past midnight. Fusheng was fast asleep and bundled up in the cocoon of a duvet and a blanket, guarded from the chill uncommonly severe for the season. The white-gray dog plushie he favoured at that time, claiming it was a silver fox instead, had ended up on the floor, most likely lost when fussing with the covers. Luo Qingeng picked the toy up, dusted it off, and put it under the duvet within Fusheng’s slack arms. It didn’t take long for the boy to hug it close.

The image of Fusheng’s peaceful face from that night—the night of the quiet, lonely, and unreturned goodbye—blends in with the closed, puffy eyes of right now. 

His son has always had a gentle heart. Luo Qingeng refuses to think of it as a weakness, not when he fought for Fusheng’s right to keep it. If the price for it was costly—well…

Grief and hurt—that the boy feels them still, feels them at all, is a relief. It means he still has the capacity for softness.

Good, he thinks again, and gently brushes Fusheng’s hair away from his face. It’s gotten so long it nearly falls into his eyes now, but the child underneath is still recognisable. He hasn’t changed much; his face is a little longer and the one hand half-curled around his pillow is a little bigger. If he were awake and standing straight, Luo Qingeng is sure he’d be taller now, too.

It’s better that he’s asleep. He can’t know Luo Qingeng is alive. Not yet; not when it’s still not safe.

Maybe not ever.

It’s for the best, he reminds himself and steels his heart once more. There’s no place for regret, not when he’s long past taking another path. He’s made this choice all on his own and he’ll live with the consequences if it paves a better way for his son.

Fusheng swallows in his sleep, his frown deepens and he fusses with the covers, familiar to the point of ache. Even on guard in case he wakes, Qingeng watches out for the stuffed dog to fall out from under the covers, keeps his hand at the ready to return it right away in the only comfort he can provide—but it’s not a toy that he catches.

It’s a notebook. The soft cover is worn with use, its edges frayed. A piece of brown tape holds the spine together.

Luo Qingeng has seen it before: in Fusheng’s backpack; on the living room table, half-tucked under his homework; under the pillow, when he slept.

A diary, he always thought and let private things remain private. Fusheng was an open book as he was — if something troubled him, Luo Qingeng knew. There was never any need to take a peek.

Now, though…

He hasn’t seen his son in nearly two years. The Divine Beast checking in on him at his order and reporting on the boy’s well-being isn’t the same as hearing Fusheng talk about his day himself. Back then, he seemed ready to burst at the seams every time Luo Qingeng returned home, even if all he talked about were his studies. He looked happy.

That he keeps his diary behind the shield of his arms now…

It’s not Luo Qingeng’s responsibility to know, not anymore; he gave it up two years ago in this very room.

…not wasting another moment, he flips the notebook open somewhere in the middle. The first entries should be dated around Fusheng’s seventh birthday, that’s the earliest he remembers the notebook pop up. The middle of it, then, could be sometime around—Fusheng’s tenth—

…

Luo Qingeng looks at the pages in front of him and doesn’t see a journal entry but smudged pencil lines and colours, panels of drawings depicting humans, animals, trees, and buildings.

He flips a page, then another, and another. A mountainside here. A lake there. Castles. Towers. Fields, villages, markets—

The drawings continue. In some, there are lines of words, clearly written by Fusheng’s own hand.

It’s not a diary.

It’s a story.

Luo Qingeng’s chest grows heavy as what he’s seeing finally sinks in.

Most of the drawings feature the same two characters: one is Luo Fusheng, the other — a silver fox with striking gold eyes.

The Fusheng on the page is drawn with downturned eyebrows and a sad line for lips. The speech bubble next to him reads, ‘Dad’s not here, either.’

On the next one, the fox is pressing its snout to Fusheng’s smiling cheek. The bubble in this one says, ‘You're right! We can’t give up! He’s waiting!’

The next couple of pages have Fusheng and the fox travel to a forested mountain, looking into a cave, a shack, a temple... Each time, they remain the only two characters. Each time, the drawn Luo Fusheng is comforted by the fox and proclaims anew to keep searching for his father.

A recurring theme.

Did Fusheng always treat his absences this way, he wonders, something prickling at his heart. Did he always feel like he had to look for him? Is that why the notebook was always there until Luo Qingeng returned?

Or…

An idea slowly forms in his head and Qingeng goes back to the first page. Sure enough, there's a simpler drawing there, years older, but the characters in it are no less recognisable. There, in the center of the page, stands a happy stick-figure boy. Its thin black-lined arm is holding the hand of a taller person wearing a blocky suit jacket and a square smile.

‘Fusheng and Dad…’, reads the text above them, and continues below their feet with, ‘…save the world!’

On each side of the drawing is a gray-coloured creature with pointy ears and fluffy tails. Both are helpfully described with arrow-pointed text.

‘Dad’s Fox’ is bigger and hovers near the drawn Luo Qingeng with his eyes closed.

‘My Fusheng’s fox’ barely reaches stick-Fusheng’s shoulder. It reflects the boy’s exact smile.

A small, nonsensical part of Luo Qingeng confirms that he was right about the time frame — Fusheng’s handwriting hasn't looked like this since he was seven.

That first page is littered with gray fingerprints and small spots of unevenly dried paper. He carefully doesn’t think about those. Instead, he turns the page.

It’s mostly Fusheng and Luo Qingeng helping other stick-people in the saturated coloured pencil-world. Luo Qingeng’s stick-hands sometimes shoot rays of sparkly yellow light. Sometimes, both foxes chase away the vague dark clouds haunting the drawings.

Always, Fusheng is right there, always standing right next to his dad. Always, their hands are linked as if they were drawn with the same stroke.

‘Dad is a hero!’, drawing-Fusheng says. Or, 'The yao is safe!’ Or, ‘We fixed it!’

The smiling stick-dad answers, every time: ‘Sheng’er helped a lot’.

It goes on like this until halfway into the notebook where another double-page spread is still divided into familiar four story panels, of which only the first one is finished. In it, Fusheng sits alone at a low table stacked tall with books. Within the second frame, there’s the beginning of lines of a taller figure, but the drawing has clearly been interrupted. The other panels are blank. This particular adventure has never even begun.

Luo Qingeng has a feeling he knows when that one was drawn.

He turns the page.

‘Places where Dad could be’ sits at the very top, heavily underlined twice. What follows is a list that spans several pages, some items crossed out, some with a question mark, some corrected or scribbled in later, and some not being places at all but people. Only after that point do the drawings of Fusheng searching for him start.

They copy the same pattern as that first one, and keep going.

And going.

And going.

No drawing is quite the same, each explores a different possibility, but in each of them  the drawn Fusheng fails, and pouts, and cries… Never does he give up.

The story is rewritten again and again until just shy of the final couple of pages. Those are untouched.

On the inside of the soft back cover, however, there is one final piece. The tape is the only thing keeping it attached to the rest.

The drawn Fusheng and Qingeng are hugging. Fusheng's fox companion, a constant presence throughout the notebook, looks at them with smiling golden eyes.

The text in the final speech bubble is nearly illegible with how smudged and blurry it is.

‘I knew you’d find me.’

A gaping heaviness sinks to the very pit of Luo Qingeng’s stomach as he stares at that last drawing.

He knew, of course—he’d always known that this child had high hopes—for his family, his heritage, his life—but…

The fox’s white fur is almost completely stained with muddy gray fingerprints.

Sheng’er…

Luo Qingeng rubs at his weary eyes and wishes he never looked.

“...Dad?”

He freezes. When he looks at his son, Fusheng’s eyes are bleary, startled, and staring straight back at him.

The boy’s breath hitches. “Dad! Dad, the Fox said—”

Qingeng’s hand is as fast as lightning. Before the boy has the chance to scramble up within the restricting duvet, Luo Qingeng spreads his fingers wide over his smaller head. Immediately, the magic reaches out and lights Fusheng’s face in a golden glow.

“—it broke out and said that I'm—”

“You’re dreaming,” Luo Qingeng says, hard and focused as he weaves the spell into Fusheng’s sleep-scattered memories.

“—I’m sorry—”

“You’re dreaming right now,” Qingeng repeats, forceful enough to drown out the boy’s quickly slurring words. Fusheng’s eyelids start to quiver. “Your father was never here tonight. You read your story before bed and fell asleep missing him.”

‘He misses you, too,’ he can’t say. An orphaned child wouldn’t think that. But looking at Fusheng now, his eyes wet, unfocused, and already half-closed under the magic, he selfishly wants to leave something behind. Something small. Something true.

And so, he whispers, “Dad has always been proud of you.”

It’s as much truth as Qingeng can allow either of them at this moment.

Fusheng’s arms go slack under the weight of his body; his head drops back on the bare pillow and his lips tremble with the last of his voiceless babbles. No matter how heavy his eyelids are, though, they struggle against the spell with unexpected tenacity, like he’s desperate to see. As if the father he’s been searching for all this time will disappear the moment he looks away.

Luo Qingeng’s heart twists.

“Time to go back to sleep,” he tells him, finally. With a wave of his hand, Fusheng’s eyes close at last as both his consciousness and the spell melt away.

A beat passes. Then another. The room is completely silent but for the hammering in Luo Qingeng’s chest.

The spell will keep Luo Fusheng asleep till daybreak and by then Qingeng will be out of this house and gone again. Fusheng will be taken back to his current home. He’ll change into fresh clothes there, eat breakfast, and play with little Hong Lan, like children his age do.

A normal day. A normal life.

He deserves this chance, even if it’ll take him a while to catch up.

Luo Qingeng carefully closes the notebook and puts it on the bedside table where it won’t get lost, then fixes the duvet around Fusheng, tucking him in safe and warm and as far from harm as can be. With gentle touch, he brushes away the stray tears on the boy’s face and presses one last goodbye kiss to his head.

“Sheng’er did very well,” he whispers against the soft hair. “He can stop searching. Everything will be alright now.”

It’s not a spell, not even a promise. A reassurance — for his son, and for…

A final look, then Luo Qingeng steels himself and gets to his feet. He switches the bedside lamp off on his way out.